One Got Away

by S. A. Lelchuk

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then I’d wish you good night and thank you for a pleasant evening, of course.” His congenial smile was back. As though the coldness in his eyes had never been there. The light had shifted, and his face, no longer shadowed and obscure, was open and affable.

  “Are you saying no?” he asked.

  I took his hand. “Lead the way.”

  We walked slowly up the path. I tried to place my bare feet carefully, wishing to avoid another stumble on terrain that seemed all too eager to trip me up.

  * * *

  I thought my room was nice. Coombs’s put it to shame. His bungalow was easily double the size, with a separate suite-like living area away from the enormous, plush bed. My eyes took in the large Louis Vuitton suitcase, a row of suits and bright, perfectly pressed shirts hung neatly in the spacious closet. He accepted the jacket I handed back to him and placed it on a hanger.

  “Do you always travel in such style?” I asked.

  A smile lingered on his lips. “At the risk of sounding aged, I’m well past the days of roughing it.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “If you care about those things. Do you?”

  I shrugged. “Not so much.”

  “Then you’re staying at the wrong place.”

  “I never said I’m not enjoying myself.” I placed my heels by the door. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Of course.”

  In the bathroom, I squinted in the brightness of the vanity lights. The shower was lined with nacreous tiles the size of playing cards. All the toiletries I would have expected: European, high-end designer stuff. Several small bottles of cologne, an expensive shaving kit with a badger-hair brush set upright in a silver stand. There was a pearl-handled straight razor on the counter next to the sink. I opened it, brushing my finger sideways against the open blade and feeling the lethal keenness of the honed edge.

  I closed the razor and put it back on the counter.

  I took a brief look around the bathroom, unsurprised to see nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a very nice bathroom full of expensive toiletries. If I had been expecting to find a stack of incriminating documents taped to the showerhead, I’d have been disappointed. I flushed the toilet, put the seat down, ran the tap, and stepped out of the bathroom. Wondering if men did the same thing: pretending to use the bathroom when all they really wanted was a moment alone to look around and think.

  Coombs stood by the bar cart, watching me cross the room toward him. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing blond-haired forearms corded with muscle, and he had put a record on the turntable. Fuzzy jazz filled the room, a trumpet cutting high above the swinging big band. Watching him as he reached for the bottles on the bar cart, I could have been looking at a liquor ad in some vintage Esquire.

  “I didn’t know you bartended,” I said.

  “And I don’t know your poison.”

  “You haven’t yet led me astray.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Not yet.”

  I watched him muddle sugar cubes into two glasses. Ice cubes rattled and bottles clinked as he poured and stirred. He took an orange from a large welcome basket spilling over with fruit and chocolate and used the small blade of a wine opener to slice two curling twists from its skin.

  “Old-fashioned?” I asked.

  He nodded and extended a glass. “Cheers.”

  I raised my glass. “What are we drinking to, universal prosperity or world peace?”

  He shook his head. “I’m a pragmatist. I prefer toasting to events that might actually happen.”

  “And what would those be?”

  His eyes locked into mine. “To new friendships, exciting possibilities, and many more surprises.”

  We clinked our glasses.

  Drank.

  Watching each other.

  He stepped over to me and ran his hand through my hair, fingers grazing the back of my neck. When he kissed me for the second time it was a softer kiss than the first had been. Searching, lingering, restrained. I felt his nails drift down the small of my back as my free hand ran along his side, feeling the muted strength of his body. Feeling his hands on me. As though without a single word he understood me.

  I broke away after a moment, feeling guiltier than after the first kiss. His hand left my skin. I put the guilt somewhere far away in my mind. I’d find it later. Not now.

  He picked up his glass and took a sip. “Everything okay?”

  “Maybe we could just talk for a bit.”

  “Of course. Anything in particular?” Behind him, through the unshaded window, night hung like a blackout curtain. He smiled, teasing. “I could ask all sorts of brilliant questions: How many siblings you have, or where you grew up, or perhaps your favorite color, or what you do for work.”

  “Brother. Bolinas. Blue. Bookstore.”

  “You work in a bookstore,” he said. “Now there’s a surprise.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “Why does that surprise you?”

  “You strike me more as the action type.”

  I crossed my legs. “I could tell you I’m a Navy SEAL. Would that be more enticing?”

  “Anyone can tell a dime store lie. To me, the truth is always most exciting.”

  “If that’s the case, you must associate with very interesting people.”

  “Not really.” He tossed the orange into the air and caught it. “I’m more of a loner.”

  “You?” It was my turn to be skeptical. “You seem like the opposite of a loner.”

  “One can’t always trust appearances. I’m sure you know that by now?” Ice in the bucket rattled as he added several cubes to his glass.

  “I agree,” I said. “One can’t. Not always.”

  “One also can’t always trust new friends who pop up in unexpected places.”

  I smiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” Coombs said, “that I daresay we know each other well enough to be perhaps a touch franker. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’m always honest. I haven’t told you a single untrue word the entire day.”

  The smile was still on his face, his tone still light and teasing. Like when he had asked me my favorite color. “And yet I get the distinct feeling that you aren’t exactly pouring your heart out to me. Why is that, I wonder?”

  I tried to keep my tone light as well. “Wouldn’t that bore you just about to death?”

  “Nothing about you bores me.”

  My handbag lay on the bed next to me. I inched an arm closer to it.

  “I’m flattered to hear that.”

  “In fact,” he continued, “I find myself intrigued by you.”

  “You know just what to say to a girl.”

  My hand inched closer.

  Almost there.

  “And you seemed so… familiar,” he added. His teeth showed white, the smile flickering on his face like flame. “I couldn’t for the life of me think why. I never forget a face.”

  “Neither do I. And we’ve never met before today.”

  “No,” he agreed. “We haven’t. And yet I realized I knew you just the same.”

  I recrossed my legs, my fingers barely a handspan from my bag.

  So close.

  “How could that be?” I asked.

  “A mystery, I suppose. Perhaps one day we’ll solve it.” Coombs was reaching back in the bucket for more ice. “And also, kindly stop fidgeting about so much. No need to reach into that bag just this minute.”

  His hand emerged from the ice bucket holding a nickel-plated revolver.

  He clicked the hammer back with his thumb.

  “And I really do insist.”

  14

  He put his drink down on the counter and scooped my handbag up from the bed, taking care to keep several feet between us. His gun never wavered. He looked comfortable holding it. Like a man who had held one many times before. He ran a hand through my handbag, never taking his eyes off me, and f
ished out my subcompact Beretta. His thumb found the release. The magazine fell away and Coombs worked the slide, careful to keep his revolver on me while he did. The remaining round ejected from the chamber and landed on the floor with a forlorn little click.

  He put the empty Beretta down and kept searching. He didn’t seem surprised to have found the gun, but let out a low whistle when he came up with my stun gun and roll of electrical tape. The stun gun was small, not much bigger than a box of staples, one end curving inward. Two metal barbs set an inch apart protruded from the curved end like stingers on a scorpion’s tail.

  “What kind of party were you planning?” Coombs asked, arching an eyebrow.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t sulk,” he advised, pocketing the stun gun. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Hopefully nothing bad. Hopefully we just continue our pleasant conversation.”

  “You never told me your favorite color,” I pointed out.

  He didn’t laugh. “I need to know why you were following me and who sent you. To start off, that will do nicely.”

  “What if I don’t want to talk about those things?”

  He sighed. “Then, I’m afraid, it’s going to be a long night for you.” For the first time he stepped closer. The roll of black tape in one hand and the revolver in the other.

  “Lie down on your stomach,” he instructed.

  “No.”

  His eyes were almost sympathetic. “For whatever it’s worth, and whether you believe it or not, I’m a man who has always held violence to be the option of last recourse.”

  I said nothing.

  “But,” he continued, “I’m afraid that based on the contents of your purse, I’m not going to feel comfortable until we get your hands taped.”

  I said, “If you don’t feel comfortable, that’s your problem.”

  Coombs sighed in annoyance. “I can’t imagine what it must be like dating you. The poor sops. Are you always so mulish? Now turn over and lie down,” he said again.

  I made no effort to move.

  “Well, we can’t stand here all night,” he said, “so I’m going to give you a choice. Either you allow me to tape your hands, or”—he pulled the stun gun out of his pocket with the hand holding the tape—“I’m going to have to use this as a means of encouragement.” His eyes flicked down to the device, taking in a number stenciled in bright yellow on the side. “I’ve never felt seventy-five thousand volts of electricity myself, thank heavens, so you’ll have to tell me all about it. Once you can talk again, of course. The choice is yours. I hope you can be reasonable.”

  We both knew what was going to happen, so I didn’t argue further.

  “Fine.”

  I lay on my stomach. I didn’t like the feeling. A helpless feeling. The plushness of the mattress and the clean, laundered smell of the sheets pressed against my face seemed to worsen my plight. Like house arrest in a mansion, the comfort just mockery disguised. Pressing against a cold concrete floor would have been more physically uncomfortable. It also would have felt more honest.

  “Put your hands behind your back and cross your wrists,” Coombs instructed.

  I complied without argument. I had already known he was going to tell me to do that. It was the obvious demand. I would have made it myself. I had already run through every possible scenario I could think of. None of them looked good for me.

  “Now I’m aware,” Coombs said, “that in the next few seconds you might take my proximity as an invitation to the tempting possibilities of physical rebellion. If that’s the case, please do remind your more tempestuous side that there is a loaded, cocked revolver several inches from the back of your head, and any sudden movement on your part might prove sufficient to trigger an outcome that neither of us—but especially you—desires.”

  “Do you always talk this much?” I asked him.

  “Does my loquaciousness bother you?” He laughed as he knelt, a leg on either side of me. I felt a claustrophobic rush as his weight pinned me down. “Those fortunate enough to have a natural talent should not stifle it, I’ve always felt. I was never going to get paid to kick a football or play the saxophone, but early on in life I found that I could talk a bear out of a tree by promising honey when it reached the ground. One should cultivate their talents.”

  As he talked he was wrapping the electrical tape around my wrists in short, precise motions. The tape made sticky, tearing sounds as he jerkily unspooled the roll. He hadn’t been exaggerating about the revolver. I could feel the barrel pressing into the back of my neck. Right where his fingers had caressed me earlier that night. Shivery-cold at first from the ice bucket, then less so, as my body heat warmed the metal.

  “Do you plan on hurting me?” I could feel the tape tightening around my wrists in relentless figure-eights, back and forth. It was already impossible for me to wriggle my wrists even the slightest bit.

  “That’s up to you,” he said. “It’s not my wish—but I need some questions answered.”

  “How about after we talk? What then? Do you let me go?”

  “I’m afraid that depends on how satisfied I am with your answers. Particularly whether you can keep up the admirable candor that you’ve displayed all evening.” I felt a sharp tug as Coombs severed the tape behind me. “Despite your mulish tendencies, please don’t try to kick me,” he added, “while I do your ankles. That little stun gun of yours is very close at hand.”

  I felt his hands, strong and sure on my bare legs as he wrapped layers of tape around my ankles. My dress had ridden up my thighs but there wasn’t much I could do about that. He used plenty of tape. A cautious man. By the time he finished, my ankles felt like they were conjoined by cement.

  “Much better,” Coombs said, satisfied. “I apologize for that intrusion, my dear, but in the circumstances such drastic action really did seem necessary to ensure continued peace between us.” I felt his hands on my shoulders, helping to roll me into a seated position against the headboard, my hands tied behind me and my legs stretched in front. I hated being tied up. Bad memories pushed against me. I didn’t show it. I didn’t want to give any hint of fear.

  This man knew too much about me as it was.

  Now that I was immobilized, Coombs seemed to relax. He stood, found his drink, and brought my glass over to me, holding it to my lips. “No reason to let a good drink go to waste.”

  I didn’t see any reason why I should refuse. I took a big sip of the cold, sweet bourbon. The record had clicked off. He flipped it, placed the needle back on the vinyl, added bourbon to his glass, and pulled an armchair over to the edge of the bed next to me as music once again filled the room. He still held the revolver, but the barrel was no longer pointed at my head. Except for the gun and the tape, anyone walking in would have assumed two lovers were enjoying a pleasant, romantic evening together. All the scene needed was for him to light the fireplace.

  As if reading my mind, he smiled down at me. “Aside from a few trivial details, we look the very picture of domestic bliss, don’t we? We could pose for a catalog shoot if I put my gun down and we put on matching bathrobes.”

  “I’m not feeling a lot of domestic bliss right now,” I said. “Just to keep being candid. Not a lot at all.”

  He shrugged. “It was a thought. But you do look quite gorgeous in that dress. I’ve been wanting to tell you that all night.”

  “We can skip the compliments. You’ve already got me in bed.”

  He laughed. “As you wish. Let’s talk.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “Let’s talk, then. Why did you run from San Francisco? What spooked you?”

  He laughed again, showing strong, white teeth. “I must admit you have a certain temerity. I’ve barely finished tying you hand and foot, I’m sitting here with a loaded pistol—and somehow you’re the one interrogating me.”

  “I might as well get something out of this,” I retorted.

  “Nothing s
pooked me, if you must know. Given my line of work, and who I was dealing with, I knew I was quite possibly being followed. I wanted to get a better sense of the quality of the opposition. Any fool could have followed a cab to the airport. Not everyone would have picked up the trail I left. Whispering to hotel employees, cab drivers, my name on a plane charter…”

  I remembered my thought at SFO. Like a hare leaving biscuits for the dogs.

  “Not to sound immodest, but if I was really trying to disappear,” Coombs continued, “it would take the resources of a decent-size law enforcement agency to even have a hope of tracking me. I’m sure you’re good enough at following people—but I’m very good at running. And I daresay I’ve been running since you were practically in the cradle. I chose to leave a light trail. I could have equally chosen to leave a heavier one—or none at all.”

  “Why would you want anyone to be able to follow you?” I wondered.

  He paused for a few seconds, thinking. “I might as well tell you that I have an extraordinarily important meeting tomorrow—something planned for a long time, that must go off perfectly, without a hitch. If someone was watching me, I wanted my sudden departure to flush them out. Force them to chase me so fast they wouldn’t have time to think. It doesn’t do any good trying to go about important business with unseen adversaries watching—or interfering. Much better to be able to see them move.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  His eyes, unless I was mistaken, expressed real fondness. “I hope you know that tonight I was being as honest with you as you were being with me.”

  “Honest?”

  “Our connection,” he answered at once. “That wasn’t idle dinner-table blather. I meant that. You know it—you feel it too, just as I do.” He spoke his next sentence with great deliberateness. “The two of us are different from every single other person here.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Besides,” he continued, “a beautiful, solitary woman showing up the same day I checked in? Unlike some, I do stare a gift horse in the mouth, every time—close enough to count the teeth. I knew I’d seen you somewhere. I just couldn’t place you from the InterContinental until it came to me later, over dinner.”