by J. Conrad
8
Someone’s there, lingering near my car. I stop and hold my body still as I strain to see in the evening light. It’s after eight o’clock now, too dark to distinguish if the person is male or female. There’s about thirty feet between me and the car. That doesn’t help either. If I try to gauge the person’s height, I’d say he or she isn’t much taller than I am. Beyond that, I can’t tell much.
Quietly, without dragging my feet, I edge over to the fence bordering Chupacabra’s outdoor tables. Brown canvas which covers the top and sides of the enclosure obscures me from the customers. Warm lighting shows the silhouettes within. People raise drinks in their hands or eat, chat, and laugh. I doubt anyone will notice me. Catching a draft of lime margaritas, I press my shoulder against the chain link. Hopefully, the darkness will give me a few uninterrupted minutes to observe the person by my sedan.
He or she is wearing a dark jacket with a hood. This is odd right off because it’s still over eighty degrees outside. The person leans toward the passenger’s side window and peers in. I squint, straining to pick up anything I can about the person’s appearance or build. Besides the wrong clothing choice for the Texas heat, there’s nothing noticeable about the person’s size. They aren’t apparently thin or heavy. The person isn’t obviously male or female. They seem more androgynous, a nameless, human silhouette snooping around my vehicle. The person briefly goes around to the driver’s side and then departs, passing the white building and heading into the adjacent parking lot where the food trucks are stationed. I wait, watching as the figure disappears.
Thinking of the phone call and my last conversation with Trent when I told him about Ayden, my heart pounds. But it gets worse. I consider going back into Chupacabra to tell the guys what I just observed. Ridiculous. I shove the idea away and instead keep my vision keen and taking in my surroundings. As I start toward my Camry, I make sure to take light steps. My sneakers press quietly against the pavement as I walk, and I don’t need to go dashing to my car in a pounding, panic-stricken run and let the creep know I’m here.
Gripping my keys tightly so they won’t jingle as I pull them from my purse, I increase my pace slightly as I near the car. I think about inspecting the exterior, but that would mean stopping and being obvious—the less time outside, the better. I swing around to the driver’s side from behind the sedan. My racing heart spurring me on, I snatch an irresistible glance near the food trucks where the hooded guy went. No one’s there now. He must have passed through that parking lot, and the other building obscures him now. I unlock the door as naturally as I can, but my gaze darts around like a frightened rabbit.
I swiftly pull the door closed and lock myself inside. My stomach clenches and flips, and my chest shakes with every contraction of my heart. Trent once told me about the time someone planted an IED in his truck, and I’ll never forget it. My mind spins out of control. Images of bright orange flames consume my consciousness as they would my vehicle. With tense fingers, I turn the key in the ignition anyway, and the engine turns over. It rumbles to life like usual. I inhale. I try to steady my rapid breathing as I put the car in gear. I take stock of the parking lot again, but it remains empty. A few cars pass before I back up into Trinity Street.
Keeping my eyes on the road with effort, I work my way through downtown Austin to the Interstate 35 access road. My glances find every pedestrian, scanning them to see if they fit the appearance of the figure I saw. Not one of them has on a hoodie, but I gawk at them all the same. While doing so, my thoughts echo the guys’ conversation from Chupacabra.
“I don’t expect you to get it,” Trent said while I eavesdropped.
I can’t speak for Kyle, but I do get it. Trent has his own demons to fight. I’m a train wreck, and even with everything he knows about me, he still doesn’t know the worst.
After work on Monday, I buy a new mountain bike. With it strapped to a rack behind the trunk of the Camry, I envision my first ride around our neighborhood as I thread my way through rush hour traffic on 35 North. I came to this purchase decision last night while lying in bed staring at the ceiling. If Trent’s no longer going to be a part of my life, I need something proactive to pass the time. Something to keep me from diving into dark crevices where the memories, grim and cruel, swallow me up and spit me out as someone else. Something else.
Since leaving protective police custody earlier in the year, I’ve been renting a room in a newer home in Round Rock. The neighborhood is a nice one off East New Hope Drive, and it’s where I stay when I’m not visiting Trent. I guess that will be all the time now. The house is a modest two-story covered in white stone façade. Its small front lawn bears a single maple tree near the curb. A planter area under the windows is sectioned off with railroad ties and mulch, but we’ve never done much with it. Maybe I’ll get ambitious and put some flowers there.
I share the house with three other renters—Margarita, Rebecca, and Ann. My room is on the second floor, toward the back. It overlooks a sunny backyard with a gray stone birdbath in the center. Lilies, yellow wildflowers, and purple sage bushes nestle in colorful patterns around the chain-link fence and along the walkway leading back to the utility shed. The place is cheery and safe enough. Although I haven’t been a socializer since my abduction, it’s nice not to live alone.
When I pull into the driveway, my car is the only one here. None of my housemates must be home yet. My stomach flips, and I tell myself to knock it off. Just because I got a creepy phone call is no reason to be afraid now. Just because some weirdo was snooping around my car. Just because I used to be a prisoner. Right. Who the hell do I think I’m kidding?
Glancing at the western horizon, I estimate there’s about thirty minutes of daylight left. Going biking now would be cutting it too close for me. I’ll store the bike in the shed overnight and take it to work with me tomorrow. I can ride at Zilker Park every day, and by the time I wrap up, I’ll have missed all the traffic on my drive back to Round Rock.
I untie my bike from the rack and steer it along the walkway. After I lift the latch and swing open the gate, I pause before stepping into the backyard. Birds call from the two maple trees at the rear of the property. Beyond the privacy fence to my right, I hear the neighbor’s kids playing. A little boy laughs.
“No, you’re not, no, you’re not,” he says.
“I am, I am,” his friend answers back.
I have no idea what their conversation is about. I peek over at the other neighbor’s yard to my left, but no one’s out today. The light is fading, a golden warmth falling over the flowers and shrubs around the birdbath. Seems I’m ensconced in suburbia. There’s nothing to fear.
Walking my bike toward the shed, I listen to the rhythmic click of the bicycle chain as the wheels turn. We keep the storage building locked, but all the renters have a key. As the all-terrain tires roll over the grassy yard, my head whirls with lightheadedness. I slow, choosing my steps more carefully. I lean my bike against the side of the shed and reach into my pocket for my keychain.
With shaking fingers, I fumble for the smallest key. I glance around as though the small, wooden structure might spontaneously combust. Images of blackened two by fours flash by. But as I remove the lock and open the door, nothing happens. The hinges creak, and smells of wood, paint, and faint traces of mildew linger in the background. I stand here, arms at my sides, and listen. There’s nothing but bird calls and the laughter of children.
After taking a deep breath and pushing my hair out of my face, I grab my bike from the exterior wall and wheel it inside. I tuck it in the back corner near some of my housemates’ bikes. I exit the shed and lock it up, waiting for my heart to ease up its frantic pounding. Well, I guess I’ve conquered one tiny thing in my life. My mind’s eye produces a headline—“Crazy girl gets over fear of sheds.”
Tonight, I’m supposed to do some research on the Lamar buildings for Kyle and have it ready for him tomorrow. This is a property that’s been on the market forever, and we’ve
finally found a potential buyer. Our client, Rance Epstein, has been poring over the inspection report and blueprints we gave him but wants more information on any renovations done, especially those performed without a permit. He called at the end of the day, and I told Kyle I didn’t mind getting started on his request tonight since we were hoping to close on the property soon. So, I’ll email Martin Thomas, the current owner, and check online with the Development Services Department for any permits pulled. That will be a start, anyway. My laptop is inside its case in the car, and I’ll need it.
I close the gate behind me and head back to my Camry in the driveway. When I grab the door handle, someone touches my arm. A lightning bolt of pure terror rips through me. First, I go rigid. My bones ice over, and I can’t move. Then I jump so hard I nearly tumble over backward. My heels skid on the concrete, and my scream silences the birds.
I jerk my head up to see Margarita. She’s one of my housemates, a woman in her early thirties who rents a room on the first floor. I should have noticed her car in the driveway, but I didn’t because I was thinking about work.
My breath comes out in short, little pants while I wonder what possessed her to touch me unannounced. I glare at her. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“I called out to you twice. Didn’t you hear me?” she asks.
“No,” I say. I push my back against the car body to stabilize myself.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She frowns like she means it. “When it looked like you were going to leave, I wanted to catch you in time.”
My heart hammers. I press my fingers against the warm Camry door. “Okay. What’s up?”
“I’m going over to my sister’s tonight, and she’s having some friends over. I was wondering if you’d like to tag along.” She gives me a small, hopeful grin. In a royal blue satin top with black leggings and heels, she’s dressed to kill. Her black hair of considerable length cascades around her shoulders in thick waves.
This isn’t the first time Margarita, or one of the other renters, has asked me to participate in some enjoyable activity. It’s charitable and all, but each of us has a different definition of “fun.” Mine is staying inside where it’s safe unless I happen to be hanging out with Trent—which I’m not now.
As I lag for an answer, she adds, “It might be good to get out. We worry about you staying cooped up in your room after work.”
She must have noticed that I didn’t go to Trent’s last week. My housemates know my history, and they have a rough idea of my relationship with my rescuer.
“Thanks, Margarita, but I’m supposed to do a little work for Kyle tonight.” My racing pulse slows, and I catch my breath. I open the car door and scan for my laptop case. Not seeing it, I lean in and feel along the floor and in the back seat.
“Crap,” I say. “I think I left my computer at work. I’ll have to go back for it.”
Margarita tilts her head and gives me that sympathetic look I hate. “You work too much. Can’t you ask Kyle if you can do it tomorrow?”
I try to chuckle, but it comes out like a snort. “Does this have something to do with guys? Are you trying to encourage me to get out there and meet people?”
Margarita’s face breaks into a smile instantly. She laughs. “Yes, but not like that—not like the dating scene. I know you like Trent, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But there’s also nothing wrong with meeting other people too.”
I sigh. “How could you possibly think I want to meet people? The thought of it makes me cringe.”
Her face falls. “No, I know you’ve said you’re not looking for a relationship. It’s just—you were spending so much time with Trent, I thought—”
“I was spending time with him, but I’m not right now. And Trent is the man who rescued me. That’s different. If not for him, I wouldn’t be alive right now. But I don’t want to be around guys—new guys. And anyway, I can’t because I have to drive back to Austin to get my computer.” I should go easy on her. She means well, but it’s hard to muster the strength for social graces after being startled.
“But what about the traffic?” Her smile is barely hanging on, but she’s doing a better job than I am. “By the time you get back, it will be so late. Maybe you can ask your boss if you can do it tomorrow, and then you can come hang out with me. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. You can just get out and unwind. Not a long time, maybe just like an hour.”
“No! I don’t want to unwind!” I slam the car door.
Margarita flinches.
Get your shit together, monster. “Sorry.”
She rubs her arm. No smile now. “It’s okay.”
“What I meant to say was there won’t be any traffic heading to the office or on the way back either because it’s after seven. And the work won’t take all that long, but I promised Kyle I would do it. I don’t want to bail on him,” I say, even though I know I don’t have to explain it to her.
“Well, okay,” Margarita says. Sober now in her going-out clothes, a wrinkle springs up between her eyebrows.
“Thanks for inviting me, though.”
“Sure. Maybe another time. I worry about you,” says Margarita.
“Thanks,” I say. “See you later tonight after we both get home.”
“See you later,” she says. She steps back and waves as I get into my car.
She worries about me. That’s cute. She wouldn’t worry about me if she knew what I am or what follows me.
Median Realty is dark inside, but the porch light came on since I left earlier. The real estate office where I work is a quaint, dark gray house with a red door and cream trim—a residence that was remodeled and rezoned for commercial use. Since it’s located on Bluebonnet Lane in South Austin, I won’t have any trouble riding my bike to Zilker Park after work every day.
I let myself in, then turning off the alarm using the keypad near the door. The place smells like lavender. It must be the floor cleaner from the company I hired to come once a week. After clicking on the lights, I find my laptop bag right where I left it on the seat of my chair. I sling the strap over my shoulder, reset the alarm, go out the front door, and close it.
As an orange sunset seeps below the housetops, I wiggle my key into the gold lock and turn it. It’ll be dark soon, and I want to be long gone by then. When I face the street, I start and swear under my breath. The strap of the bag slides down my arm. I grab it just in time.
A man stands at the end of the parking lot, near the street. Not a young man. He’s probably close to sixty, and while remembering the strange phone call, I take a good look at him. The man has a slender build. His dark hair is beginning to thin on top. He’s clipped his sunglasses onto the breast pocket of his dark gray dress shirt. To his right is a black Mercedes sedan. Its high hood ornament stands out even in the fading light. The man gazes up at me intently as I peer back from our low cement porch.
The stranger gives me one of those tight-lipped, closed-mouth smiles. The kind you make when you think someone’s reaction is awkwardly childish or unprofessional in some way. He flutters his eyelids a few times. What a jerk. Can’t he see that he startled me?
“May I help you?” I ask in a cold voice.
“I certainly hope so.” His annoyed smile evaporates. He replaces it with detached regard. “My name is Nick Pearlman. I was hoping to speak with someone about the commercial property for sale on Lamar.”
“Oh,” I say. “For what address?”
“1515 South Lamar,” he says.
Those are the same warehouses for which Kyle is having me pull more info—the whole reason behind my inconvenient trip back to the office. A chill races up my arms at his timing.
“Sure, let me give you our number. Kyle and I will both be in the office tomorrow.” I dig into my purse for the pocket where I keep my business cards. I tug one out and hold it between my fingers, noticing my hand still shakes.
Taking a few steps toward him, I say, “This has the office hours on it too.”
Nic
k huffs, taking my meaning. “Thanks. But I was hoping to speak with someone tonight.”
He reaches into the pocket of his shirt and draws out his own card. I take it.
“I see.” I nod. “I can go ahead and give Kyle a call if you like, but you should know that we already have a sale pending on that property.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I also know that Rance Epstein is the buyer, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to discuss it with me over coffee. You won’t understand it yet, but I need your help. It’s very important you sell the property to me instead.”
Now it’s my turn to stare and blink. My gaze rivets to that cold, pasty-white face. I don’t want to talk about the Lamar property over coffee. If he made a better first impression, it might be different. But turning up after hours with me here alone creeps me out. Then there’s his voice—it sounds like the caller’s.
I say, “I’m sorry, but I really can’t tonight. Also, Kyle has most of the information. He’s the agent overseeing the sale. But if you drop by the office tomorrow, or if you give Kyle a call, I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you. That property has been on the market for such a long time. I’m surprised to have two people interested within a few months.”
He narrows his eyes, and the look he gives me makes me uncomfortable. Mentally, I note down his measurements to the best of my ability. I put him at five foot six, maybe one hundred and fifty pounds. Can’t see his eye color. Yeah, he’s probably in his early sixties, like I first thought. My mind flashes with a snapshot image of the snooping person in the hoody by my Camry the other night. His silhouette fits, though that proves nothing. Still, I notice.
After a long pause, Nick says, “I would have bought it sooner, but I didn’t know I needed it. I can explain. How about we just talk about it right here?”
