Crimson Eve (8 page)
I’ll
be glad to have you. Not
we’ll
be glad.
“Thank you.”
We talked for a few minutes. He asked me about my parents (I tried to make Mom sound decent, but I don’t think I fooled him) and my school. If I knew what college I wanted to go to, what I wanted to study. I answered pretty well, if I do say so myself. In fact, I kinda gained my ground as we went along. Funny, but I think he sensed that. Don’t ask me how I know. It was just this feeling between us.
Scott’s real happy for me. He and I have been going out for three months now, and it’s the first time he’s seen me with a job. He took me out for pizza tonight, then we hung around his house until eleven o’clock. His parents were out, and his sister was staying with a friend for the night. Perfect time for us to be alone.
Now I need to go to bed so I’m fresh for the morning. Already got my clothes laid out. Can’t wait to start.
Something tells me this job is going to change my life.
Twelve-thirty. Less than fifteen hours.
Tony rolled through Moscow, narrowed eyes flicking from the Durango’s navigation system to the quiet streets. Thanks to the pepper spray his face was still red, and now his nose ran like crazy. He’d made a pit stop to buy two boxes of tissues. On the passenger seat sat the first open box and a plastic grocery bag now filling with used wads.
The annoying symptoms only made him madder. He couldn’t wait to find Carla Radling.
A state trooper stationed twenty miles south on Highway 95 had informed Tony that Miss Wit had not been spotted. Which meant she’d likely either stopped in Moscow for the night or she’d headed west on Highway 8.
Tony had programmed the GPS to flag all hotels in the area. One by one, if it took all night, he would cruise their parking lots, looking for a white Toyota.
Three times Tony had snatched up his phone to call Miss Wit. How he’d love to hear the panic in her voice. But each time he’d put the cell back down. Better not let on just how close he was.
He’d started at the Hillcrest Motel on 95, then on to the Mark IV Motor Inn and down the highway. At the numbered streets downtown he had to make a decision. Sixth Street would take him into the university. No use going there. Looked like the lower numbers would be his best bet.
As he drove through motel parking lots he imagined Timmy at home, sleeping in his small bed with the Superman sheets and spread. He’d be wearing his red soft jammies, hugging Tito the Bear. Robyn, who believed Tony was working on a case for his CIA job — which he could never talk about — would be in their room curled up on her side of the bed, one hand reaching toward his empty half.
Then he pictured gut-wrenching scenes of his family if he didn’t find his target.
Tony’s fingers curled into the wheel.
The net, man. Just pull in your net.
He turned onto Third Street — Highway 8. Passed various businesses on the right until he came to a Super 8 Motel. He pulled into the lot, rolling past the cars. At each white sedan he shone his flashlight beam on the license plate.
Every time he was disappointed, his anger at Carla Radling simmered a little higher.
The Super 8 parking lot was small. He pulled out of it and headed west on the highway.
Tony was used to killing quickly. Get in, do the job, get out. Not this time. Carla Radling deserved to suffer for putting his family in danger. Tony wiped his runny nose and dreamed of taking her apart limb by limb.
Next on his right — the Palouse Inn. He cruised its lot but saw no white Toyota. Breathing a curse he turned back to the highway, headed for the next motel. Soon he saw the sign for University Inn.
At one o’clock, Carla was still reading.
The going was slow. There were a lot of entries — she’d written in the diary practically every day. But certain entries were so wrenching, she had to stop and settle her emotions. Wipe away tears. And every little sound outside the room scared her. What if Thornby showed up at her door? Twice she started to get up and flee the motel. But then what? Spend the night by herself on some dark road until she could change cars? At least here she was locked in the room, close to other people. Close to a landline phone.
As for the diary, it was a wonder she still had it at all. In the past sixteen years she’d come close to burning it at least a dozen times. But for some crazy reason she’d never been able to let it go. The pages held memories too painful to read, but they were her
life
. They made her what she was today. Sometimes she’d thought,
This is all I’ll ever have.
Carla sighed.
This
is why she had lived her life so close to people, yet so far. Making friends — to a point. Laughing, teasing. But nothing closer, no real intimacy.
She hadn’t shed a tear at her mother’s funeral ten years ago. Okay, maybe two. Not because she would miss the unloving woman who smoked herself right into the grave. Because she missed the mother she never had.
As for men, forget it.
Sure, she’d had a few relationships. Burt when she was twenty-five. He’d lasted almost a year before moving across the country to a new job. Convenient, since she was losing interest. He was too charming — like the man of her memories. You couldn’t rely on those charming types.
If she hadn’t learned that sixteen years ago, she’d certainly learned it tonight.
Then Alex came along when she was twenty-eight. She’d moved to Kanner Lake by then. He lived in Spokane. She couldn’t trust him either. That’s when she realized the sad truth. She couldn’t really believe in
any
man.
Or was it herself she couldn’t trust?
Carla gazed at the diary. Hard to believe such a little thing could bring down one of the most powerful men in the country. Soon to be
the
most powerful man. Washington’s “Golden Boy,” their US state senator Bryson Hanley. The man who, most pundits declared and polls showed, was destined to win the 2008 presidential election. His nomination to the Democratic ticket was almost a certainty.
Golden Boy. Yeah, right. The man who oozed empathy for the American people. Who would lead this country in the dark age of terrorists and who fought for the common man. Who stood for children’s welfare and women’s rights, who supported education and pledged medical care for all.
The family man, handsome, smiling, with his beautiful wife, daughter, and son by his side. Each time Carla saw Bryson Han-ley’s picture — and it was everywhere — the painful memories stabbed. “Our lives are an open book,” he was fond of saying on talk shows. “I’ve been in politics all my life. You know what you’re getting when you vote for me.”
Yes, Carla knew the man the nation would be getting.
She tapped a finger against the diary. So far she’d found no clue as to why her death was suddenly
so important. Maybe it was just . . . overdue. The man whose life was an open book had decided there were a few pages best ripped out.
But, Bryson, don’t you see? I would never tell. Think how it
would hurt others. Think what it would do to my own life.
Fourteen months ago she’d seen it happen to Paige Williams, a newcomer to Kanner Lake. Paige had fled a haunting past only to find herself the fascination of the entire country. How much more attention would Carla face herself as the woman who brought down Washington’s Golden Boy?
No way. Even now, with her life on the line,
no one
would ever see this diary. She couldn’t bear for anyone to know its secrets. Not for herself, and not for Scott, wherever he was today. He never deserved to be hurt. How cruel it would be, sixteen years later, to see him thrust into a salacious limelight — and through no fault of his own. Carla felt sick at the thought. Maybe he had a family, children. Think how they would feel.
And think of Bryson’s kids — Brittany and Benson. How awful it would be for them to hear the truth about their father. Brittany was now almost sixteen, the very age Carla had been when she’d poured out her heart on these pages. She couldn’t bear to see another teenager hurt as she had been.
Carla shifted her left leg. It throbbed a little less. She laid the open diary on the bed and raised up to peer at her ankle. Still swollen. Man. She dreaded walking on it tomorrow.
She fell back against the pillows and picked up the diary. A strand of hair fell across her eyes, and she nudged it away. Muscles still tense, ears cocked for any noise outside, Carla turned a page — and read on.
I’ve been at my job over a week now. Today Mr. Hanley’s wife came in.
She’s pretty. Dark hair — not black like mine, but a deep brown. A little shorter than me. Walks like a princess.
Jilke introduced us, and for a second she just stared. Was my nose on crooked? Too much mascara? What?
“Nice to meet you.” She smiled tightly and lifted her chin.
Yeah, right.
“How long have you been working for my husband?”
My husband
. Okay, now I was getting her.
“Just a week.” I kept my voice light. “I feel more like I’m working for Mr. Jilke, though. I don’t work directly with Senator Hanley all that often.”
Hey, I need this job. No harm in smoothing over Mrs. “My-Husband.” All the same, I swear I came close to calling Senator Hanley by his first name, just to needle her.
She gave me another fake smile, then went into Senator Hanley’s office. Didn’t come out for half an hour. I was addressing invitations to a fund-raising dinner, but I kept listening for her. I wouldn’t feel right until she was gone. Why were they talking so long? Didn’t they see each other at night?
Last week I studied old newspapers at the
library. I found out Senator Hanley is forty-two. His wife is thirty-six. They don’
t have kids. Don’t know why. Maybe they’re just too busy. Maybe she’s too uptight.
The Hanley campaign is going well. Jilke says next year’s election for US senator is “in the bag.” So why does Jilke run himself like a chicken with its head cut off? He works twelve hours a day. Never takes a break. Eats lunch at his desk and drinks coffee all day. He’s always on the phone. Sometimes I think I’m gonna go crazy with all his yakking. The man’s got no life, that’s for sure. Bryson Hanley
is
his life. Jilke isn’t married. I think he’s around thirty-five because he told me what year he graduated from high school. He’s been the Hanley campaign manager for eight years. Helped Bryson Hanley earn his state senate seat. Next it’s the US Senate — which means Washington, DC. All the bigwigs. Then, if things go like he says, some day it will be the White House. If you ask me, Jilke wants to run a presidential campaign more than anything in the world.
What I told Mrs. My-Husband is true. I don’t see Bryson Hanley nearly enough. To keep this job, it’s Jilke I need to satisfy.
So I keep my head down and work hard. Use my best handwriting, type letters carefully, make sure the documents I copy aren’t missing any pages. And remember to call the man
Mr.
Jilke to his face. He tells me I’m doing good. But he says it almost reluctantly, like he’d love to catch me in something. Don’t know why. He reminds me of Mom — not believing I can do anything I set my mind to, that I can
be
somebody.
Catherine’s her first name. Mrs. My-Husband, I mean. When she came out of Senator Hanley’s office, she didn’t look at me. Her lips were pressed, and she clutched her white leather purse like it was trying to escape. Jilke stared at her like he was trying to figure if she’d upset his man Bryson. Mrs. My-Husband left, and Senator Hanley came out of his office a minute later. Gave Jilke a worn look. Then he turned to me — and smiled. A smile that said:
She’s a pain
sometimes, but I feel better just seeing you work so hard for me.
I swear that’s what it said. I think Jilke saw it too, ’cause he gave me the eye after Senator Hanley went back in his office.
I worked even harder the rest of the day.
Tony wiped his nose as he turned into the Best Western, heading to the back of the hotel. Not many cars. The parking lot lights shone on a few here and there, pulled into spaces lining the building. No lights on in any rooms.
No white Toyota.
He drove around to the front. More cars here, but still not many. He passed a shiny new black Ford pickup, a red Honda, an Explorer, two Jeeps — all clustered around the entrances to the long building.
Dim light glowed through the window of a downstairs room.
Tony slowed, staring at the closed curtains. His eyes flicked to the nearest cars, some distance away. None was parked at the entrance closest to this room.
Strange.
He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel.
The customer could have parked at the back of the building and entered from that side. Tony tried to remember the closest entrance in the rear. Had a car been parked near it?
He leaned his elbow on the console and considered the building. Beginning closest to the lobby, he counted windows. The lit room was number ten.
Tony drove around to the back of the motel again and counted off ten rooms. The nearest entrance was three windows down, after room thirteen.
Two cars — a Camaro and a Suburban — were parked on either side of the door.
He spat out a curse. How he’d hoped to find nothing. How he wanted reason to believe Miss Wit was in that room . . .
Tony’s nose dripped more snot. He yanked out a tissue and swiped at it.
Turning the wheel hard, he scratched off a U-turn and headed out of the parking lot. His thoughts flashed to Carla Radling’s bedroom. The photos he’d found, the hatbox out of place . . .
What
had she taken? And just as important — had she given it to someone else?
Back on Highway 8, Tony picked up his “Barry” cell phone. Time to call for reinforcements. He
would
find Carla Radling — if not tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.
And that’s a promise, Miss Wit.
The night wore on, and still Carla read. Sometime during the early morning hours she laid the diary down, her head and heart too full to go on. For a long time she stared at the wall, thinking . . . remembering.
