Prey for Us

by Geoffrey Neil

  Morana held his wrists with one hand and stretched to grab a phone charger cord that dangled from the desk near the floor. She yanked it free and tightly bound Benny’s wrists. She picked up his phone from the floor. The screen showed an open call for 1 minute 16 seconds… The call ID displayed only a number, no name. She ended the call

  She got the gun and put it to the back of Benny’s head. “Was it Clay?”

  “What?”

  “Was Clay on the phone?”

  “Uh… yes. He wanted me to get you.”

  “You hesitated. You’re lying.”

  She threw the phone. It shattered against the wall. She grabbed a canvas shopping bag from a nearby stack and slipped it over his head.

  “Please!” Benny begged. “I wasn’t going to harm you.” He tried to buck her. She slammed his head to the floor again and rode him until he stopped struggling.

  “You’re already too late,” Benny said. The bag muffled his voice. “Even if you run now, you won’t get away.”

  Morana pressed the gun to his head. “We could have been friends, Benny.” She pulled the trigger twice. His shirt and the bag contained most of the splatter. On the third trigger pull, the gun only clicked. She released the magazine. It was empty. Only two bullets?

  She pulled his wallet. $133 cash. She stared at it for a moment before tucking the wallet and cash back into his pocket.

  She considered cleaning her fingerprints from the scene until she heard the store’s front door handle bell.

  “Benny?” The man’s voice seeped through the double doors. Morana quietly slipped out the market’s back door.

  Sirens grew louder as she accelerated to a full sprint toward the end of the alley. She turned onto a residential street, her long strides taking her past several homes before she cut across a lawn at the end of a cul de sac.

  She slipped between houses and scaled a chain-link fence before crossing through several more backyards. The wail of sirens from the market’s direction grew louder.

  She turned onto another street and slowed to a jog as some kids on bicycles passed her in the opposite direction. Her heart pounded, and her lungs burned. A siren blared closer than the others, and she ducked behind a row of hedges until it passed at a nearby intersection.

  She casually walked to the street, and when she was out of view from the house, she resumed her sprint, zigzagging away from the sirens through several more blocks until she came to the edge of the neighborhood.

  A quarter mile ahead, she saw signs for shops and eateries. One was a pharmacy, and as she neared the parking lot, she slowed. After catching her breath, she went inside. A female cashier was preoccupied with scanning boxed items with a barcode gun as she arranged inventory in a glass cabinet behind the counter.

  Morana was relieved to see no television on in the store. She was certain that a reward photo of her would go viral any time now. She walked to a clothing aisle, noting three security cameras, mounted high to cover the cashier, the entrance, and the pharmacy counter. She picked out a sweatshirt, sweatpants, a knit cap, sunglasses, another burner phone, and several makeup items and went to check out. As she approached the cashier, she watched the woman carefully.

  “All ready?” the cashier said, fumbling with the sweatshirt to find the tag.

  Morana nodded, adding a large bottle of water from a fridge beside the checkout counter.

  “Sounds like something big is going on out there,” the woman said, glancing up at the ceiling. Another helicopter flew overhead. More sirens sped past the pharmacy.

  Morana nodded, paid with cash, and exited the store. She put on her cap and sunglasses. Another helicopter passed overhead, racing toward others that already hovered over McGee’s Market in the distance.

  She walked along the road in the opposite direction, holding her breath to guzzle the water. When she paused to look back, she noticed that the pharmacy cashier had followed her outside and now stood a few steps from the entrance, shielding her eyes while gazing up at the helicopters.

  Morana sped up to a jog, twice squatting to tie her shoe with her back to the road as police cars screamed by.

  She came to the overpass of a wash and climbed over the guardrail and down an embankment that took her below it. The floor of the wash had only a trickle of a stream that snaked through mud and plant debris.

  A short distance away a shopping cart sat, partially filled with aluminum cans. Morana looked up to see underneath the overpass. Several bundles of blankets bound with knotted grocery bags were tucked into a crevice where the overpass met the slanted concrete. She climbed the ramp of concrete for a closer look. Beside the bags, a homeless woman lay amidst the clutter of having camped there for several days. She was curled up with her eyes closed and wore a thick, tattered coat, fingerless gloves, and her toes jutted through an open flap at the front of her shoe soles.

  When Morana nudged the woman’s shoulder, the woman stirred without opening her eyes. “Hey, there,” Morana said, gently caressing the woman’s cheek with the back of her fingers. The woman opened her eyes and looked up into Morana’s sunglasses.

  “Sit up, angel,” Morana said. Morana took hold of her jacket and pulled her into a sitting position.

  The woman’s confusion quickly became fear. “Whatchu doin’?” She pulled her coat free of Morana’s grasp and tried to scoot away.

  “I won’t hurt you. I promise,” Morana said. She stepped closer and smoothed the front of her jacket, then fingered the hair from the woman’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

  The woman’s face drained some of its terror while keeping its suspicion. “Janelle… Whatchu want?”

  Morana sat down beside her and said, “Sweetheart, have I got a deal for you.”

  †

  Having swapped as much of her attire as was practical with Janelle, Morana said good-bye and slipped a twenty-dollar bill into Janelle’s pocket. She returned to the thin stream of water at the bottom of the wash and rubbed dirt in her hair and then shook it out, leaving clumps of it matted. She smeared mud on her face and neck, then wiped most of it off.

  “Thank you, angel,” Morana said as she climbed past the woman up to the road. Janelle waved, flashing a toothless grin.

  Having transformed her own appearance enough to temporarily distinguish herself from whatever photos would soon be plastered across all media channels, she continued her trek along the street toward Clay’s house.

  As she ambled along in her new, grubby wardrobe, she was relieved that several pedestrians she passed averted their eyes the moment they were within talking distance.

  She continued to a bus stop and waited. A slight wind shift reminded her of the pungent stench that exuded from Janelle’s clothes. While not pleasant, the aroma would be useful for privacy.

  She called Clay on her burner phone, hoping he would answer the unfamiliar number.

  “Clay, here.”

  “It’s Mo. Surprised to hear from me?”

  “Not at all. Did Benny help you?”

  “He was more than happy to help me go to prison.”

  “No!”

  “He said you tipped him, so when you get back home, I will be waiting for you.”

  “No, no, no—son of a bitch. Mo, that’s bullshit. I swear I had nothing to do with whatever he did.”

  “I know. Fortunately for you, he’s a crappy liar, but I fixed his honesty problem.”

  “Don’t tell me you killed him…”

  “He pointed a gun at me, Clay.”

  “God, I can’t believe this.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “He was a friend.”

  “He decided to be my enemy, but we can debate that later. I’m on my way to your place. Do I need an alarm code?”

  “Why don’t you hold off for a while? If you get tracked, we’ll be connected, and I’ll be of no use to you.”

  “Calm down. First of all, they won’t be able to track me to yo
ur place, and if they could, I’d be long gone before they get there. All I need to know is if your house has an alarm.”

  “No alarm, but it’s well secured. You should wait until dark.”

  “Wait a while? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Mo, I swear I’m not setting you up. I have nosy neighbors. If you want to deal with that, go to my place in broad daylight. If I were you, I’d tuck myself inside a dumpster until dark. I saw the news. That explosion was you?”

  “Get me safely into your house, and I might share more details.”

  “Fine. Call me when you’re there, and I’ll tell you how to get in.”

  Chapter 2

  AS MORANA BOARDED a bus, the driver gave her a withering glare. Any type of look from strangers was better than recognition.

  She rode to a stop four blocks from Clay’s house, opting to walk the rest of the way to his street. She remembered from her previous gun purchases from Clay that his house was the fourth from the intersection. As she approached the front yard, she recognized the fountain, now filled with stagnant green water and its rim splattered to a solid white from bird droppings. The lawn had grown out and died. The end of his street had a yellow Dead End sign that effectively limited vehicle cross traffic.

  She noticed that the window shades were drawn at the house across the street from Clay’s, but there was a narrow crack at the bottom. A suspicious sedan with tinted windows that resembled a vehicle that a detective would drive was parked in front. Although she didn’t like the risk, it would be a bigger risk to remain exposed on the streets.

  Dusk was settling in and having to wait for nightfall seemed more ridiculous than ever. She walked past the house twice for reconnaissance, then after a final look up and down the street for any potential spectators, she hurried across Clay’s lawn. Dried leaves and grass crunched under her feet on the way to a side gate that she quietly opened and latched behind her.

  Clay’s backyard was as neglected as the front. Insect hulls dangled on a tangled cobweb that connected a couple of dusty patio chairs and a table. Overgrown ivy concealed the house’s back wall. Trees blocked the view of one of the neighbors. She peered through a knothole in the wooden fence on the opposite side and saw no sign of any backyard activity.

  She went to Clay’s back door and tried the knob. Locked. She found a garden trowel in a rotting wooden workbench that Clay had buttressed against the back wall of the house.

  She used the trowel to pry open a thin crack at the base of a window. The smell of stale air infused with pine freshener seeped through the opening. The breeze caused the drapes to shift. She cupped her eyes against the window to see inside. From the narrow-angle that was visible, Clay’s house looked like it had been ransacked. Empty water bottles, papers, and pillows littered the floor.

  If his car was in the garage and she could find the key in the house, borrowing it would help her more than he knew.

  †

  In the suburb of Oakchester, Florida, Clay tugged his tie loose to air out his sweaty neck. He entered his apartment after spending the last hours at the office, briefing a client about an upcoming tour he had arranged. Before the door closed behind him, he’d already kicked off his loafers, sending them tumbling to a place under a corner table. He pulled a cold beer from the fridge, sat on the sofa, cracked open the beer can, and drained half of it. He leaned back and sighed.

  He set the beer aside and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. He found one that showed the breaking news from Los Angeles he had heard on the radio. There it was in color—an aerial view of an explosion in the west San Fernando Valley. Helicopters circled an enormous cloud with fire and a crater at least a block wide below it.

  Clay sat forward and turned up the volume. The wide shot from a helicopter zoomed in on streets that were familiar to him—only a few miles from his home. He got up, went closer to the TV, and saw the reason for Morana’s paranoia.

  A $1,000,000 reward with her photo appeared on the screen. “Oh, my God!” he said, interlocking his fingers on his head. He remembered seeing Morana with longer hair—sometimes. But the color would change from day to day. In this photo, she looked much younger than Clay knew she was. Even when she wasn’t on the run, he remembered how Morana dramatically changed her appearance daily. Whenever she arrived at his place to pick up a gun she had ordered from him, he felt silly asking if it was really her before opening the door. Anyone trying to identify her from the photo on the TV was a long shot. He grinned, knowing he was the only person on earth who knew where she was.

  He took out his phone and returned a call to the number Morana had used to reach him earlier. It rang with no answer. He flopped back onto the sofa and watched the news media working themselves into a frenzy over this story. He changed channels, watching stations competing for the newest details of the story. By the time he had finished his beer, every major news broadcast had featured the same photo.

  He found a number for Morana in his phone’s address book and called it even though it was over a year old. No answer. He tossed his phone aside. Morana was in trouble, and she needed him. From the time he met her, Clay had wanted her, but she had no interest in dating him. But perhaps her new predicament would bring new hope if he could be heroic in her time of need. Who knew what could happen? On the other hand, if she weren’t properly grateful for his help, her bounty would burgeon by the day, and he could eventually cash her in for quite a nice bonanza. Clay laid back and dozed off, relishing his unexpected leverage and letting his fantasy go wild.

  About an hour later, his phone vibrated, waking him. He patted his hand beside him until he felt his phone. He opened one eye and squinted at a security app on the screen that blinked red.

  “Now what?” he said, sitting up. The app was linked to a camera system at his house in Los Angeles. He went to the corner table and opened his laptop. A video feed split the screen into eight parts, showing each room and the exterior front and rear of his house. Motion on one of the feeds caught his attention. The guest bedroom’s window was open, and the drapes flapped in the breeze. Then he saw movement in another feed. “Dammit, you don’t listen!” he said.

  He saw Morana standing beside the refrigerator in his kitchen. She looked directly at the camera. Clay called his home phone. He heard the ring through his laptop. Morana ignored the phone and kept her eyes on the camera.

  “Pick up!” Clay yelled.

  Morana left the kitchen and went to the den. He enlarged the den feed to full screen. He called the burner number again.

  Morana pulled her phone from her pocket. “What?”

  “I warned you to wait until dark. If Mrs. Ramden across the street saw you, expect a police ambush anytime now.”

  “That’s why I need to borrow your car. Where’s the key?”

  Clay laughed. “I save your ass, give you money, and now you want my car, too?”

  “Look, I appreciate your help, but I need to use it to get some distance from here after dark. You can report the car stolen. When you come back, I’ll tell you where you can find it for a miraculous recovery.”

  “I saw the news. A car is the wrong move. You are safer there than anywhere.”

  “Clay, I can decide what is safe. Can I borrow your car, or not?”

  “The answer is, yes, but first I want to show you something that might make you reconsider.”

  Morana turned to the camera. “I’m listening…”

  “There’s a bookcase in the living room.”

  Morana left the den and stepped over the clutter in the hallway to enter the living room. “You need a maid,” she said.

  “The mess will all make sense in a minute. The bookcase to your left,” Clay said, clicking to a different feed on his laptop.

  The window shades were drawn, but enough light came through the edges for Morana to see a small barrister bookcase against the wall. “Where’s the light switch?” she asked, sliding her hand beside the door fr
ame.

  “There’s a flashlight behind the books on the top shelf of the bookcase. Get it and then pull the bookcase away from the wall.”

  Morana found the flashlight and held it between her teeth while she slid the bookcase from the wall. Etched on the hardwood floor beneath it was a rectangular seam outlining the base of the bookcase. A metal pull-ring was connected to a chain at the edge.

  “Pull the ring up,” Clay instructed. “You have to pull hard.”

  As Morana pulled, the rectangular section of the floor raised on a concealed hinge. Cool air drifted up from the darkness below.

  “There’s a string under the edge. Pull it.”

  Morana knelt and swept her hand inside the opening. “Before anything explodes when I pull this, you should know that I’m worth more alive than dead,” she said.

  Clay laughed and said, “The only thing that is about to explode is your mind, baby!”

  Morana grasped the string and pulled it. Lights came on, illuminating a sea of green in the opening below her. She knelt and leaned into the opening and looked around Clay’s hidden basement, converted into a massive grow room. Thick bushes of cannabis, fed by a grid of plastic tubes, were lined wall to wall in perfect rows. A rope ladder hung from one edge of the opening, swaying in a breeze.

  “Go on down and meet my babies,” Clay said.

  Morana smiled. “Why am I not surprised?” She climbed down the ladder and stepped off. She looked around the edges of the ceiling, homing in on a camera in the corner. She waved.

  “Why is your face muddy?” Clay asked.

  “Long story,” she said, leaning closer to a plant. “Why can’t I smell this?”

  “I’m glad you said that. It means the neighbors can’t smell it, either.” Clay said. “Negative airflow. Look down.”

  At Morana’s feet, vent slats lined the floor. The soft hum of fan blades visible through their slats pulled the air downward.

  Evenly-spaced ceiling fans above her head created a gentle downdraft, quivering leaves under pods of LED lights that sprouted in clusters from the ceiling like upside-down bouquets.