Once again, she heard the crunch of gravel, the hum of an engine. She looked to the side-view mirror, saw that a vehicle had pulled up behind Cross’s. He glanced toward it as if it were nothing, certainly not a threat. A collaborator, Layla guessed. Could it be—
“I’m going to have to ask you to step out of your vehicle, Ms. Shawn.”
Ms. Shawn. What else did he know about her?
Layla pushed this thought aside, tried to stay focused. “You can have the money. Just—”
He pulled a gun from his back pocket, held it loose at his side. “Step out of your vehicle. Please.”
The sight of his gun made hers feel useless, just something for her trembling hand to grip onto. She’d be dead before she could fire on him, but the alternative—
“Please.”
Layla couldn’t move. She stared at his throat, just above the collar of his dress shirt, pale blue and crisp. As she stared, the same scene came back to her: her mother running through the woods, Cross closing the distance.
Kill him.
She withdrew her gun, and he raised his. Now, she was staring down the barrel.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
From behind, a car door opened, slammed shut. Then a loud crack split the air. Layla flinched then ducked, not before Cross’s throat exploded.
Head low, heart pounding, she listened to the gargle and rasp of his breaths. Then she detected a second sound, from behind: a mournful female voice singing a song she hadn’t heard for years. “Memory,” from Cats.
Some kind of sick coincidence? Her mind spun, confused.
Layla tried to make out other sounds behind her: a car door opening then closing, footsteps on gravel, the pop of a trunk—Cross’s—and what seemed to be a struggle to get something into it. The trunk slammed shut, then the footsteps drew closer. With a trembling hand, she slipped the gun back into her pocket but kept hold of it. Then, slowly, she rose up and looked in the side-view mirror.
It was Wes, gun at his side.
He circled around the back of the truck, smiling all the while. As if they were old friends who’d encountered each other in an unexpected place. When he arrived at the passenger’s side window, he knocked it lightly. Layla lowered it, not ready for another conflict, not yet. Wes, a head or so taller than Cross, had to duck to look her in the eye.
“I’m sorry you had to be in the middle of that. I just couldn’t let him do you any harm.”
Bewildered and still shaking from the gunshot, Layla couldn’t speak. Was it possible that Wes had been looking after her, following some death-bed orders from Bette? But that didn’t make sense. Why would he have lied to Bette about killing Cross?
Wes put his gun-free hand to the window ledge, as if to steady himself. A black-gloved hand. With this and his blazer and Oxford, he looked exactly like the hired killer he was.
“I was hoping this music would make things a little easier for you,” he said. “Take a bit of the edge off.”
It was doing the opposite. Layla squared her shoulders, trying to look less unnerved than she was. But she couldn’t keep the quaver from her voice. “I thought you got rid of him days ago.”
Again, Wes smiled. “Things just didn’t work out.”
Part of Layla wanted to stop pressing him, just be grateful that Cross was gone—finally and certainly. But she couldn’t help herself. “Then why’d you tell Bette you did?”
A flicker of impatience showed in his eyes. “I’ll explain everything in time.”
In time? What was he thinking, planning? She needed to cut him right off.
“You know I’ve got a job to do. So, if we could move that thing out of the way—” She nodded toward the security gate—“I’ll get right to it.”
It seemed that Cross—or Wes—had picked a barrier that could be easily maneuvered. Although the gate was metal, and nearly as tall as she was, it was basically an accordion on wheels: something that could be collapsed and pushed aside.
Wes stared at her blankly, as if he hadn’t really heard her. Or maybe he needed to be assured about what she wasn’t going to do.
“I’m not going to say anything to anyone about what happened here, okay? I wanted the bastard dead as much as you did. More.”
Still the blank look. Beyond it, the rising strains of “Memory” were sending the same old chills through her, not good ones. He wasn’t going to let her go anywhere.
“We owe this to Jake and Marla and Bette, right? And Vic.”
Wes’s blank look turned to a sneer. “Oh, no, no, no. I don’t owe that betrayer a damn thing, not anymore.”
He seemed to register Layla’s confusion. “He got rid of someone close to me, like it was nothing. Like he was just putting out the trash.”
“I’m so sorry,” Layla said, but she wasn’t surprised.
Wes’s expression softened, bordering on a smile. “I knew you would be, Dear Heart.”
Dear Heart.
As the singer reached her pinnacle, wailing out her words of longing, a sourness rose from Layla’s stomach. She pictured the postcard of the Playbill from Cats, and the other musical-related trinkets.
“Layla? What’s wrong?”
She put a hand to her mouth, swallowed the sourness. No longer able to look him in the eye, she stared at the gate, which now felt like a trap. One she’d never be free of.
“You sent me those packages, didn’t you?”
He stayed silent and still, as if taking in her words. Then he opened the passenger door.
Fuck.
Usually, she locked doors on instinct, but fear had distracted her. Now, he was sitting beside her, even taller and broader than he’d appeared from outside. He brought with him a tension, a slight gravitational pull, and she leaned away from it.
“I’ve always had a passion for art, Layla, and for capturing things as I see them, or want to see them, in drawings, paintings. And let’s just say there aren’t many people who can relate to this side of me, not in my particular social circle.” He spoke with a soft, measured voice, as if she were a child needing soothing.
“When I learned you were an artist, I had a feeling there’d be a connection between us. And when I checked out your art, I was absolutely blown away. Really. So, I said to myself, ‘Don’t be shy, Wes. Just reach out to her. What do you have to lose?’”
From the corner of her eye, Layla sensed the gun in his hand, in his lap, and wondered whether anyone had heard it fire. Probably not Leos, who was too far from this location. But wouldn’t he have security cameras all over the place?
Then again, maybe he was in on this with Wes. But, somehow, that didn’t make sense.
Wes leaned closer. “I imagined we’d have so much to talk about, Layla. If given the chance. And here we are.”
She wasn’t done with the subject of the packages. “Why’d you send that stuff anonymously?”
From behind—from Wes’s vehicle, not Cross’s—another musical number had started up: “Every Day a Little Death.” Another lone feminine voice, sweetness turned to perversion.
“Honestly? Cowardice, fear of consequences. I just hope you know I’m—” He paused, as if uncertain of his words. “—I’m not proud of hiding like that. I never meant to frighten you.”
Bullshit.
Layla thought of bringing up the text messages but worried that would stir up more trouble. Just play nice. Just keep the conversation going for as long as you can, until you can figure something out. Like what?
“You added that tree to my painting. Why?” She was genuinely curious.
For a moment, he just stared at her. “You didn’t recognize it?”
“No. Why should I?”
He laughed, as if she’d missed something obvious, something that everyone but her took for granted. “It’s the most distinctive tree in Ro
ss Woods. Your painting didn’t feel complete without it.”
She remembered the details from the photo: how the tree bent this way and that, like her grandpa’s arthritic hands.
Wes lowered his voice, nearly to a whisper. “I call it my misfit, my beautiful misfit. Fitting, huh?”
He leaned even closer, freezing Layla. All she could do was nod.
“Your mom thought so, too.”
Your mom. He had no business saying those words. He had no business knowing any of her mother’s thoughts. Layla wondered whether this was another deception, another cruel trick.
“You knew her?”
“Every so often, I went to the diner where she worked. We exchanged words a few times.”
“And that tree just happened to come up?”
“She loved those woods, Layla. As much as I do, as much as you do. We’d talk about its possibilities for artists—including that tree.”
Layla didn’t love Ross Woods. To the contrary. And pushing that feeling on her mom was presumptuous—no, worse, given what had happened to her. Layla felt anger rising in her, and she couldn’t fight it.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see her making small talk about—” Layla struggled to find the right words. “—about something so personal.”
Even back in art school, Layla didn’t like to talk about anything in the outside world, or anything in her mind, that she felt driven to respond to on a sketchpad or canvas. She couldn’t imagine her mom having that kind of conversation with a near-stranger, especially one who worked for Vic.
“It wasn’t small talk, Layla.” He drew so close she felt his breath in her ear. “In fact, let’s not call it ‘talk’ at all. Let’s say it was as if I could see her at work with her pencil and paper, making her truth of that tree. Her specific, beautiful truth.”
Layla was back in the woods with her mother, who wasn’t walking or running but sitting cross-legged on the leaves, looking back and forth between her sketchpad and the twisted tree, getting down lines, shades, shadows.
A rustle of footsteps behind her. Then his breath in her ear.
Layla shoved him away, far enough that she could look him in the eye.
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
Not a hint of surprise in his eyes. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, faked disappointment or sympathy. “I know her loss has been difficult for you, Layla. I know it’s hard for you to accept that she took her own—”
“You don’t know one fucking thing. About me, or her.” She took a chance at a hopeless request: “But if you have one shred of a soul left in you, you’ll let me go. You’ll let me do what I promised I’d do.”
As he leaned toward her, his gun came with him, so casually the move barely seemed intentional. Though his hold on it remained loose, the barrel pointed right at her lap.
“The plans have changed, I’m afraid.” His soothing tone was gone, replaced by a flat matter-of-factness. “We’re going on a bit of an adventure. Together.”
Adventure. The word conjured the mystery of her mother’s final moments: everything Layla’s painting of it couldn’t include. She pictured a stretch of desert in the middle of nowhere: the future site of her own final moments, unless she could kill him first.
Not in the truck. Here, she didn’t stand a chance. She needed more room to maneuver, and she needed to stay as calm as possible.
“Then we need to move the gate, right?”
He kept silent, as if thinking something through. “Take the keys,” he said. “Then get out of the truck, and put your hands where I can see them.”
He knew she had a gun. Or he wasn’t taking any chances.
Layla shut off the ignition and took the keys. As soon as she touched the door handle, she froze. She’d have to step over Cross.
“Go on.”
She opened the door, found a spot clear of Cross. Then, slowly, she stepped down from the truck, nauseated by the sight of his exploded throat, blood soaking the gravel beneath it. She put a fist to her mouth, stifling a gag, worried her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“Hands up!” he said, pointing the gun right at her. She did as told, her heart hammering. “Now go to the gate.”
As she started for it, he stayed close on her trail, climbing over the console then down from her side, keeping the gun trained on her.
When they reached the gate, he ordered her to collapse it, just as she’d envisioned.
“Now walk to the back of the truck.”
She got moving, again with him close behind her. When they reached the truck bed, he nodded to the cover. “Open it.”
She glanced to the gun. “Can’t you put that away?” He just stared at her. “I mean, do I really look like some kind of threat?”
“No,” he said, flashing a smile. “You’re a vision. Exactly like your mother.”
You fucking creep.
From his vehicle, another song started up: a kick-up-the-heels Broadway tune, one she didn’t recognize.
“Listen,” she said. “Things are going to go a whole lot better if I’m less stressed out.” She hated the appeasing sound of those words, and the meaning he must be taking from things. “So, please put the gun away.”
Still staring her down, he slid the gun into the holster. Once again, he nodded to the cover on the truck bed. “Open it. And get the money.”
As she unlocked the cover, his body was her shadow, weighted with malevolence. She felt his breath on her neck, then his hand on her back. She stepped away from both and started unrolling the cover. Then she retrieved the briefcases and set them at his feet.
“Here’s the code you need to open them.” She held out the slip of paper Leos had given her.
He took it, brushing his fingers over her knuckles as he did, never taking his eyes from her.
He slipped the paper into his back pocket, as if it were nothing more than a dollar bill.
“Don’t you want to check the contents?”
It might be her only chance to pull the gun, which wasn’t at all certain now. During her practice session at the motel, she hadn’t imagined her hands would be shaking this hard.
“No,” he said. “I trust you.” He moved his hand toward the holster, suggesting the opposite. “I trust you so much, I’m going to have you take two of these to the car.”
He glanced to the briefcases and waited for her to retrieve two of them. Then he took the third with his free hand.
“Which car?”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “That one.” He nodded to the car right behind them. The white car.
Layla realized that the car was his as much as Cross’s. The whole time it had trailed her and Bette, Wes had been the second man: a partner in a plan that had led him and Cross here. Until, with a gunshot, Wes made it a solo mission.
“Go on,” he said, jerking his head toward the car. Clearly, he wanted her out in front of him.
When they reached the car, he opened the door behind the driver’s seat. “Put them there.”
As she lifted the first case to the back seat, she glanced at the vehicle Wes had come in, still playing show tunes through an open window. Low-slung and black like a hearse, it added images to the sounds she’d heard while ducked down in the truck: Wes dragging a body from that car to this one, then shoving it into the trunk.
She stacked the second case onto the first, sorry to lose the anchor of them. Her hands were shaking even harder now.
He tossed his own case into the car and shut the door. Then, he hooked an arm under hers and pulled her to the driver’s side, opened the door.
Keep him talking. Keep him distracted.
“I never learned what kind of art you like. Do you have any favorites?”
A darkness passed over his features, as if he knew exactly what she was doing. “I don’t bel
ieve in favorites, when it comes to art. But I’m quite a fan of Egon Schiele. His female nudes especially.”
Layla doubted he saw in those nudes what she always had: a tough fuck-off-ness she wished she could tap into now.
“We can continue the discussion in the car.”
What else? Think of something else.
“Go on. Get in.” She stared into the car, with its conversation-heart smell of air freshener, an open can of pop in the cupholder, balled-up food wrappers on the floor. “Get in!”
No. If she did, she’d never get out.
Once again, she sensed him reaching for the gun.
“Please don’t.”
“Then get in!”
He let go of her arm and took the key fob from his pocket. Seconds later, the engine kicked in: auto-start.
“Listen,” she said, clutching her stomach. “I’m going to be sick. I don’t think you want me doing that in your car.”
“Oh, Layla, please.”
“I mean it.” It was on the edge of being true.
“Don’t you know that’s the oldest trick in the book?”
How many other women had he forced to resort to tricks? And how many times had he just walked away afterward, free of consequences, and quite possibly even emboldened?
Anger, fear, fatigue, the heat, the sense that her end was inevitable—they were leaving her light-headed, faint. Fight it, she thought. Then, Why?
Blackness rolled in, feeling like a kind of mercy. She slumped against the door frame then dropped into a waking dream, a dream in which she had all the time in the world—the world as she remembered it. It flew by in fragments.
She saw her old bedroom in darkness.
She saw the owl lamp, glowing.
She saw her grandma in sunlight, smiling.
You have to promise you’ll stay this time. Stay, Sara, please.
Alice’s voice brought her back to the surface, to the smell and weight of him, closer than ever. All she could do was speak for her mom:
“You killed her, you killed her, you killed her!”
He clasped a hand to her mouth, brought his face close to hers. Close enough for her to smell the musk of his skin, his souring sweat. His eyes had turned as dull as his voice.
I Mean You No Harm Page 18
