One to Go (21 page)

“No thanks. I have a couple of quick questions about LaToya—”

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the screen: a video of Janie sleeping soundly in her bed filled the small frame.

And at the foot of her bed, Chad and Britney stood in their pj's with an index finger to their lips.

Tom couldn't stop shaking. He was about to offer some inane explanation to LaRyn, when he saw she was so far gone that she hadn't noticed. His eyes reddened, he used his sleeve to wipe the tears from his cheek.
Why him? God, if you're really out there, you've got to stop this. NOW!

God didn't stop it.

Now what? Just how does one introduce the subject of inserting an alcohol-soaked tampon into one's body orifice of choice? Maybe, given her profession, he should follow the commercial route. He took a full swig of bourbon. When he spoke, he didn't recognize his own voice. It was as if another invisible guest were seated at the table.

“So, I, uh, heard of this funny way to get high.”
Oh it's funny all right. Yuk a minute
. He pulled the tampons from his pocket. LaRyn grinned.

“P-Chugg.”

He heard the invisible person, the dude who kind've sounded like him, ask, “How much would it cost for us to maybe have a little P-Chugg party? Assuming you're up for it.”

She swayed back and forth, her eyes now only slits. “Ain't nothin' I ain't up for, sugah.” She peeled the wrapper from a tampon. “An' since you be my lawyer, I'm gonna give you a discount. Fifty bucks, baby.”

Before Tom could pull out his wallet, she'd dipped the tampon into her glass.

“Wait.” He quickly pulled out a fifty and set it on the table, then unwrapped the other tampon and soaked it in the pale iced tea. He watched as the combination of cotton and rayon absorbed the poison, like some deep-sea creature gorging itself until its size tripled. He used the cord to slowly lift the tampon, feeling its heavier weight. This time, there was no doubt it was his voice he heard.

“Want to switch?”

She shrugged and they exchanged tampons.

She pushed back from the table and unsnapped her shorts.

“You want to use the bathroom?”

She acted as if she hadn't heard him and slid her shorts completely off. He saw she wasn't wearing underwear; guess time was precious in her job. Her hand seemed to move in slow motion as it approached her legs.

No! Stop! Don't do it!
The words didn't make their way from his brain to his mouth. In less than a second, her hand slipped between her heavy thighs, then pulled out without the tampon. It was inside her. She sat back down, not bothering to put on her shorts.

He was sure she was going to insist he poke the other tampon up his butt.

“Now, you want a blow job first?” Her words were even more slurred and she wasn't even looking at him. She appeared to be oblivious to the other tampon, to her surroundings, to him.

He got up, took his glass into the bathroom, and poured its contents down the toilet. He'd seen enough TV to know trace elements could be detected in drains and on porcelain surfaces. He opened a small cabinet under the sink and found what he was looking for. Toilet cleaner. Thank you, Mrs. Walker, for teaching your daughter at least one good habit.

He poured the blue cleaner into the toilet bowl and was about to use a brush from the cabinet to scrub the porcelain, when he hesitated. Could trace elements of the potassium permanganate cling to the bristles? Not wanting to take a chance, he replaced the
brush, and used a towel to wipe fingerprints off the brush handle and the cleaner bottle. Which left the vodka bottle in his pocket. He'd need to dispose of that on the way home.

He heard a crash and returned to the living room to find LaRyn had fallen off her chair. Dark blood dribbled down her thighs. She vomited a putrid mixture of bourbon and blood.

Suddenly, he heard a tiny voice behind him. He turned to see a toddler, a little girl maybe one year old.

“Mommy?”

Tom froze. God, where did she come from? Must've been in one of the bedrooms. LaRyn heard her daughter calling through the haze. She reached out to her child.

“Baby?”

The child, too far away from her mother's reach, began to cry. Suddenly LaRyn clutched her stomach with both hands and squealed out in pain. Tom was unable to move as he watched in horror while the tableau played out. He'd assumed death would come quickly and with little pain. Wasn't the booze supposed to anesthetize the victim while the poison did its work? She cried out again, this time louder.

Without thinking further, he reached between her legs and pulled out the tampon. Still holding the empty glass, he dropped the tampon into it. He had to do something—he couldn't let this woman die—and reached into his pocket for his phone. First choice, he could call 911 and remain on the scene. Hide in plain sight. His mind churned, searching for a story. A believable story.
He'd arrived late to consult with his client—she was a working girl, after all—and she appeared to be in a stupor. She suddenly got sick and he called for help
.

Second choice, he'd use her phone to call 911, disguise his voice, and get the hell out of there. As with Mackey, he could explain that he arrived, had his consult. When he left she appeared to be under the influence of something—what do you expect of a two-bit whore, right, guys?—but not necessarily ill. Any comments
by her relating to Butt Chugging or P-Chugging would be laughed off, and attributed to the addled imagination of a drunk drug abuser.

The baby had crawled into her mother's arms. Sliding in and out of consciousness, LaRyn instinctively held her daughter tight to her breast as she continued to clutch her gut and moan in pain.

He liked the first choice better, but it all came down to the now contaminated glass he held in his hands. There was no way to dispose of it and remain in the apartment. He spotted her purse on the floor beside the couch. Using a kitchen towel to prevent fingerprints, he fished out her pink cell phone and dialed 911. He was about to speak in a falsetto voice when he thought of voice-prints. Were they reliable? Could they match a disguised voice?

“This is the 911 operator, please state the nature of your emergency.”

He set the phone on the floor next to LaRyn's head. Hopefully, the operator would hear her moaning in pain and trace the cell.

“This is the 911 operator, can you tell me your name? This is the 911 operator, I can hear you. Please keep this line open.”

Tom snatched the fifty from the table, took his glass, and hurried out of the apartment.

As he closed the door, he saw the little girl staring at him with a curious look in her eyes.

Fortunately, there were few cars on the road as Tom wound his way south toward the city. Because his mind raced in so many different directions, he drove purely on instinct. As had now become his habit—
his MO? Did he now have an MO?
—he tossed the Grey Goose vodka bottle and the empty glass with the bloody tampon into a dumpster behind a strip shopping center.

After leaving LaRyn's apartment, he'd parked in the shadows a block away, waiting for what seemed like hours—but was less than ten minutes—to confirm arrival of the emergency response vehicles. There was no way he could take a chance on her dying while waiting for help. He decided to revert to option
A
. He'd hide the glass and vodka bottle in his car and return to the apartment.

He reached for his phone. No use disguising his voice because his cell would be traceable. Needed a story. Okay, he'd explain he forgot his briefcase—he'd have to take his briefcase from the trunk back into the apartment—and returned to find his client lying in her own vomit.
Good story, Mr. Booker, except if she was incapacitated on the floor, who let you in? A toddler too short to reach the lock?
Okay, so how about—? Thankfully, just then he heard the sound of approaching sirens. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and drove off.

As he proceeded south, his thoughts turned to Saturday night. Less than forty-eight hours until the deadline. Two girls left, Emma 2 and Janie. The image from his cell screen continued to flash in his head. Chad and Britney in his daughter's bedroom.
In her bedroom
. Were they really there? Or was the picture on the screen Photoshopped for his benefit? He assumed they had Photoshop capabilities in hell. After all, it was hell. They could do pretty much whatever they wanted, because it had become clear the big guy in the corner office on the top floor wasn't going to intervene.

He crossed Florida Avenue and turned right on R Street. At that hour the 15
^th
Street intersection traffic light flashed red. He briefly slowed, but seeing no approaching cars from either direction on 15
^th
, continued through the intersection without stopping.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his right eye Tom saw a small, dark-blue car with no headlights barreling south on 15
^th
, heading straight for him. Instinctively, he cut the wheel hard left, swerving wildly, barely missing the blue car.

The Lexus spun out of control. Tom saw the streetlights swirling around him and for a moment his mind flashed back to his childhood, riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Maryland State Fair. Then he saw a steel-gray streetlight post flying directly toward him.

Then he saw nothing.

Then he saw a bright light. He squinted, and his vision gradually came into focus. An Asian guy in a white coat stepped back. Tom was in a hospital room. He could make out Zig and Eva standing behind the doctor.

“He's awake,” said Eva.

“Welcome back,” added Zig.

“Mr. Booker, you've suffered a concussion,” said the doctor. “We've found no broken bones, probably thanks to the airbags. You'll need to remain overnight for observation, but there's a good chance you can go home tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” His throat felt raspy.

Tom's memory returned quickly—LaRyn, 911, the blue car. “My car?”

“Totaled,” said Zig. “Saw the car. Doc's right. But for the airbags, Eva and I would be deciding the opening hymn for your
memorial service. I want you to know I would've insisted on giving the eulogy.”

Eva squeezed his hand. “God, Tom, what were you doing in that neighborhood that time of night?”

Tom faked wooziness, which wasn't at all that hard to do. “Memory's kind've blurry. Think I went to see a client. Only time she could see me.”

“LaRyn Walker,” said Eva. “Tech said you mentioned her name in the ambulance when you were fading in and out of consciousness.”

Great. Wondered if the subject of a poisoned tampon also happened to emerge
.

“Sorry, don't remember much now, but sure it'll come back to me.”

“When you saw Walker, was she okay?” asked Eva.

“Okay for a drunken druggie whore, I guess. Why?”

“She must've overdosed or something after you left. They were bringing her in the same time as when you arrived at the emergency entrance.”

“She all right?”

“She was alive when they carried her in.”

A perky nurse poked her head in the door. “Excuse me, folks, but Doc says we need to let the patient get some rest.”

“Just one more minute,” said Eva.

Tom saw her and Zig exchange glances. Something was up.

Zig squeezed his shoulder. “See you tomorrow. And remind me to buy stock in Toyota. That Lexus saved your life.” He waved, then exited, pulling the door closed behind him.

Tom could see concern on Eva's face, and he got the distinct impression it had nothing to do with his condition.

The gun
.

“Tom, the police on the scene found a gun, a Glock automatic pistol on the pavement under the car. They're assuming the gun came from the car and, as you know, possession of an unregistered
gun can be a felony in the District.” She was too smart to ask him if it was his gun.

“A gun?” His response was pitiful, no better than a teen confronted with an empty beer can found in the family Buick. Fortunately, his circumstances permitted him to cover his response with closed eyes, rocking head, confused expression, and slurred speech. The possibility of Eva buying his performance was slim, but not impossible.

“Fortunately, since the gun wasn't found on your person or in the car itself, possession is not cut and dried. But they did use a BlueCheck on you when you were in the ambulance.”

“What's a BlueCheck?”

“Portable fingerprint device. About the size of a cell phone. Most squad cars now carry them as part of their standard kit. We challenged their use when they first came out, but didn't get anywhere. So if your fingerprints were on the gun, they'll charge you. Even without fingerprints, they might still charge you.”

He attempted a repeat performance. “A gun?” Worse than the first time.