Alex (33 page)
His cell phone trilled.
The screen on the front read:
Smartlnk Rscrs.
He only hesitated for a second, then flipped it open.
"This is Ian," he said.
"Ian."
The voice was cool and feminine.
"This is Barb Shantic at Smartlink."
Justin's boss.
Son of a bitch.
"I need you to come in immediately so we can speak in person.
When will you be here?"
Her directness put him off balance.
"I... can't, I won't be in today."
"I need you to come in immediately," she repeated.
"Well, that won't be possible," he rejoined, incensed at her tone.
"If I'm fired, just tell me."
"I've spoken with Justin Keplin about your recent performance.
There are some matters we need to discuss in person."
"I won't be in today," he said again, but his voice held a slight tremor.
Why wasn't she just firing him?
What he'd done to Justin could be considered blackmail.
Did she know?
"You are scheduled to work today, and you have no personal time remaining.
What time will you be in?"
"I told you, I
won't
," he snapped.
"I have a family emergency that needs to be taken care of right now."
"Then your employment is terminated, effective immediately."
She sounded as smug as Sheila.
"Fuck you," he said, and snapped the phone closed.
He left the cat in the car.
A bell over the door jingled as Ian walked in.
A skinny kid in jeans and a simple striped shirt glanced up at him from behind the counter.
"What's goin' on?" he said.
"Hey," Ian answered.
"I'm looking for Ben.
Is he around?"
"Oh, he's in the garage," the kid said.
"You can head in there."
He jerked a thumb toward the door, and Ian did as he suggested.
The sides of the garage burgeoned with tools and toolboxes, cardboard boxes filled with bottles of engine oil, dirty rags.
Two of the stalls were empty; a rusted blue '94 Civic was hoisted atop the last one.
Ian heard the distinctive whining of a power screwdriver.
"Is Ben here?" he called, trying to be heard over the din.
An older man in a jumpsuit glanced back from a computer, nestled on a counter between two hubcaps.
He had a thin line of a mouth, crow's feet, and black hair shot through with grey.
"Yeah!" he shouted.
"Can I help you?"
Ian stepped toward him and offered his hand.
"I'm Ian Jones, with the Shakopee Sentinel."
Ben shook his hand.
"With The Sentinel, huh?
Don't see that everyday."
"Right."
Ian tried a smile, not sure how to respond, but it faltered.
"Well, I'm doing a story on Leroy Eston, the man who killed that Colmes boy earlier this year, and I'd heard he worked here for awhile."
He was amazed at how easily the lies rolled off his tongue.
"Is that right?"
Ben's gaze darkened.
"Yeah, that's right," he said.
"Maybe four years ago.
What do you need to know?"
Ian fought to keep his cool.
Did he have a girlfriend?
he wanted to ask.
Do you know anyone named Kelly?
But the questions were too pointed, too incongruous.
He forced himself to wait.
"How well did you know him?"
Ben snorted.
"Not well enough, apparently.
He was quiet.
Had a hell of a temper.
I never would've thought he'd do something like that, though."
He shook his head.
"Fucking crazy.
Pardon my french."
"A temper?" Ian asked.
"Why do you say that?"
"Oh, you know."
Ben waved the question off, then continued, "He'd throw tools if he got pissed about anything.
Scream and curse and carry on.
I had to ban him from talking to customers because if they had any questions he'd get real nasty with 'em.
One day he and I had a little conversation about his paycheck and he ended up breaking the window on a customer's car."
He paused expectantly.
"Wow," Ian said, a bit late.
"So how long was he here?"
"Workin' here?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, god - six weeks?
Not even?
I fired him after that thing with the window.
Knew he was no good."
He shook his head.
"But still, you never expect..."
Ian nodded.
"Did he ever talk about his home life, or his friends, or -"
"No, no, nothin' like that.
Not that I heard, anyway.
He always seemed like the kind to get his shift done and get the hell out of here."
Ian couldn't help himself.
"He never mentioned a girlfriend, or a sister?
Maybe someone named Kelly?"
Ben paused, sneered in concentration for a second, and finally shook his head.
"No.
Sorry.
Not that I remember.
That someone he knew?"
Ian shrugged.
"I don't know - just a name that showed up in my notes.
Probably nothing.
"Thanks for your time."
It was the same at the next place, and the third was just a gas station: the garage had closed down the year before, and the clerk behind the counter had only been working there a few months.
Ian scratched them off his list, which eliminated all his leads in Shakopee, so he got on 13 and headed in to
Prior
Lake
.
Shop and Shop was by far the most upscale place Eston had worked; attached to the fading remnants of an old strip mall, it boasted that its patrons could shop while they waited for their car to get done.
The sign proclaiming this opportunity appeared to have been propped in the front window for at least ten years, the white lettering nearly absorbed into the fading green around it.
But inside, at least, it looked relatively fresh and well-kept: clean floors, a leather waiting couch (but who would want to sit on it, when they could go shopping?), and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite a broad, floor-to-ceiling window.
A young woman who couldn't have been much older than Sheila was on the phone behind the counter, wearing a name tag that said
Wendy
.
She gave Ian a smile and a hand signal -
One second, almost done here
.
As Wendy negotiated an appointment time with the person on the phone, Ian noticed the clock on the wall behind her.
It was almost noon.
He'd pissed away another day at work, incurred some kind of penalty that sounded as if it would not only cost him his livelihood, but maybe a day in court as well, and he'd found nothing.
The pendulum between fierce, driving mania and utter despondence began to swing away again, stealing his anger from this morning and his certainty that he was doing what Alex wanted.
He wondered if he would ever be able to explain this to anyone.
He wondered if he would ever see Alex again.
He wondered if his wife was okay.
His mind snagged on this last thought, and he considered calling her.
But the receptionist finished her call just then, smiled brightly at him, and asked what he needed.
"I need to find Kelly," he said.
He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but when he reached inside for the story he'd been telling up until this point, he found nothing but surrender.
"I heard she worked here."
"Kelly Baker?" Wendy asked.
"I -" Ian started, thrown off balance.
"Yes, right, Kelly Baker."
"Sure, she's in the garage - are you a friend, or...?"
"I - no, I just - my name is Ian Smith, I was just hoping to speak with her for a few minutes."
Was Smith the right pseudonym?
His heart was pounding.
She's here.
Jesus Christ, she's here.
His gun was in the car.
"Oh, okay."
Wendy's smile faltered.
"Do you know her...?"
"No, I -"
Ian rolled his eyes, managed a nervous smile.
"I'm sorry.
I've just had a lot of interviews this morning and I get a little flaky when I skip breakfast.
I'm from the Shakopee Sentinel.
I just wanted to speak with her for a few minutes about -"
He couldn't say Eston, not now.
What if it tipped her off?
"We're doing a piece on the Shop and Shop."
"Oh!"
Wendy seemed pleased to hear this.
"You want to talk to Doug, then.
He's the owner."
"Oh, no.
No.
Ah - Kelly contacted us.
She requested the piece.
If you don't mind I'd just like to talk to her first."
"Oh," Wendy said again.
She looked confused.
"It'll only take a few minutes," Ian pressed, and walked past the counter to the shop door.
He tried a smile, to put her at ease, but couldn't make it stick.
It didn't matter.
He wasn't going to wait, no matter what she said.
"Thanks," he said, and pushed through the door.
There were eight stalls in this garage, and a line of computer stations set up against one wall.
At the nearest station, a nondescript, twiggy woman with limp, dark hair was hunched over a printout, reviewing it with a customer.
She tapped and circled, her lips moving but inaudible over the clamor.
Her nametag said
Kelly.
Ian's heart clawed into his throat; a roar or scream danced on his tongue.
His gun was in the car, but he could go back and get it.
Several stalls had open garage doors - he could get the gun, walk right through one of those, march up to her and make the six o'clock news.
She grabbed him.
He stared at her arms, at her mouth forming silent words, at her height and her dull, flaccid hair.
She carried him like a baby.
She shared him with Eston.
He imagined stalking up to the counter.
This is for Alex, you bitch
.
The gun would take her by surprise.
He would have it to her forehead before she could react.
You might've dodged the cops, but I'm his dad.
Do you fucking understand me?
I am his fucking
dad
.
He saw three gunshots.
The first caught her in the forehead and yanked her head back, the second blasted through her open, screaming mouth and out her cheek, splattering the wall behind her with blood and flesh, and the third caught her in the neck, turning her scream into an impotent gurgle.
She fell back against the wall, her hands scrabbling toward her face, as the first customer began to scream.
One of the mechanics lunged into him, knocked the gun from his hand and smashed his head against the concrete, but it didn't matter.
He had fucked her up.
She hadn't gotten away.
As the guy twisted his arms back, shouting for someone to help, grab his legs, call the police, all Ian would do is laugh.
Or sob.
Kelly finished with the customer, and her phone rang.
She picked it up, her lips still churning enigmas.
Go!
Get to the car!
Now!
And that night Alina would see his face on the news, on the internet; the next day the Star Tribune would have him on the front page, and he would look insane.
He'd never see his wife again, never meet his second child.
