by Alan Lee
She didn’t believe him, he realized. She thought he was just bragging with empty words. The loss of her gaze felt like the loss of the sun. His skin felt cold. Her toe was gone.
He’d been humming and laughing to himself but it stopped. Anger and grief intermingled in his mouth.
“Yes, Daisy, I…I do worse than hurt the girls.”
Her eyes swiveled back. “You do.”
“Oh yes. Look at me, Daisy. Do you not see a man of strength?”
“You look like a man who can do anything he wants.”
“I am.”
“What do you do, Peter? With your girls. The ones who anger you.”
“I already told you.”
She inclined her body toward him again. The closer she got, the more energized he became, like solar power.
“I didn’t catch it. Tell me again.”
“No. But I’ll tell you something else. I have a field.”
“You have a field?” she said.
“Yes.”
“At your house?”
“Beyond the stable.” Humming and giggling again.
“And?”
“You’re asking second date questions, Daisy.”
“What about the field?”
“Nope. That’s all you get. Use your imagination about the field.” He speared a flake of fish and dipped it into the squash purée. Held it out for her. “Now. Open up.”
Lewis said, “Ms. Hathaway’s…she’s eating food off his fork. He’s feeding her.”
His comment earned a second glance from the couple hurrying by with bags from the Getty Mart.
“He’s feeding her? Oh damn,” said Murray in his ear.
Hathaway said, “I need to use the lady’s room, Peter. And then I’d like to go.”
“Oh would you.”
“The wine’s gone to my head.”
A slow nod. “I understand. I understand you perfectly.”
She checked her phone. Dropped the napkin over it again. Stood and walked across the restaurant.
He watched her go. So did the others nearby and Lynch enjoyed a fantasy of sliding his butter knife into their retinas. Don’t look at my date.
As soon as Daisy was in the restroom, he snapped off her napkin. Picked up her phone.
The device was several generations old, cradled in a pink case. It wasn’t locked and she had no new notifications. Her background appeared to be a song lyric. I miss me more - Kelsea Ballerini.
There might be time to read her messages. Discover if she harbored any from Daniel Jennings. His thumb hovered over the iMessage app.
A bright icon in the top left corner caught his attention. The icon was a red microphone. He knew that microphone, saw it on his own screen occasionally. He used it in depositions.
Lynch felt the stirrings of anger again. His constant companion.
He pressed the icon and the Voice Memos app opened and so did the truth.
Daisy was recording their conversation. So far, forty-four minutes.
He rose in a rush, bumping the table. Red at the edges of his vision. Teeth grinding. He grabbed his chair, ready to hoist it as a club.
But. No. No no no.
Not here. Not like this. People were staring at him. Too many witnesses, he would lose. Would lose his daughter.
Air rattled through his nasal passages and filled his great lungs. Released. Then another breath. In his head his father was berating him.
You want to go to prison? Over that girl?
I risk my neck for you one more time, I’m done. Hear me?
Lynch lowered again. He needed to be analytical. Logical. Ignore the rage, think through the facts. Forget the panic. That’s what he felt, panic.
He stared at her empty seat. Her fork. Her glass of wine. The imprints of her lips on the rim. The dregs of chardonnay. The wine she loved.
He missed her toe playing with his leg.
Daisy wouldn’t betray him. He offered her everything.
He didn’t even know why she was recording him. Hell, he recorded people all the time. He took depositions for a living. She could be playing it safe, and that was all.
Yes. Playing it safe. She was worried to be with him, and who could blame her. Her body was so little compared to his.
She’d been enthralled. Gazing at him, encouraging him. She glowed, filled him with rapture. She’d taken innocent precautions, that’s all.
But even so. Evidence was evidence.
Lynch picked up her glass of water and poured a splash onto her phone. Waited. Nothing happened. Poured more into the charging port.
Water resistant.
He picked the phone up and squeezed. Powerful hand bunching. The metal compressed and the plastic case cracked. Water droplets found the straining seams and drained into the phone, into the electronics within…
The device blinked off. The acrid smell of fried circuits reached his nose. It was dead.
Lynch didn’t smile. Instead he pursed his lips and laid her napkin over the ruined phone. He withdrew his own device. Pressed record and returned it to his pants.
Despite her beauty and enthusiasm and vigor, Daisy had to learn.
He raised his hand to call for their waitress.
“Take some of this away.” He indicated the food.
“All done, sir?”
“We are. And bring the check.”
“Of course, sir.”
The waitress reached for the plates, potatoes and fish only half eaten. Instead, Lynch picked up Daisy’s water glass and presented it, forcing her to take it, but he fumbled the handoff.
The glass hit the table on its bottom edge and water spouted across their dishes. Across her napkin and phone.
“Oh! Sir! I’m so sorry.”
Lynch stood and shook water off his hands.
“Clean up your mess,” he muttered, “you bitch.”
“Looks like Ms. Hathaway went to the restroom,” Craig said over the speaker.
Jennings’ head rested on the steering wheel and he nodded to himself. He was staring down at his lap and at the bright phone. Impatiently waiting. He’d been in the position for a lifetime. Wondering what Lynch and Hathaway were talking about. Doubting this would ever work. Praying. Doubting some more.
And then something unexpected happened.
Hathaway’s dot vanished from the map.
33
Alone in the bathroom, Hathaway smothered a sob into her elbow. She’d already thrown up once and refused to do it again. Elbow across her mouth, staring at her reflection in the mirror, waiting for the pallor to pass. Waiting to stop shaking and sweating.
Deep breaths. It was almost over. Did she have enough strength? Did she have enough evidence? Lynch had blurted a lot. She’d left her phone, hoping he’d mumble confessions to himself.
Hathaway washed her hands a third time. She wanted to wash her feet and brush her teeth too.
She’d rather do anything than go back out there. Than keep smiling at that….at that…madman.
I do worse than hurt the girls.
Do as you’re told and it’ll always be delicious.
I have a field. Beyond the stable.
A field? What on EARTH did that mean?
Her stomach roiled again.
No. I can do this. I can do this for the girls he’ll hurt. I can do this for Daniel. For me.
She fastened one of the buttons of her shirt. Then another. She was exhausted, worn down by Lynch’s eyes and innuendo. Disgusted with herself and her smiles. For letting him feed her. For playing footsie. Felt like she’d run a marathon. She needed less skin showing now, needed him to cool off before she got into his car.
Okay. Here we go.
She crossed herself, something she hadn’t done since high school.
Give me strength.
She emerged to find Lynch and the waitress mopping up their table. The woman apologizing, near tears, the other patrons staring.
“She spilled water everywhere,” groused Lynch
. “Our check is paid. We’re getting the hell out and we aren’t coming back.”
“Sure.” Feeling numb, Hathaway nodded. “I’m ready.”
She reached by the waitress for her phone. Picked it up and water trickled…
Oh no.
“Is it wet? Better leave it turned off, Daisy,” said Lynch. “If there’s water inside, it’ll short-circuit. Leave it off and dry it before trying.”
But Daisy couldn’t help herself. The phone was her lifeline, the only thing keeping her buoyant. She had to know. She pressed the button but nothing happened.
No no.
Again. Pressed it again and again. But the device was cooked.
“See what you did.” Lynch said it in a low snarl. “You ruined her phone.”
The waitress, “Sir, I’m so sorry.”
Fear and frustration ate her courage away and Hathaway felt weak. She had nothing. No recording, no evidence, no proof he hurt women.
Lynch gripped her upper arm. Steered her toward the side door, closest to his car. His voice hot near her ear.
“Daisy, I have several unopened phones at my office. You can take your pick. We aren’t using them. I’m taking you there now. You get a phone and I get…whatever I like.”
She said, “No that’s okay,” or she thought she did but maybe nothing came out.
She was propelled across the restaurant and into the cold before she knew it.
Lewis’ teeth stopped chattering. “Something is happening.”
“Craig, Daisy’s gone from my map.”
“Mine too,” said Murray.
Lewis pressed himself against the brick to peer into the corner of Bloom. “Mr. Lynch is berating the waitress. There’s been a spill or…I can’t be sure. Something happened. Here comes Ms. Hathaway back from the restroom.”
Jennings cursed. Said, “Without that dot, I think we need two cars tailing her. I’m en route. ETA five minutes.”
“Mr. Lynch is furious. Poor Daisy looks wiped out.”
Murray grunted. “I would be too.”
“Lynch is taking her…oh dear, is he taking her back to the restroom?”
“Find out,” said Jennings.
“I am.”
“If they both go into the restroom, you go too.”
"I’m moving for a better view. He’s…no, the date must be over. They left, went out the side.”
“Damn it.”
Lewis ran stiffly to the corner of Bloom and peeked around. After staring into the bright restaurant, his night vision was ruined. He searched the alley and said, “I don’t see them.”
“Where the hell is her dot?” said Jennings.
Movement near the Getty Mart. Found them, the hurrying couple.
“There!” Lewis’ harsh whisper. “I see her. Almost to his car.”
“Roger that. Keep your eyes on that Jaguar.”
“She’s getting in,” said Lewis.
“Murray, ready to follow?”
“Bet your ass.”
Lewis crept down the sidewalk, shivering, watching. The Jaguar’s engine roared to life.
“They’re leaving. Mr. Lynch is pulling out from his parking spot on the street. He’s reversing. He’s…no, what’s he doing? He’s…oh dear.”
“What? Details, Craig.”
“He’s making an illegal u-turn.”
“Driving west?’
“Which way is—”
“Driving away from Main Street?” said Jennings.
“Yes!”
Murray shouting, “She still ain’t on my damn map!”
“Move your butt, Coach, double-time.” Jennings driving and giving orders over the phone, watching the map in his mind. “Get behind them before they reach 10th Street.”
“I can’t! I was parked to turn right onto Main, turn onto Wasena! There’s a light and there’s traffic. Gimme a sec.”
“We don’t have seconds. Daisy’s in the car with a sociopath and we’re about to lose her. Force the issue.”
“I’m trying!”
Jennings sounding calm. “Craig, you chasing her?”
“I’m chasing!” The sound of his frantic breathing distorted their call. “I’m chasing! Trying to get my gun!”
Jennings ran the red light at Grandin, racing by Patrick Henry High School, accelerating through seventy in a thirty-five. But he was too far.
The con had failed.
Daisy held the dead phone. Speechless. Watching Lynch make a u-turn, away from Lewis, away from Murray. Lynch was driving angry.
She understood her life balanced on a knife.
The Jaguar reached 10th and turned right without slowing. She fumbled in her purse for the can of mace but her fingers weren’t working. Sending no haptic feedback. She had to get out.
Had to get out of his car right NOW.
“Mr. Lynch, where are we going?”
No response.
She placed a hand on his arm. “Peter?”
“I’m taking you to my office. The scenic route.”
His office. Late on a Sunday night. She might not come out whole.
“Do you think…” Her voice failed her and she tried again. “This street has shadows.”
“So it does.”
“Let’s park,” she said.
His foot came off the accelerator.
“Park?”
“You know.” She forced another smile, trying for lecherous, feeling like a sick fraud. “Park. With you and me in the backseat.”
“Right now. In the backseat.”
“Why not?”
Lynch pulled over near the Winchester intersection. Two blocks from Bloom, the Jaguar parked beside a privacy row of hedges. 10th was a side street, none of the houses facing them. He twisted to regard her.
His mouth was bleeding into his beard. Like he’d gorged on a living animal. She did her best not to scream.
“Daisy Hathaway. You’re a slut.”
“Could be fun. Just a few minutes?”
“In the backseat. You need it now,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Not exactly romantic, Daisy. But romance is for the weak.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and set it in the cup holder between them. Opened his driver door and got out.
The cabin light came on and she opened her purse. Peered inside. Rooted with her hand.
There, the mace, thank God. Her fingers were shaking. She gripped it but her thumb refused to push off the safety.
Her door opened. Lynch offered his hand. His hairy hand.
“Looking for a condom?” He was giggling again. The sound revolted her. “I don’t do romance and I don’t do condoms.”
He pulled her out and she lost the mace.
She gulped the cold air. Couldn’t get enough. He tried to kiss her but she ducked her head. His fur was everywhere. She couldn’t see past it.
“So nervous, little girl.” He opened the back door. Pushed her down.
“Let’s walk first.”
“Get in now.”
“Peter—”
“Do as you’re told.”
“Walk. Then the backseat.”
He shoved her head down under the car’s roof and suddenly they were both in the backseat. Daisy scooting backward on her elbows, him crawling over her on all fours like a bear.
She had the absurd notion that she was living through a movie scene where the heroine was raped. She’d watched enough, casually assuming they’d never happen to her.
She was pinned. Hard to breathe.
“No!” A half cry, the sound barely escaping the car.
“Yes Daisy.”
He fumbled at her shirt and she gripped his beard with both hands. Black tufts between her knuckles. She screamed and pulled.
Great chunks of hair ripped out both cheeks. She came away with two fistfuls, and Lynch with fleshy bare spots.
He howled and reared up. His large head clunked against the roof and he fell out of the backseat, his butt landing on the curb.
“No no no, wicked girl.” Lynch getting to his feet again, his vision blurry with crimson, pain radiating like lightning down his neck, exciting him. “That hurt, Daisy. Wonder how you’d feel with hooks through your ears, dangling from them.”
He grabbed her ankle and her high-heeled shoe came off. She kicked at him, hyperventilating.
A massive blast of sound stunned Lynch. Enormously loud in the quiet street, the clapback ricocheting off brick houses. Lynch froze but Hathaway didn’t, her desperation to escape creating a myopia.
The hell was that? Lynch frowned. There shouldn’t be walkers this late, this cold.
The sound again and the back window of the Jaguar splintered. Cracks starburst from a puncture wound, and Lynch understood he was being shot at.
“Hey! Hey stop!” Someone shouting.
They’d been spotted. Lynch forgot Hathaway and lumbered around his front bumper, faster than he’d moved in years. He couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be recognized. His lust frenzy was obliterated by the gunfire, by a sudden focus on survival.
Hathaway spilled headfirst onto the cold blacktop, glass tinkling.
Heavily Lynch dropped behind the wheel. He stomped the gas and the sports car surged, the tire inches from Hathaway’s face, and both rear doors slammed shut.
“Bullshit,” said Lynch, fighting for control. Fleeing.
Go. Gooooo!
The spider-webbed rear windshield was opaque. He peered into the sideview. Saw Daisy on her stomach, holding pieces of his face.
Saw a figure running. The shooter. A dark figure waving a pistol.
The figure passed under a streetlight and in that instant, as Lynch turned onto Winchester and out of sight, he recognized the former lover of his brother, the gay teacher from his Academy, Mr. Lewis.
34
Byron Horton clomped up the basement stairs, yawning. He reached the kitchen and stopped as if struck. Hathaway and four men stared at him, frustration evident.
He pulled the video game headset off his ears.
“What’s going on?”
