Ceasefire (17 page)

“He
said he’d heard that you’d started your own business and wanted to congratulate
you.”

I
shook my head, not understanding how this had anything to do with Lucy’s
situation.  “And?  I mean, that’s great, but…”

“He
said you’d changed his life and wanted you to know how grateful he was, that
he—”

I
interrupted her.  “Mish, seriously, what does this have to do with anything?”

She
stomped her foot, huffed, and held out her hands, clearly getting frustrated
with me.  “If you’d stop interrupting, I’ll tell you.  His exact words were,”
she said, mimicking his Texas drawl, “‘You tell that young lady that if she
ever needs anything, and I mean anything, to give ol’ Dubya Three a call.’  And
then he said, ‘It don’t matter what for, neither.  Whatever she needs, I know
people.’”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Two
more days, two more of my escorts in the hospital.

Melissa
Jane and Hillary Thomas.  A former Wall Street lawyer and a former plastic
surgeon.  Lying in their hospital beds, barely able to function, no worse than
Lucy, but no better either; it was obvious that they wished they’d stayed in
their former professions.  Neither had the fighting spirit of Mama Hen.

Melissa
quit as soon as I walked through her door.  Hillary gave it five minutes, but
no more.

Did
I blame them?  Of course not.

Did
I blame myself?  Absolutely.

Part
of the reason they were there was because I simply hadn’t been able to get in
touch with everyone to warn them.  They were out of town, they had their cell
phones off, whatever the reason, I did what I could with the limited time I
had.  On top of running the normal business, we also had to factor in the time
spent searching for affordable security companies willing to hire out for the
jobs we required.

I
was too stubborn, stupid, and pigheaded, choosing to ignore Michelle’s advice
and call Dubya Three.  It wasn’t his fight.  I was too proud to ask for help
from a former client.

The
biggest problem was, I hadn’t stressed the unconditional necessity for the
background checks before my escorts took on a new client.  Like Lucy, both
Melissa and Hillary had met the same man who’d offered more cash than they’d
see in a month’s time, and chose to meet with him without calling in to let us
know.

Their
negligence, and mine, earned them a stay in the hospital.  Three different
women, three different hospitals, all beaten within an inch of their lives. 
All dropped off at the emergency room entrance in the middle of the night.  All
with “selective amnesia.”

How
they all managed to convince the nurses and doctors that calling the police
wasn’t necessary remains a mystery.

Luckily,
they both remembered more details than Lucy, and we were able to piece together
a hazy picture of what he looked like.  Brown hair, brown eyes.  Clean shaven. 
Bodybuilder type with only one distinguishing feature—a teardrop tattoo under
his left eye.

That
was it.

I
cried when I talked to Finn…when I told him that we had to put the brakes on
for a few days because we had an unavoidable situation with my company.  He
wasn’t thrilled with the idea—neither of us were, because we’d waited so long—but
he understood.  Said that the bitter medicine was easier to swallow because he
knew how to find me this time.  Said that he’d waited a year, he could be
patient for a couple more days.

When
he asked what
kind
of business, ugh, I’m ashamed to admit that I faked
an incident with something boiling over on the stove, and told Finn that I’d
explain everything once I had a chance.

I’d
felt sick to my stomach after I hung up with him.  Poor guy.  Poor me. 

My
heart ached.  Literally.  It was this pulling sensation in the center of my
chest.

It
was longing and disappointment.

The
timing absolutely could not have been worse.  It was like opening a present on
Christmas morning and finding the one thing you’d waited a year for, and then
having your parents take it away from you.

When
Michelle and I left Hillary’s bedside at the hospital, we walked down the
white-walled, white-tiled hallway, side by side.  Michelle had her arm hooked
around mine with her head on my shoulder.  We were both in a daze, terrified
that it would happen again, confused about who was targeting our escorts, and
why.

If
it had stopped with Lucy, I might’ve thought that it was random chance.  An
isolated event and she happened to be the unfortunate one.  I’d checked the
newspapers to see if there had been any other reports of brutal attacks on
women in the past week or so and found nothing.  I’d called the other escort
services around the city, the ones I was familiar with, and asked if something
similar had happened to any of their employees.  They were all safe.

If
it had stopped with Lucy, I wouldn’t have grown suspicious.

But,
no, three of
my
ladies had almost been beaten to death. 

Someone
was targeting
us
.

As
we rode the elevator down, I said to Michelle, “Go back to the office and call
everyone in.  Get them all there—I don’t care what they’re doing, tell them
they have to drop everything and be at the office by one o’clock.  If they’re
out of town, conference them in.”

“Why?”

“It
has to be a former client, or somebody that’s familiar with our company.  We’ve
been so sneaky and secretive and we’re so new that not that many people know
about us, right?”

She
nodded.  “Right.”

“So
that means it’s someone that knows.  Get everyone together and give them a
description.  Find out if any of them have been with a guy like that, like
maybe he wanted to take things too far and they sent him packing.  It’s gotta
be somebody with a grudge.  It has to.”

The
elevator doors opened and we stepped into the lobby.  “Sounds like a plan,”
Michelle said, “but what’re you going to do?”

“I’m
calling Texas.”

***

“Kim,
darlin’, it’s good to hear from you.”

I
sat in my car in the parking lot with the engine running, watching the rain
pour down the windshield.  I’d never seen as much rain as I had in the past
couple of days.  The bottom had fallen out of the sky.  “Walter, I’m sorry I
don’t have time to catch up and I know it’s really rude of me—”

“Honey,”
he interrupted, “the word ‘rude’ don’t exist between us.  Anything you want,
it’s yours.”

“I
need help.”

Maybe
it was the tone in my voice—the desperate pleading that I tried to hide—that
tipped him off.  Immediately, he asked, “What kinda trouble you in?  Because
like I told your partner, I know people.”

“I
know you do, and that’s why I’m calling.”  I could feel the lump welling up in
my throat.  I was beyond allowing my pride to get in the way.  The reality of
the situation, while cumbersome and frightening before, had finally begun to
wrap its claws around my body.  Choking and heavy.  I wanted to throw the phone
out the window and let my tears cascade down my cheeks like the rain outside. 
I swallowed hard, forcing the golf ball of regret down.

No,
damn it.  No.

I
couldn’t allow fear and self-pity to take over.

My
world. 
My
control.

I
said, “Someone put three of my girls in the hospital.”

I
could almost hear him sit upright in his chair.  “Who?” he asked.

“We
don’t know.  We’ve been mostly underground on purpose, you know, so it has to
be someone that’s familiar with us.  We’re thinking maybe a former client.”

“Son
of a bitch,” he said.  “Can they identify him?”

I
explained what little I’d learned about his appearance; also that we were
gathering everyone together to see if he had been one of ours and was recently
rejected. 

“I
hate to ask, I do, because I know you’ve got more important—”

“Anytime,
day or night, darlin’.  I’m at your whimsy.”

“Do
you think you can help somehow?”

“Hang
tight,” he said.  “Let me make a phone call.”

I
thanked him and we hung up.  I watched the rivers of rain racing across the
parking lot, waiting patiently, thinking, and running through scenarios in my
mind.

Five
minutes later, he called back.

Dubya
Three said, “Library on Third and Washington.  Can you be there in twenty
minutes?”

“I
think so, yeah.”

“Get
there on time, or he walks.  This fella don’t like waiting, not at all.  He
said he’ll have on a leather jacket and a Mariners cap.  Goes by the name of
Harris, but who knows if that’s real or not.”

“Who
is he?”

“Friend
of mine, and we’ll keep it at that.”  I could hear his shifty smile as he said
it and knew that’s all I’d be getting from him.  “You tell him everything you
know.”

“What
will he do?”

“Whatever
you ask, most likely.  I can’t say any more, darlin’, not on an open line.  You
go talk to the man and I’ll check back in a day or two.”

“Okay.” 
I found that my hands had steadied themselves a little. 

“You
stay safe now, you hear?”

“I
will, Walter, and thank you.”

We
said our goodbyes.  I had eighteen minutes to get to the library.

***

The
traffic was heavier than I expected, due to the weather, and it seemed like
every road, bypass, and shortcut that I knew had traffic backed up for what
seemed like forever due to minor fender benders and other annoying accidents. 
I pounded on the steering wheel with my fist.  I yelled.  I screamed for people
to get out of the way.

I
cursed, worse than my father on a drunken night, and said some things I
shouldn’t have at a little old lady going ten miles an hour under the speed
limit.  I tried to force myself not to get worked up.  I hoped that if I missed
Harris, I could simply call Dubya Three back and beg for another chance or to
set up a meeting with someone else.  Anytime, day or night.  That’s what he
said, right?  Yet, I didn’t know how many times I could play that card, and I
definitely didn’t want to rely on him for help.

I
was better than that.  I was stronger than that.

I
would
not
play the role of damsel in distress with him whenever I needed
something, but right now, making the meeting with Harris was my only viable
option.

The
engine screamed as I pressed harder on the gas pedal and shot down a side
street, almost catching air off of speed bumps, feeling the rear of the car
shimmy just a little when I hit a deep puddle.

I
shouted, “Come on, come on!” and tightened my grip until my knuckles were
white.  Squealing into the parking lot, two minutes late, I erupted from the
car and ran into the library.  The permeating smells of old books and that pine-scented
liquid they use to clean the floors washed over me.  My shoes screeched too
loudly on the tile as I skidded to a halt, quickly scanning the lobby and rows
of books for a man in a leather jacket and a baseball cap.

A
front desk clerk glanced up at me with a wary look, then returned her attention
to a computer screen. 

My
eyes darted from person to person.  Not him.  No.  Not him.  Is that him?  No,
that’s not leather.  An older gentleman in a Mariners baseball cap passed me
without a second glance.  I doubted his wheelchair left much room for dirty
work.  I began to lose hope.  That desperate sensation that starts with a warm
tingle at the base of your neck slithered up and into my head, crawling across
my skin as it approached panic.

I
must have looked quite the sight as I stood there in the lobby, almost
vibrating, hoping I hadn’t missed him.  Would he really blow off our meeting
because I was two minutes late?

I
heard a man’s voice behind me.  “Sharon, hi!” it said, followed by a hand on my
arm.  I whipped around, expecting a stranger that had mistaken me for someone
he knew.  My eyes were level with a chest, covered by a brown leather jacket. 

Glancing
up, up, and up into the face of an impossibly massive, impossibly tall male in
his early fifties, baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, I saw the calm
expression of the man who had to be Harris.

“It’s
been so long,
Sharon
,” he said with a fake smile, gently nudging me past
the front desk and up the stairs.

Cresting
into the second floor, I whispered over my shoulder, “I’m not Sharon.”

“I’m
aware of that,” he said flatly, “but do you want them to know that if someone
places us together?”  His eyes darted around the upper level to all the people
on computers, browsing for books, and flipping through the audio collection.

“How
did you know it was me?”

He
scoffed.  “Please.  You were practically screaming for me to find you.  And
besides, if you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you can tell.”

“So
your name’s not really Harris?”

Harris
smirked.  “I like working with the smart ones.  Over here.”  He pulled me
toward an empty table in the northeastern corner of the floor, back where the
study rooms took up the far wall. 

Once
he was satisfied that we were alone and out of earshot from anyone else, he
pulled a notepad from his inside breast pocket with the slow, deliberate
precision of a surgeon removing a heart.  He had a pen in his hand before I
could notice where it came from.  These may have been subtle motions, but not a
bit of movement was wasted, every action calculated. 

With
his pen poised over the paper, he cleared his throat and said, “Now, young lady,
how does the first chess piece move?”