Unplugged (17 page)

“Damn right,” he said, and nodded at his partner.

The hand slipped away.

“Where are you taking me?” They were the first words out of my mouth. I’m not sure why. In retrospect, it probably didn’t matter much. I doubt they were planning an evening at the petting zoo.

“Look through her purse.”

Garlic Breath tugged my handbag from my shoulder and pawed through it.

“Find anything?” asked the driver. I was mesmerized by the memory of the gun in his hand as he chased me over the Georges’ fence.

“Got this.”

I turned stiffly toward the second guy. He was loose-jointed and skinny. Maybe from drugs, maybe just genetics. He was holding up a tampon and chuckling.

My stomach pitched.

“Jesus, you’re a moron. Put that away.”

He did so, still chuckling.

“Where will he go?”

I turned toward the driver again. “What?” My voice sounded funny, sort of thick and wobbly.

“The geek. Where will he run to?”

My breath caught in my throat. “Solberg?”

“Listen to her,” said the driver. “She’s a fuckin’ genius, ain’t she? Musta had some big-ass education. Yeah, Solberg.”

I shook my head. I felt faint and breathless. “I don’t know. How would I know?”

“You’d know ’cuz he just called you.”

“How—”

“We got our ways.” The scent of garlic washed over me. I didn’t turn toward the speaker. Instead, I swallowed and did my best not to barf. They’d probably get mad if I barfed in their car. It was an early-model Cadillac. My brother James would have called it “vintage” and told me the horsepower and a dozen things regarding its engine, but just about then I wouldn’t have cared much, because my chest felt suddenly empty, like my heart had shriveled and my lungs had collapsed. Some unidentified mewling sound crept from between my lips.

“What’s wrong with you?” Garlic asked.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. I clawed at my jacket.

“What’s wrong with her?”

The car was crumpling in on me.

“Jed!” said Garlic. “What’s the matter with her?”

In some vague corner of my mind, I felt the car lurch to a halt. It was as dark as hell, or maybe it was just my system shutting down, but I sensed the driver turning toward me. And then my head snapped against the seat behind me.

My cheek stung like hell where he’d struck me. My lungs broke free. My hands fell to my lap like limp noodles.

“That’s better,” said Jed.

“What happened?” Garlic asked. Somewhere in the back of my stuttering mind, a dry-voiced pragmatist informed me that he was the weak link. But just then I didn’t care much more about weak links than I did about car engines.

“Nothing a couple a good slaps won’t fix. Now . . .” The driver sneered at me. His shoulders were beefy. No, wait. They were fat, just damned fat. “You’re gonna tell us a little story.”

I tried to formulate a question, but no words would come.

He slapped me again, and somehow my hand managed to find my jacket.

The can of mace felt cool against my palm. My attention never drifted from that meaty face. I lifted my hand. My finger moved. There was a hissing sound.

Jed shrieked like a hyena and clawed at his face.

I saw it all through a slow-motion haze.

“What’s going on?” Garlic’s voice was panicky, but his friend didn’t seem to notice. He had yanked the door open and was concentrating on breathing.

“What happened?” Garlic screeched.

I turned toward him and blasted him in the face.

There was a shriek. He clawed at his door handle. Fresh air rushed in like a cold tide. He retched, hanging on to the door and leaning outside.

Maybe it was the influx of air. Maybe it was the hint of freedom, but whatever the case, my mind finally clipped into gear.

“You bitch!” Jed’s voice was slurred, but he was already turning toward me. His nose was running, and his teeth were bared.

Adrenaline and fear washed through me like water in a flume. I cowered away.

He reached for me. I yanked my knees up to my chest and kicked him in the ribs with both feet.

He toppled sideways, hit the ground cursing, and went down on all fours.

I slammed myself behind the wheel and yanked the car into reverse. Jed levered himself onto his knees and grabbed the steering wheel.

I screamed and thumped the accelerator with power born of terror. The door plowed him under.

“Damn you!” Garlic swore, and turned toward me.

I yanked the lever into drive, punched the accelerator, and cranked the wheel to the left. Tires spun on gravel.

We lurched forward. Garlic teetered sideways and was sucked out of the car like a moth from a windshield.

There was a
ping
ing noise. The rear window shattered. I screamed and ducked.

The Cadillac hit the ditch then bucked like a beluga beneath me, but suddenly I was on the highway. I dragged the wheel to the right, careened across the road, hit the gravel, and righted the vehicle.

It was a good ten minutes before I had any idea where I was or where I was headed. But I was pretty sure I was still alive, ’cuz my nose was running and I’d wet my pants.

12

Sometimes stupid is crime enough.

—Lieutenant Jack Rivera

W
HEN I AWOKE
in the morning, reality seemed a little fuzzy around the edges. I lay on my back in bed. The overhead light was on, as was the one in the hall. I could tell that much without moving my head.

Memories streamed in on me like the austere sunlight pouring through my bedroom window. “Austere,” good word. Apparently, my mind was still functioning at primate level.

I realize some people might think it strange that I could sleep after the previous night, but I’m a world-class snoozer and I like to keep my God-given talents well oiled. Use it or lose it.

I closed my eyes and wished I were still unconscious, but the memories were getting a little raucous.

What had happened exactly?

Solberg had called. Maybe. Or someone had called. Then two guys had jumped me and shoved me into a car. I had somehow made it back to the restaurant, snatched my purse out of the Caddy, and stumbled into my Saturn.

With quivery fingers I’d tried calling Solberg several times, but there was no answer.

I don’t remember the drive home. Maybe I had cried. Chances were pretty good. My eyes felt like tennis balls, oversized and scruffy.

A noise exploded beside my bed. I jerked upright with a shriek, yanking the unsuspecting sheet to my chin.

It took me a minute to realize the sound was nothing more deadly than my telephone.

My hand wobbled when I reached for the receiver. My voice sounded foreign. “Hello?”

“McMullen.”

I snatched in a breath. It was Rivera, like a shadow in the darkness.

“You still in bed?”

“Ummm.” My nerves were jumping like bacon over a campfire. I steadied my hand on the receiver. “No. I’m up. Been up for hours.” I’m not sure why I lied. Habit maybe.

“Yeah?” His voice was dark and smoky, as if he expected a conspiracy around every turn. “Thought you might have had a late date last night.”

“Late date?” My voice squeaked a little.
Tell him the truth,
I thought.
Just tell him. What’s the worst that could happen?
Possibilities swarmed like vampire bats. Suspended psychology license, my mother flying in to “straighten things out,” Rivera grinning at me through iron bars. I cleared my throat. “No. Why would you think that?”

“No reason. I’m going to be by in about half an hour. Something I need to talk to you about. Stay put,” he said, and hung up.

I stared at the receiver for a full five seconds, then launched out of bed like a programmed missile. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. What did he want to talk to me about? Had he found out I’d broken into Solberg’s house? Did he know I’d stolen the little geek’s disk?

Or was it something more serious. I froze. Jesus Christ, maybe I had killed one of the guys last night. Maybe . . .

There was no time for maybes, no time for terror. I had to get out, to think things through before I talked to Rivera. He could squeeze a confession out of a turnip. I wasn’t as tough as a turnip. More like a tomato.

Luckily, I’d slept in my clothes again. I grabbed my purse off the counter where I had dropped it, lurched through the door, and ran into Rivera full steam ahead.

I shrieked like a Hitchcock starlet.

He steadied me with his hands on my arms. “Where you going?” His voice was deadpan steady.

Mine teetered dweebishly on the edge of hysteria. “What are you doing here?”

He raised a brow. “I told you I was coming by.”

“In half an hour! Half an hour! You said half an hour.”

His lips hitched up a quarter of an inch. His left brow did the same. “Does it matter?”

I was breathing hard. I could see myself in his sunglasses. Or maybe it was a tornado victim. My hair looked like I’d been hooked up to a car battery. I had mascara down to my collarbones, and bloodred veins ran through my eyeballs like teeming estuaries.

“I . . .” I may have tried to pat down my hair. I think it patted me back. “No. Of course not. I mean . . . I have to go.” I nodded sensibly. “Out. Elaine. Ummm . . . Laney needs me.” I’d tried the same lie the night before with Ross Bennet—the first viable date I’d had since potty training. Look how nifty that had turned out.

I couldn’t see behind Rivera’s sunglasses. Dear God, what was he thinking behind his glasses?

From the far side of his chain-link fence, my neighbor, Mr. Al-Sadr, watered his lawn and stared across the wreckage of my yard at us.

Rivera glanced toward him, then at me. “Maybe we better step inside for a minute.”

My stomach hit my knees. “I . . . I can’t. . . . Really. I’d like to, of course, but Laney . . .” I kept babbling, but he was already steering me into my house.

The door closed with a
snick
behind me. Maybe it was more of a
thud,
like the lid of a coffin slamming shut.

He took off his shades. Turns out, he didn’t look particularly jovial.

“What . . . ?” I swallowed the frog in my throat and tried again. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” He shrugged. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a V-neck. It lay smooth across his chest. “I just thought I’d stop by, give you an update,” he said, wandering into my living room.

I glanced toward the door and considered making a dash for it. He turned his gaze toward me. There might have been a challenge there.

I swallowed my cowardly impulse to bolt and followed him into the interior of my peanut-sized home. “An update?” I said.

He raised one brow a minuscule distance. “About the case.”

I shook my head, then, “Oh yeah.” I chuckled. I felt like I was going to vomit. “Solberg.”

“Uh-huh.”

He waited. I shuffled from foot to foot. “What about him?”

“He’s still missing, right? You haven’t heard from him?”

My hair was starting to sweat. I shook my head. It wobbled unsteadily.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he asked.

I glanced rather manically toward the door again. “Laney—”

“I’m sure she’ll understand. You can give her a call.”

I blinked. “Why?”

He raised that one eyebrow again. Maybe the other one was disabled. “Tell her you’re going to be late.”

“Oh . . .” I laughed. “Oh. Well . . .” I plopped down on the couch. He’d taken the La-Z-Boy. Bastard. “She’s probably still sleeping anyway.”

He was watching me like a fox at a rabbit hole. I’d seen it once on the Discovery Channel. The fox had just lain there, waiting, watching. The poor little bunny hadn’t had a chance. I like bunnies.

The house was as silent as a tomb.
Don’t think about tombs. Don’t think about tombs.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

I stared at him. I had my palms pressed together and clamped between my knees, trying to keep everything from bobbling off. “Worried? About me?”

“That whole thing with Bomstad.” He shook his head. The tendons in his throat shifted. There had been a time when I’d had a thing about guys’ throats. “Then the Geek disappearing . . .” He shrugged. “What was his name?”

“Solberg.”

“Yeah. You said you haven’t heard from him?”

I shook my head again. Lying was wrong. It was wrong. I was on the fast track to hell. Not a damned handbasket in sight. What is a handbasket anyway? “You, either?”

“We’re looking,” he said. “But . . .” Another shrug. “We’re short on manpower.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You okay?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You look kind of . . .” Electrocuted? “Nervous.”

“No.” I chuckled. My voice rasped like sandpaper. “I’m fine. Just tired. You know . . . didn’t get much sleep.”

“Late night?”

“No!” Too quick. I’d answered too quick. And about five decibels too loud. I cleared my throat and tried again. Smooth this time and dulcet as a songbird. “No. Why? Why do you ask?”

The house went quiet again. I was pretty sure I could hear the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

He gave me a smile. “Because you look tired.”

I tried a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

“Good, though,” he said. He eyed me steadily. “Fit. You been running?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes. All the time. Well . . . you know, few times a week.”

“I can tell.” He skimmed my body with his sin-dark eyes, then exhaled softly. “Truth is . . .” He rose to his feet. I had to crank my head back to follow his movement. “I wanted to stop by and apologize again.”

“Apologize?” I searched his eyes for a lie, but he looked absolutely sincere. Then again, he’s Hispanic. There’s no one who can look as earnest as a Hispanic guy. They can lie through their teeth and still look twice as sincere as an Irish priest. Swear to God.