by Greta Boris
Footsteps crossed the garage, growing louder, coming toward her. A man's footsteps, but only one. Abby widened her stance and braced herself, both hands gripping the large cardboard box.
A key scraped in the keyhole. She watched as the knob turned. The door swung open and Seb Skandalis stood on the other side. A look of surprise flashed across his face. Abby launched the laundry soap into his wide eyes.
He screamed and covered his face with his hands. Abby dropped the box, and as she did a plastic bag tumbled to the floor. Through white soap film, she saw the dark green of a passport booklet.
She bent, grabbed it, and bolted around Skandalis all in one movement. She had one foot across the threshold when a vise closed around her left arm. She jerked to a stop, like a dog snapped by its leash. Seb's eyes, slits streaming with tears, glared at her from a powdered face.
Abby's pulse thundered in her ears. A clean, chilly breeze blew through the open door. She could feel freedom. The cross burned against her thigh. She'd put it into her front pocket without thinking when she picked up the box of laundry soap. It was a small weapon, but if she was close enough. . . She allowed Skandalis to draw her toward him. "You're going to pay for that girl."
She kept her eyes locked on his, and slipped the cross from her pocket. "I wasn't going to take a turn with you. Just going to let the boys have you," he said. Abby anchored the crossbar of the talisman into the palm of her hand and slid the longer end between two fingers so it protruded from her fist. "You're kind of old for me, but, hell. I think I just changed my mind." His voice was filled not with lust, but rage. She shivered. He pulled her closer.
She was so close now the lavender scented detergent bit into her nostrils. Each piece of stubble on his chin stood out in powdered relief. He opened his mouth to speak again, its interior unnaturally red against the paleness of his soapy skin. She didn't want to hear what he had to say.
A breath of wind, of freedom, beckoned her from outside the open garage door. Her arm arced through space. The cross hit something solid, stopped for a split second, then sank into softness.
He didn't scream. His mouth opened wide, but no sound emerged. He loosened the grip on her arm. She yanked the cross free, bringing blood and tissue with it. Seb sank to his knees, hands pressed to his injured eye, or what had once been an eye. Abby ran from the garage, leaving drops of blood behind her like breadcrumbs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1:35 PM
The Wife
I PARKED SEVEN spaces from the box where one buys metered time. I counted the bills in my purse. I'd liquidated my checking account the day before. From now on I'd be using cash.
I bought a ticket for two hours and placed it on the dash. The longer it took for the police to find Abby's vehicle the better. I exited the car, locked it with the key fob, snapped off the latex gloves I’d been wearing and faced the ocean. A gentle breeze brushed my cheek, and the afternoon sun warmed my shoulders. It was a beautiful Southern California day. The kind of day I read about when Tarik and I were discussing the move to America.
To the right was the San Clemente train stop, to the left a walking path leading to the pier. I turned left, stopped at the third trash can I came to, threw away the gloves, then continued on. The path paralleled the beach and the train tracks. I'd come here many times with Tarik when we first arrived. We'd walk along the shore and talk about our plans, this new adventure we'd embarked on.
I'd been happy in Egypt for many years, but as I got older, the limitations placed on women began to chafe. I'd married Tarik willingly, although my parents had arranged the marriage. He was handsome, and I was young enough to be taken by a pretty face.
I was more intelligent than he was. I knew that immediately. But even that was part of his charm. It made him easier to control. Many of my friends' lives were greatly restricted by their husbands. I learned to twist Tarik around my little finger early in our relationship.
Then Tarik lost his business, and I was overlooked for a promotion to principal yet again. The time seemed right for a move. Tarik applied and was hired by the California division of a company he'd worked with in Cairo.
We never mentioned his disastrous business decisions, the ones that had preceded the move, or the teaching career I'd left behind, when we walked this path. We only discussed the wonderful advantages for ourselves and our sons that were ahead of us.
The sun sparkled on the water then, an ocean of diamonds just waiting to be plucked up. It looked the same today, but my perspective had changed. Today I saw it for what it was—a landscape of cheap imitations. California was the land of empty promises and fool's gold.
The clanging of a warning bell drowned out my thoughts. I stopped as the traffic barrier came down across the tracks, and the metro roared past.
I imagined Abby on that train—that's what I hoped the police would believe anyway. Abby, realizing she and her father were found out, had run. She had nothing left to lose, so she parked her car and headed south. Most likely she was in Mexico, maybe her boyfriend Carlos would join her in time.
It seemed believable enough. More believable than what was about to happen to her. She was close to thirty. Women weren't molded into prostitutes at her age. They were too opinionated, too hard to train, too old to look at. But Abby had a waif-like way about her, a passive, shy personality. She seemed much younger than she was.
Seb didn't normally traffic in that kind of product, he'd told me, preferring to bring in young girls for domestic purposes. It was more humane. But he knew people. And the people he knew weren't humane, nor were they all that particular. They believed they could get their money's worth from Abby, even if she wasn't in the business for long.
I didn't like to think about it. Especially not on such a beautiful day. Especially not on one of my last days in America. I'd purchased tickets to Egypt for the children and myself. We would leave in two days. My cousin would handle the sale of our home and furnishings. We would make a clean break.
I hiked up a long footbridge. At its top the ocean unfurled before me like a map. I could see the pier jutting out into the blue. A child on a bike whizzed past me, followed by a woman about Abby's age pushing a stroller. A pang of sympathy gripped me. Abby would never become a mother. Would never push a stroller along the beach on a lovely day.
But I tossed the thought away and let the wind take it wherever it would. It was a shame, but I had to think about my children. About Michael and Simo. I had no other choice.
The path wended its way down to the beach. There were more people here. Volleyball players punted and threw themselves on the sand reaching for the ball. Two surfers, sheathed in black wetsuits, carried boards on their shoulders. A lone man, baseball cap pulled low, sat in a beach chair reading.
When I reached the pier, I made a right into the more casual side of the Fisherman's restaurant. It wasn't crowded at this time of day. Too late for lunch and too early for dinner. There were several empty tables in the outdoor seating area. A young waitress with hair the color and texture of straw led me to one.
"My friend should be here soon, but I'll have a glass of Chardonnay while I wait," I said. She placed menus on the table and walked away. Wine—another bad habit acquired in America. I never drank in Egypt. My parents didn't approve of drinking. It wasn't until we'd come to California and I attended Tarik's business parties that I'd started drinking. I planned to stop when I got home, but today I needed a glass of wine.
The server returned, stemware dripping with moisture and filled with pale gold liquid in her hand. "My friend is one of those people who'll be late to her own funeral." I plastered an expression of mock alarm on my face. "But don't tell her I said that when she gets here. Please."
The straw-haired girl laughed. "Sounds like most of my friends."
I wanted to establish a rapport with my waitress. Create a story she might remember, just in case the police were curious about how I spent my time the day Abby Travers disappeared.
I sipped my wine and watched a seagull dive into the surf.
Fifteen minutes later, the server returned. "Still waiting?"
"I think she must have forgotten our date," I said in an irritated voice. "It wouldn't be the first time." I pulled my purse into my lap.
"Would you like the check?"
"Yes, please."
After the girl left, I took out my phone and typed in the number for the cab company I'd found before I left the house. They told me they had a driver close. He'd arrive within ten minutes. Good. I'd been hot and sweaty from the walk when I'd first sat, but was cold now. The ocean wind blew through my damp clothes, fondling my skin with icy fingers. I pulled Abby's keys from my purse, leaned over the railing, and dropped them. As they disappeared into the foaming sea, I had a mild attack of vertigo. I looked away.
I gulped the rest of my wine, its warmth steadied me. Maybe this one American habit would follow me home after all. My parents didn't need to know. I shook my head, and laughed under my breath. There were many things about my time in this country they didn't need to know. Wine was least of them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 2:10
IT WAS BEAUTIFUL outside. One of those sunny Southern California days responsible for its inflated property prices. Not a good day to die. Abby tried to jog across the lawn, but a pain in her hip slowed her. Skandalis had handled her roughly, and she'd returned the favor.
But she had to get away before he recovered enough to come after her, or call for help. Her phone was gone, and her car wasn't where she'd left it. She stood in front of the Basara family's house staring dumbly at the black tire track she'd made on the curb. Skandalis had told Leena to get rid of it, and she had.
His associates would be there soon, and this thought made her blood race. She scanned the street, expecting to see a group of thugs loping toward her with guns drawn. She needed help.
There were only a couple of cars on the street. Either no one was home, or their vehicles were parked in their large, three-car garages. An old Cadillac sat in the driveway of the house directly across the wide cul-de-sac.
Abby hurried across and knocked. The door remained closed for several horrible moments. Then she heard muffled footsteps and the click of a lock. The door opened only as far as a safety chain would allow. An elderly woman with a pink scalp covered here and there by wisps of cotton candy hair narrowed pale blue eyes at Abby. "Yes?" Her voice wasn't friendly.
"I need your help. Please, can I use your phone? I have to call the police." The woman looked down the length of Abby, her eyes widened, and the door slammed shut. "Wait." Abby leaped forward to hold it open, but she was too late. "Please." She slapped the wood with her palm.
"Go away, or I'll call the police." The woman's voice was faint through the heavy oak.
"Call the police, please. Call them, but don't leave me out here. I'm in danger. There's a man. . ."
"What man?"
"A man, at the Basara house. He kidnapped me."
"A man at the Basaras." She sounded worried.
"Yes. Please let me in. He might come out at any moment."
"Could it be the same man who shot poor Tarik on Saturday?"
"Yes, yes, that's exactly who it is. He shot Tarik, and he wants to shoot me." This wasn't exactly true, but the truth seemed too difficult to explain at the moment.
"I'm calling the police." Abby heard the woman's footsteps fade as she moved deeper into the house.
"No," Abby screamed. "Let me in first. There isn't time." She beat on the door with her fists. The cross dug into her palm with each blow. She threw her shoulder into the door, but she bounced off.
Hopelessness filled her. She dropped her hands to her sides. When she did, she noticed them for the first time. They were splattered with blood. Glancing down at herself, she saw her blouse was a gory Rorschach test. No wonder the woman wouldn't let her in.
She turned to face the street. Maybe she could wait, sit here on the front porch until the police arrived. She wrapped her arms around her body, leaned against the door, and closed her eyes. She was weak, dizzy. Her head throbbed. Her breath rasped across her throat. Her lungs ached.
"Damn it." The curse struck her ears like a blow. Her eyes flew opened. Skandalis stood across the street, staring in the direction she should have gone. The only way out of the cul-de-sac. He'd wrapped a cloth around his head and held it to his wounded eye with one hand. In the other was something black and metallic. A gun? She shrank into the shadow of the doorway. He didn't see her, but he could. If he looked her way. There was nothing blocking his view.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it." He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed with his gun hand. As he spoke, he turned his back to her, his voice low. She couldn't hear what he said.
Abby slipped from her place to the shelter of a large camellia bush, and then darted to a stand of cypress trees. He walked onto Leena’s front stoop and opened the door. Go inside. Inside. She held her breath and willed him to go. The yard to her left only held foundation plantings bordering a huge expanse of lawn. There was nothing to hide behind. Past that, was an oak, but it would take precious seconds to reach the tree.
She would make a run for it when he entered the house. Even if he planned to post up at a window, it would take time for him to close the door and walk to either of the rooms that fronted the house. She could make it to the tree. She was sure. Pretty sure. She stepped into a lunge, like a runner taking her place at the start of a race.
He walked across the threshold.
She shifted her weight to her front leg.
The door began to close.
She vaulted from behind the tree.
The door flew open. He reemerged.
Momentum drove Abby three steps forward before she was able to throw herself into reverse. She fell on her knees behind the cypress, heart hammering in her chest. Did he see her?
She peered between branches. He wasn't looking her way. His eyes were trained on something at the end of the walkway. When he reached the curb, he examined the tire track she'd left there. He rubbed at it with the toe of his shoe. "Damn it," he said again. Then he pivoted, returned to the house, and this time slammed the door behind himself.
Abby waited for several seconds before finding the courage to bolt for the oak again. Maybe she should wait for the police? She was safer here, behind the trees, than she'd been at the front door. But, it was also possible the woman hadn't called for help. Perhaps it had only been a threat. A way to get rid of Abby.
If she had called wouldn't they be here by now? Abby wasn't sure how many minutes had passed while she'd watched Skandalis walk back and forth across the street. It had seemed like a year's worth.
She also didn't know who he had called. Maybe it was his associates. Maybe they were on their way. Maybe they would arrive before the police, who might not be arriving at all. She sat and stared at the Basara house frozen by indecision. Then she saw it.
A trail of blood droplets decorated the asphalt between the properties. She might as well have painted an arrow in the middle of the street. Escapee this way. Look here. Skandalis must not have seen them because of his limited vision, but his associates certainly would. Abby wiped the cross on the thigh of her jeans and shoved it in her front pocket.
That made up her mind. She had to leave. To walk out of the neighborhood, find a public place, someone who wouldn't be afraid of her, and get help.
She bolted across the neighbor's grass to the oak tree ignoring the pain in her hip. When she reached it, she hugged the bark, caught her breath, and eyed the next yard, then the next. She made her way along the cul-de-sac hiding behind bushes, trees, and trash cans until she could no longer see the Basara's windows.
At that point, she moved to the narrow sidewalk. She would make better time here. She was fairly certain if she made a right at the end of the block it would lead her to one of the larger Nellie Gail roads. And those roads led out of the neighborhood.
She crossed the street. Before she reached the other side a car, going much too fast, rocketed around the corner. She had to leap out of its way. She shot a glance after it, half expecting the driver to stop. To apologize. Hoping she could ask him for help. He didn't stop, but she wasn't surprised. It was a taxi.
CHAPTER FORTY
TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 2:40 PM
CARLOS SLAMMED INTO the office. It was one of those mornings everything went wrong. Three of his guys were out with the flu. One of the trucks had broken down. He'd had to drive the healthy teams to and from their jobs. It was 2:40, he hadn't had anything to eat since five. He was dirty, tired, sweaty, and his head was throbbing. "Coffee?" he said to Gab.
"Thirty seconds." She sniffed.
Right. He'd forgotten about the new coffee maker. He leaned on the counter while coffee dripped into a cup, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Abby had called earlier. He'd seen the message, but hadn't had time to listen to it. He hit the play button, and her voice piped into the room. Before he could raise the phone to his ear to hear what she was saying, Gab popped into the doorway.
"Someone is here to see you." Her eyes bulged like a cartoon character's, and she lip-synced two words. "The cops." She shouldn't have bothered. Sylla and two uniformed officers, a forty-something Hispanic female and a younger blond-haired man, appeared behind her before her mouth was shut.
"Detective," he said. "What can I do for you?"
Sylla stared at Gab. It was obvious she wanted her to leave, but Gab stared right back and crossed her arms over her chest. She had her beefs with Carlos, but he was still her cousin. "It's okay, Gab," he said. After throwing one more stony look at Sylla, she left.
"Coffee?" He set his phone on the counter, and grabbed his cup. Whatever Sylla wanted, he knew he couldn't face it without caffeine.
