Crimson Eve (7 page)
“Okay, okay, do what you can. I’m on my way.” Tony pulled a one-handed U-turn in the middle of the street. “How long will it take me to get there from Kanner Lake?”
“Two hours plus — if you really hoof it.”
Two hours.
Please, Miss Wit, stop in Moscow.
“Okay. I’m on my way. How do I get there?”
Roy gave him directions.
Hope surged. Tony flipped the phone closed and dropped it on the passenger seat. He drove to the nearest intersection, then turned right, pulled toward the south as surely as metal to magnet.
Behind the Best Western counter a young girl with long blonde hair and flawless skin gazed at Carla as she approached. She wore a pin with her first name —
Chrissy
. Prickles danced up Carla’s spine. She imagined some friend of Thornby showing Chrissy her photo — “Have you seen this woman?”
“Looks like you really hurt your foot.” Chrissy gestured toward Carla’s ankle.
Carla managed a shrug. “I twisted it. Just need to get off it as soon as possible.”
“I’m so sorry. Let’s get you checked in right away.”
Carla held onto the counter, weight on her right foot as Chrissy accepted her credit card for processing. Too late Carla remembered she should have hit an ATM for cash. Already she was leaving a trail. What if Thornby could watch her bank accounts? Maybe she should just leave right now —
Stop it.
The transaction wouldn’t go through until tomorrow. By that time she’d be long gone.
Chrissy looked up. “I assume you’d like a first-floor room.”
“Please.”
“Queen bed all right?”
Anything, just hurry!
“Yes. Great.”
“Nonsmoking?”
Carla’s fingers pressed harder against the smooth counter. “Yes.”
Chrissy nodded and checked her computer. Carla struggled to stay calm. The world beyond the entrance was a looming monster at her back. She couldn’t help throwing glances over her shoulder.
“You worried about your car out there?” Chrissy asked.
“Oh. I just . . . didn’t want it to be in anyone’s way.”
“No problem, there’s plenty of room for someone to drive around it.”
Carla nodded.
Chrissy slipped a key card into the machine for programming, then handed it to Carla with a smile. “There you go. Probably easier to drive to the next outside door and park.” She pointed in the general direction. “Inside the building, turn right, and your room’s three doors down.”
Carla managed a tight smile. “Thank you.”
“Just a sec, I’ll get the door for you.” Chrissy came around the counter and pushed open the glass door, stepping aside so Carla could hobble through. Carla repressed a cringe. She’d wanted to check the area before exiting.
“Okay. Thanks.”
She stepped outside, muscles rigid, eyes darting right and left. She saw no one.
Carla slipped into her car and drove down to the next entrance. There she parked, heart hammering. She slid the diary from under the seat and stuck it in her purse before getting out. Then lifted her red suitcase from the passenger seat and pulled it across the pavement and into the building. At her room she shoved the suitcase and her purse inside, leaving only her car keys and the key card in her hand. How she longed to collapse on the bed, leave her car where it sat. But she didn’t dare.
Back down the corridor she limped. Stepped outside after checking in all directions and slid into her car.
She drove back to the small white building and parked. Turned off the Toyota’s engine and lights.
The world fell into a darkness that would swallow her whole. Carla could hear her own hitched breathing — a sound of nerve-wracking fear.
Her hand slid to the door.
She couldn’t open it.
A dozen new imaginings snarled all threads of logic in Carla’s brain. Hands reaching for her the minute she got out, the growl of an attack dog, a gunshot piercing her chest. David Thornby was
here
. He’d been near the whole time, smirking as she placed herself where no one would witness her death.
Carla’s chest tightened, the air in the car thickening. She longed to open the window, feel freshness on her cheeks — but her killer waited out there . . .
Girl, get a grip. You want to sleep here all night?
She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Coolness rushed at her as she pushed to her feet, weight on the right leg. With a shaking finger she hit the button to lock her car doors. Painfully, wishing she could run, she began making her way back toward the motel. Around to the front of the white building, down the rear delivery road for the strip mall. Every shuffled footstep echoed like calls in a canyon:
Here I am — come kill me!
Carla crossed the street. She reached the road running behind the Best Western, a tiny, lone figure in the looming night. The pain in her ankle grew. If only she had a pair of crutches, even one. Carla slowed, feeling sweat pop out on her forehead. For a crazy moment she considered giving up. Just lying down right there on the dirty, dark road.
Sure, babe, with the motel and shelter in sight.
Determination urged her on. She clutched her car keys harder until the metal bit into her palm, her key card in her other hand. Tears burned her eyes at each step, the motel so close, yet so far away.
An eternity passed before she reached the outside door to the motel, drew it back, and stumbled inside. Then down the corridor, and finally, weak-limbed and shaking, across the threshold into her room.
She closed the door and slumped against it, flooded with an almost sickening relief.
Carla picked up her purse and pulled her suitcase farther into the room. Leaving the bag standing upright, she tossed her purse onto the bed, then sank down beside it. Turned lengthwise and hoisted her legs up. She didn’t dare examine her throbbing ankle. Seeing the amount of swelling would only make the pain seem worse. She knew she should ice it, but she hadn’t seen an ice machine on the way to her room and couldn’t bear to get up again.
Tonight, tomorrow, if she came face-to-face with Thornby and needed to run — she’d never make it.
Carla melted into the bed, time sliding by in a hazy blur. At some point she pulled over her purse and slid out her cell phone. Held it in her hand. How she wanted to call someone for help, ask for advice. But her attacker’s words pounded in her head.
Any
friend who helps you is dead.
She tossed the cell to the foot of the bed.
Carla rolled to one side, burying her face in the bedcovers. For a long time she struggled to untangle her thoughts. What was she going to do tomorrow? Rent a car, yes . . . but then?
She moaned. If only she knew why this was happening now. If she knew
why
, maybe she could do something to save her life. Say the right words, pledge some action . . .
She dragged in a breath and rolled to her back. Her gaze landed on the diary sticking out of her purse. Carla stared at it dully. Thornby had come looking for anything linking to her past — she knew that because of the photos he’d taken. He probably
thought he’d found everything. He couldn’t know about the diary. She’d never mentioned it to a soul.
Carla gazed at the small journal, remembering the pain and suffering those pages held. She hadn’t been able to even look at it in years. Maybe some entry contained the information she needed. Had she made some threat years ago they now had to silence? Done something that suddenly unnerved them?
Carla’s shoulders drooped. Didn’t they think she’d lost enough?
With a sigh, she pulled the diary from her purse. For all the emotional weight of it, she was amazed at its lightness. She gazed at the now faded yellow daisies on its cover, remembering. Inside that cover years ago she’d drawn a heart containing the words “Carla Radling loves Scott Cambry.”
Scott.
Even now her heart panged at the mere thought of his name.
She turned the diary over, rubbing a thumb against the fabric. The words inside contained the culmination of her life as a teenager — her dreams, her soaring hopes. Her crushed spirit. Everything she was today — and was not — had been forged within the glowing heat of its pages. The thought of reliving those terrible moments now, tonight, after all she’d already been through, filled her with dread.
Yeah, well. Watching TV isn’t exactly a picker upper either.
She laid the diary on the nightstand.
Carla sat up and arranged the two pillows against the headboard. Then peeled down the bedspread, slipping it beneath her body, and balled it up as elevation for her left foot. She leaned back against the pillows, doing her best to find a comfortable position. Then with a deep breath, she picked up the diary and opened her soul to the summer when it all began. When she was sixteen — and met
him
for the first time.
Can you believe it — I got a job for the summer! And
what
a job! I’ll be working as a clerk/assistant for Bryson Hanley! Yes,
the
Bryson Hanley!
Mom tried to bring me down as usual. Said who was I, getting so uppity that I should think I can keep a job in a state senator’s office. Said I’d type letters full of mistakes and file documents that would never be found. Isn’t she just the Carla cheerleading squad. Got herself new pom-poms and everything.
Just because I don’t want to spend my life waitressing in some dirt-crusted, smoky little diner.
Anyway, the job. I don’t know much about politics, but I learned a lot just this afternoon from Paul Jilke, this serious-looking, long-faced guy who runs Senator Hanley’s campaign office. (He reminds me of a Muppet. Jilke, I mean.) Senator Hanley is a Democrat, “representing Washington District #1,” Jilke told me (I’d better not call him that to his face), and the state legislature has finished meeting for the year. So now Senator Hanley’s back from Olympia, working at his real estate development stuff in Terrin. But what he’s really focusing on is his 1992 run for the US Senate. And that’s where I come in — as an “aide” for his campaign. Is that cool or what! I’ll be doing mailings and general office work. I really impressed Jilke because I can type ninety words a minute. (Who’d have guessed old Mrs. Delligouser’s typing class would actually amount to something?)
First thing I did when I heard I got the job was run all the way to Mary Kay’s house to tell her. She jumped up and down with me. Mary Kay knows how much I need the money. For once I’ll be able to buy some decent clothes. Act like somebody. I’m tired of looking like the old worn country girl with an emphysemic mother and no dad. Not that my real friends care, but it would be nice to show the Snooty High Societies a thing or two in my junior year.
I spent an hour telling Mary Kay about the office and Jilke and my own little desk in the corner. I swear I sat in that chair and felt so grown-up. Kind of like the first time I held my driver’s license in my hand. Suddenly I’d jumped into another era. Sixteen going on twenty-five. Out in the world, with nobody to tell me what to do. And a real
job
.
Jilke and I share a space that’s just next door to Senator Han-ley’s own huge private suite. We don’t even have to walk down the hall to see him — there’s a door that leads straight from his office into ours.
I told Mary Kay about meeting Senator Hanley. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her everything. And that was strange, holding something back from her. I had to work hard not to show it on my face. But . . .
How many times have I seen Bryson Hanley’s picture in the paper and around town? Not to mention his name on the local news. Terrin’s own “Golden Boy.” Mr. Destined for Greatness. Not to mention a rich businessman. And really good-looking, for an old guy. (That’s me talking, not the papers.) He’ll put this Seattle suburb on the map, they say. “Charismatic,” that’s what they call him. And he’s always looked it too. Even on TV, you can tell how he charms people.
Let me tell you something. “Charismatic” doesn’t
begin
to do the real man justice.
After interviewing me for over an hour, Jilke told me to wait by his desk. He knocked on the door leading to Senator Hanley’
s office, then went inside. I got all nervous, hoping,
hoping
I’d land the job. After a couple minutes Jilke stuck his head out the door and waved me into Senator Hanley’s office. I nearly fainted. I hadn’t expected to meet him so soon.
I stood up, legs shaking, and smoothed my skirt. Suddenly wishing I’d had money for a new dress. And did my hair look okay? Next thing I knew, I was standing before Senator Hanley’s desk and Jilke was introducing us. Senator Hanley stretched out his arm, and I managed to stick out mine — and we shook hands.
I swear there was heat in those fingers.
Senator Hanley’s probably about six feet — six inches taller than I am. But he looked like a tower. And his shoulders aren’t real broad, either, but he still made me think of a linebacker in full gear. There’s just something about him. This
power
. It
surges
from him. And those eyes. They’re milk chocolate brown and so very deep. You could swim in those eyes. When he looked at me and smiled, I felt like I was the most important person in the world.
Now I know what they’re talking about when they say Bryson Hanley is destined for greatness. The man could charm a snake. If a politician’s career is all about getting people to like you and vote for you — this guy’s got it made. One look at him, and forget voting — I’d go to the moon for him.
This is what I couldn’t tell Mary Kay. I mean, the guy’s over forty. I have never looked at somebody that old and thought a thing about him. But Bryson Hanley just makes you feel special.
“Carla Radling, is it?” Senator Hanley said as our fingers still touched.
I managed a yes, then clamped my mouth shut. Last thing I needed was to fall into my smart-alecky routine to hide my nervousness.
He took back his hand. “Welcome. Paul tells me you interviewed very well. I’ll be glad to have you around for the summer.”
He has this crease on the right side of his face when he smiles. Sort of a half dimple. And his smile is almost playful — like he knows a secret about you but promises not to tell.
