He’s looking me over, trying to decide if he believes me. “You find her, we take her,” he says. “Easy.”
If I say easy, maybe he’ll go away.
He’ll also know I’m blowing smoke.
I shake my head. “That’s not what I heard.”
He half-rises from the chair, his hand suddenly cradling the gun, the barrel and the silencer pointing straight outward. He shakes his head. “I know who you are, kid. Do you know who I am?”
“Karl Yeager’s cousin Bob? Cops who’ve been undercover too long?”
“Watch yourself!” his friend growls from the floor, the terror effect he’s going for undermined by the fact that he’s flat on his ass.
Beretta Man says, “You find her, we get her. Understood?”
I realize they have no idea where Nicolette is.
And, shit, they’re here because I led them here. How else? That was the point of Don’s making me visit him—not him showing off how much power he wielded over me, but Yeager’s guys being able to follow me out of the prison parking lot. And if they found me, they can find her. I’ve led them straight to her.
Now is when I have to do it, now before they find her, now before somebody other than me gets to her, and she and my whole family end up dead. But where? If they followed me back, they had days to do recon at the campsite. I was the hotshot, hiking around memorizing the terrain, and I didn’t notice these two? Or what if it was someone else? What if they tag team? How many people are looking for this girl?
Nicolette, why did you have to do it?
I say, “I can do this myself,” with more bravado than confidence.
“Sure you can,” the guy in the chair sneers as the guy on the floor edges toward his knife. I kick it into the kitchen.
Then there’s the choke hold. It’s not even the big guy, it’s the little guy I put on the floor—the one I thought was harmless. He comes up at me so fast, I’m just standing there, looking stupid. I can’t move, can’t breathe, his arm is pressed around my neck. My field of vision narrows to a speck. If I struggle against it, my windpipe is crushed and I’m dead sooner, and Nicolette is dead too. I hear them. “Arrogant little pissant.” And I’m thinking my last thought: Pissant, are you kidding me? Who says that?
Then my head implodes.
53
Cat
Abandon nice old lady in a house of food she won’t remember to eat, and disappear into the night.
Not exactly.
I tell Mrs. Podolski’s son, Walter, I have a family emergency.
He doesn’t even care.
He says, “She’ll be okay till you get back.”
I can’t tell if he’s stoned. Or a bad person. Or a moron.
I say, “No, she won’t! Seriously? You have to hire somebody else. Do you want her to eat safety pins?”
“She hated those other girls. When do you get back?”
“You have to hire someone right now!”
I clear any number of Sunday School hurdles.
I don’t take Mrs. P’s stash of emergency twenties.
Plus, I feel bad about walking (running) away from J right after I made him all mushy and soft. Which he hates.
Oh God, I like him so much.
Normally, this isn’t when I leave guys. It’s when I peel off my judgment like a pair of used gym socks. Reducing myself to a bundle of impulses, dangerous attraction, and bare feet.
Not suited to running.
But I can’t be anywhere within a thousand miles of police looking for a girl with an ice pick. I can’t.
Wait while he ditches the car. Check.
Wait while he goes to a freaking wedding in South Dakota. Check.
Wait for him to go, I’m back, now let’s get out of here. Nothing.
And I’m not about to twist his arm. Or wait.
Come with me to Argentina, babe.
Yeah, right.
I wish, I wish, I wish. But seriously? Yeah, right.
I’m keeping my socks on, and I’m gone.
Plus, I can look him up later. Years from today. When I’ve bought a new face and a passport that says I come from Paraguay.
I can go, Hola, Jeremiah.
How many Jeremiah Jenkins can there be?
54
Jack
I’m on the floor where they dropped me, ears ringing, head pounding, mouth full of sewage that belongs in my stomach. Something stinks. They emptied the kitchen garbage on me—nice touch. The place is trashed. It’s dark, and I can’t raise my head to take in the full extent of it, but I can tell it’s time to go.
How many words do Eskimos have for stupid? Not as many as I deserve, or they’d all have been eaten by polar bears.
I pull myself off the floor, not sure if I’m supposed to be alive. It’s not easy to breathe with a neck that’s been pressed closed, or to deal with the humiliation. The little one got me? Jack Manx, arrogant pissant: words to live by.
I dial her number. Very quietly, I ask her, “Are you alone?”
“I’m with my other boyfriend. What do you think?”
I say, “I can’t sleep. Let’s go somewhere.”
There’s a long silence. “It’s three in the morning. You know that, right?”
“Let’s get out of town and see some stars.”