Imola (18 page)

“I’ll leave it to you, but make sure it’s in a public place. Daytime, please.”

“And if she won’t go for either?”

“Then do the best you can to make sure we have a chance of nabbing her. You’ve been around the business for a while. You know what we need.”

“Can you give me a chance to talk her into giving herself up first?”

“Talk all you want. Before the meeting. If we see her, we’re coming full force. We have to get her off the street.”

“I still don’t think she’ll get in touch.”

Bransome struggled but got to his feet. He held out a card. “In case you don’t still have one. My cell phone is always on. I’ve got to get down there. To Frisco.”

“Don’t think much of the place, do you?”

“Not anymore. I used to love it. Before the yuppie invasion. And all the queers.”

Jason thought about Donnie’s challenge to political correctness. He and Bransome would get along quite well. Donnie. Jason hoped he’d gone into hiding. She could still get him. He was a loose end.

The door slammed. Jason didn’t move to lock it. He had to get out of there. He had to find Donnie.

Jason rushed up the stairs and waited to catch his breath outside of Donnie’s apartment. He hoped no one would be home. Noises leaked through the door. Laughter. And music.

He ground his teeth and didn’t bother to knock. The knob turned easily, the door flung open with his shove.

Donnie sat at the table, his shirt off. Opposite him, a young woman perched on the edge of her chair, naked except for thong panties. In the sitting position, the thong strap bowed out, exposing her butt crack. They each held a hand of playing cards.

The girl jumped, but Donnie acted as if nothing had happened. “Bad timing, little brother. I’m about to call her drawers and raise her a blow job.”

The girl’s giggle bounced her breasts.

Jason scanned the table. A vial of white powder sat next to the girl’s left hand. A nearly full Baggie of weed was next to Donnie’s right. Three rolled joints were lined up next to the Baggie, and two joints were in a kitty in the center of the table.

He took a step forward. The girl didn’t cover up. “Is this where my money went?”

Donnie grinned at his partner. “Easy come, easy go.” He faked a toothy grin. “And then, easy come.”

The girl let out another annoying giggle.

“Not so easy come anymore, asshole.”

Donnie feigned hurt. “Asshole? What happened to jerk-off? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“I want you to be alive. You need to get out of here. Don’t you remember your last female visitor?”

The girl turned her head toward Jason and then to Donnie. She tilted it like a curious puppy, her pigtails dangling like puppy ears.

Donnie winked at her. “Give me a little while. I need to collect my winnings first.”

Another giggle, more throaty this time.

“Jesus Christ.” Jason turned for the door.

“You couldn’t spot me a little more, could you, little brother?”

Jason slammed the door so hard it nearly left the hinges. But he hesitated at the top of the stairs. Maybe he should go back in and knock some sense into hisbrother. Donnie was older but not a physical match. Yet trouble seemed to roll off Donnie, rarely sticking long enough to bring him bodily harm. Jason knew that firsthand. Long before he outgrew his older brother, his way of dealing with the constant teasing and abuse—the normal order of sibling business in their house—was to tattle to their father about events that would surely bring swats from their father’s “stick of discipline.” Some events were real, some totally fabricated. And yet, Donnie rarely felt the sting of that stick on his backside. And it puzzled Jason to this day.

A high-pitched giggle leaked from Donnie’s door, and Jason stomped down the steps. At the bottom, he let out his own little laugh. He remembered the time when he was in the just-learned-to-write grade in school. He had written, in indelible marker, “Donnie did this” on two inside walls, a door, and an outside wall of the house. He’d even etched it into the wood of the coffee table. That’s when he discovered his parents were clairvoyant. Despite the clarity of the message, they somehow knew it was he, not Donnie, who had desecrated the family home.

On the sidewalk, he turned and looked up at the windows of Donnie’s apartment. “In case you didn’t know, big brother, it was me. And I’m not sorry.”

A wasted day nagged Jason and promised another night of worry. Fast food was just fine with him, even though most of his colleagues refused to admit they sometimes strapped on that feedbag. But two double cheeseburgers sandwiched around a cold beer, in the pyrite dusk of his patio, kept calling his name—in all capital letters—until reality caught up to him. No patio until Lilin was caught. He’d have to eat in the artificial light of his apartment, all drapes and blinds closed tightly.

The restaurant was only a few blocks away. It was too far for a walk, particularly this close to dusk, but hardly far enough to get the car manifold up to full temperature. The mealtime crowd in the drive-through lane solved the temperature problem but not his worry. Could Donnie be that stupid? Well, yes. Obviously. But his carelessness was at an all-time high.

He pulled away from the restaurant, and a small compact car fishtailed in behind him, so close he couldn’t see its headlights in his rearview mirror. He accelerated a little, and the car kept pace. Rather than turn in on the golf course road that led to his apartment, Jason accelerated even more and drove straight past his turn. The small car kept pace.

An illegal turn at the next intersection produced two sets of tire squeals, and the little car bobbed into the opposite lane and corrected, nearly ramming the rear fender of Jason’s Volvo. A quarter mile up ahead was a freeway entrance. He could kick it into turbo and lose the little four-banger.

A thought pulled his foot from the accelerator. What if it was Agnes? He leaned close to the rearview mirror, but between the gathering dark and the reflected glare of the car’s headlights on the rear of his Volvo, Jason couldn’t make out any features of the driver. Not even a silhouette.

He stepped on the accelerator again, but the little car shot out from behind him, into the oncoming traffic lane. It jerked alongside and swerved toward the Volvo. Jason reacted, trying to stay on the road without hitting the curb. He looked over. The driver was definitely a man. A smallish man with his hair pulled tight into one of those stubby, high-placed ponytails.

The little car lurched forward, even with the Volvo’s front fender, and swerved again. Jason hit his brakes and so did the other driver, pinching the Volvo to the right. Jason swerved into the driveway of a strip mall, and the little car matched the move, now in full broadside again. It continued to inch at the Volvo, forcing Jason to pull to a stop, diagonal to the painted stripes, and against the planter border of the parking lot. The little car screeched to a stop, partly blocking a backward retreat.

Jason wasn’t sure what to do. If the creep had a knife, the car was the safest place. If he had a gun, it was the worst place. It was better to run for it. He caught sight of the man in his outside mirror, walking in his direction.

The man’s arms hung at his sides, each hand empty. And he appeared to be at least a few inches shorter than Jason, and of very slight build.

Jason shoved the door open and stood to his full height as quickly as he could. “What the fuck are you doing, asshat?”

The man stomped toward Jason and stopped just out of arm’s reach. “Where’s Eugenia?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Where’s Eugenia? Bitch stole my money and ran off with my car. Where is she?”

“You … you’re …” What was his name? “The writer?” Ferret. “Ferrell, right?”

“Just tell me where she is. I know she came back toyou. I want my money. And my car.”

Jason straightened his arm and leaned against the Volvo. The prick had a load of shit coming to him. “You have a car, and a mighty nice one.”

“It’s a fucking rental. It’s all I could afford. That bitch maxed out all of my credit cards. I had to go begging to my parents, God damn it.”

Jason lowered his arm. He pulled in a deep breath and let it out as if he were trying to blow the little man over. “Eugenia did stop by.” He wanted to tell a burning lie to get even with the little jerk, but just thinking of saying that he and Eugenia had hot, sloppy sex nauseated him. He opted for the truth. “She said she was hooked on drugs, no thanks to you. She wanted money to go to rehab.”

Ferrell’s knees seemed to buckle. “She was playing you, too?” He put his hand to his forehead like he was shadowing his eyes. “I’m getting help. I offered it to her, too. I would have paid for it. But she just kept using more and more. Then she split. With my stuff.”

Jason suppressed the twinge of sympathy. “So the monster you created turned around and bit you. If you want a Band-Aid, go somewhere else.”

“I don’t care what you think about me. I just want to know where she went.”

Now for the uppercut. “She probably ran off with some other guy with full pockets and a handy pharmacy. In fact, she probably hooked up with him months ago. Sound familiar?”

Ferrell’s voice seemed to be missing some of its original bluster. “She has more than my car and my money. She’s pregnant. I need to find her.”

A new wave of nausea cinched Jason’s stomach. “And she’s still using drugs?” No matter how much her behavior had changed, he couldn’t see her using through a pregnancy. She had always wanted a family. Not a child, but children. At least that was what she’d said. “Maybe she was faking it.”

“We did the urine tests, then had an ultrasound.”

Another twinge of sympathy. “Sorry, man. But the best thing that could happen to you right now is if the baby isn’t yours. You’d better hope she did to you what she did to me. Otherwise, you can kiss your trust fund goodbye.”

“I’ll ask one more time. Do you know where she went?” He shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out what looked like a toy derringer. He pointed it at Jason’s chest. “I’m desperate. And when I get desperate, I do desperate things. Right now, I’m out of options. I’m down to using this. So answer me.”

Jason backed up as much as his car would allow and raised his hands in front of him. “I told her to get out. She left. That’s all I know.”

Ferrell stood in place, the gun still raised. Jason could almost see his mind turning through the options. With a head shake, Ferrell lowered the gun and slipped it back in his pocket. “If you’re lying, I’ll find out.”

Jason wanted to push back, to tell him he’d be ready for him next time, but he didn’t want to push the twerp into the meltdown he may have just sidestepped. Again, he opted for the truth. “I don’t ever want to see her again. Same with you.”

Without another word, Ferrell turned and walked back to his car. He climbed in, started it up, and hit the accelerator hard.

Jason read the license plate number and repeated it as the car sped away. He repeated it again, then leaned into his car and brought out a notebook with a pen shoved through the spiral wire binding. He jotted down the plate number and flipped open his cell phone. He’d report the gun incident to the police and press charges. He didn’t want to deal with either Eugenia or Ferrell ever again, and now he could get one away from him. He didn’t need this nightmare. He had his hands full with Agnes. And Lilin.

He closed the phone without making the call. The desperation in Ferrell’s shaking hand when he’d pulled out the derringer told Jason to just steer clear. Once Ferrell found Eugenia, he wouldn’t come around again. And Eugenia would likely occupy Ferrell well into the coming months, dodging him, enraging him, or reconciling with him when all other sources of money proved difficult. It was a do-nothing situation, and Jason imagined he was done with both of them for some time.

Lilin drove the Volkswagen across the Golden Gate Bridge and turned off on the last marked Sausalito exit. She wound through the narrow streets, nearly to the water, and turned left. The road ended with a wooden roadblock, but a double-rutted dirt path took off to the side and headed up a small hill. She’d scouted the road before.

At the crest of the hill, the makeshift road split. To the left, it led to a series of sharp rises that were used for four-wheeler and dirt bike hill climbing. To the right, it opened into a turnout that overlooked the water. Probably a make-out site.

She turned right and pulled the Volkswagen to the edge of the short cliff, facing the water. Before getting out, she searched the car for belongings of importance. Sitting on the passenger seat, an old copy of the Chroniclehad a front-page article about a North Bay honor student whose body had just been found. He was the latest victim of the escaped serial killer.

“Not the latest.”

Lilin walked to the edge of the cliff and looked over. It was only a fifteen-foot drop and not straight down. The eroded dirt formed a steep ramp, the kind a four-wheeler would like. Except this one went right into the water. By her calculations, the shore dropped at the same angle as the cliff, although she could be mistaken. At the least, the car would be covered with water at high tide, which was an hour away. At low tide, who cared?

She opened the driver’s door and swiveled in, pushed the clutch, and shifted into neutral. She got back out, reached in, and released the parking brake. The car rocked and then crept toward the edge. She slammed the door, ran behind the car, and pushed.

How will you get back?

Shut up. I don’t need you yet.

The VW picked up speed. The front tires dropped over the lip of the cliff; then the rear tires. The car accelerated until it hit water. The front end bounced when it hit the water, and the momentum launched the car like a boat. It didn’t go down right away.

Lilin let out a loud laugh. “I’ll be damned. They do float. For a while.”

She watched the car slowly move outward and downinto the dark water. She didn’t wait for it to disappear: the tilt of the front end told her the water was deep enough.