Lawyer Trap

39





DAY SEVEN–SEPTEMBER 11

SUNDAY MORNING


Draven stayed at the cabin Saturday night, mounting Mia Avila before he went to sleep, and once again in the middle of the night. She didn’t mean anything to him, emotionally that is. Gretchen—who thought he was on an all-night stakeout on an important case—was the one.

In fact, he even thought of her when he came.

He slept late Sunday morning, having downed a little more Jack than he probably should have. Then he finally crawled out of bed, threw water on his face, dressed, and jogged all the way down to Highway 119 and back.

Pine scent hung thick in the air.

The early autumn Colorado sky didn’t have a single cloud.

There wasn’t a wisp of wind.

The temperature was nice.

By the time he got back he was wide awake, energetic and very glad to be alive.

When he walked into the bedroom, Mia Avila watched his every move.

“Do you want a shower?” he asked.

She nodded and mumbled as if asking him to remove the gag.

He did and she immediately gulped for air.

“Don’t say a goddamn word,” he said. “Otherwise it goes back on.”

She stared at him, sizing him up, not daring to utter a single syllable. He warmed the shower, untied her, and then marched her in. He let her close the curtain but stayed in the room. She didn’t come out until the hot water turned to warm water and the warm water turned to cold water. Then she turned the faucet off and opened the curtain just a touch, enough to stick her head out.

“Can I have a towel?” she asked.

Draven threw her one. She dried off behind the curtain, wrapped it around her body and then stayed there.

“Get out here,” Draven said.

She pulled the curtain open, sized him up, and must have decided that he wasn’t playing around, because she stepped out. Her hair dripped on the floor.

Suddenly Draven felt hungry.

“You want some breakfast?” he asked.

She nodded. “That would be nice.”

He sat her in one of the orange vinyl chairs at the kitchen table and said, “Put your hands on top of your head and leave them there.”

She hesitated, but then complied.

He kept a good eye on her, made two bowls of cereal, carried them over and put one in front of her. She started to bring her hands down and he said, “Not yet.”

She kept them up.

The towel unwrapped and fell into her lap.

She knew better than to reach down.

He got the coffee pot started then sat down and told her she could eat now.

She brought her hands down and immediately covered up.

“Don’t even think about trying anything,” he warned.

“I won’t.”

She devoured the cereal so fast that he realized just how long it had been since she last ate. He fixed her another bowl and watched her.

“Just let me go and none of this ever happened,” she said. “I won’t tell a soul. Not a single soul. I promise.”

Draven smiled.

How many times had he heard that before?

“Oh, really?” he said.

“I promise,” she said. Her voice took on an animated tone, as if she believed she could actually talk her way out of it. Draven played along, asking her the details of how they would work things out, and how he could be sure she wouldn’t ever tell anyone.

Then she said something he didn’t expect.

“If you don’t let me go they’ll find you sooner or later,” she said. “I put the two thousand dollars in the safe, with a note that it’s from you.” He must have reacted to the words, because she seemed to brighten. “Your fingerprints are all over the money.”

He stood up, put his hands in the middle of the table and leaned towards her.

“What does the note say, exactly?”

“Money from Nash Evans for Denver tattoo. The police will eventually figure out that I left the shop with you and never came back.”

Then he remembered telling her that was his name.

Good thing, too, in hindsight.

He eased back in his chair.

“That’s not my real name,” he said.

The smug look fell off her face.

But then she said, “It doesn’t matter. The name’s in the logbook. So is the name of the woman I was tattooing when you came in. When the police ask her about Nash Evans, she’s going to describe you.”

Draven stood up, his heart pounding.

She was right.

“Then they’ll ask around town, or get a composite sketch on the TV,” she added. “Someone will end up calling in with your real name.”

Shit!

She was right again.

The guy at the hotel might pick up the phone.

Or someone from a gas station.

Damn it.

A surveillance camera might have even picked him up somewhere.

He slammed his hand on the table—so hard that her cereal bounced up and fell in her lap. Then he grabbed her hair and yanked her out of the chair.

“You goddamn bitch!”