Getaway Girl

by Michele Hauf

  Grim situation.

  Two dark suits sat in the front of the car. Standard thug couture.

  I had to hand it to the bad guys—it did make my life a bit easier being able to pick out the danger so easily.

  But could I outrun them?

  Chapter 7

  I used to lay awake at night, staring up at the beamed ceiling, wondering what Pa had meant when he’d called the mother I’d never really known a wanderlust. Always running away, he’d comment in a quiet voice not necessarily meant for me to hear, sort of dreamy or maybe even lost.

  I did retain one distinct vision of her. A tall, slender woman standing outside in the yard, hand skimming the tail fin of a fifties’ model Nash Metropolitan. With a scarf tied around her head to tame her curly black hair and long fingers tracing the chrome, she looked like a model who advertised washing machines on the television. She waved to me. Diamonds about her wrist glinted in the sunlight. I marveled. And then she slid behind the wheel and drove out of my life. Never again to be seen, save in memory and nightmares.

  I’d never seen my glamorous mother physically run, but now, as I pumped my arms and tried to give the tail the slip, I thought of that nameless woman who I never had opportunity to know. I must have been four or five that day the Nash rolled out of the yard. She’d driven away from me—run from my wanting heart.

  Jayne, that had been her name, with the extra y. Like Jayne Mansfield, Pa had once said. I hadn’t known Jayne Mansfield at the time, but now, yes, I think like Jayne Mansfield, for her memory was darkly glamorous.

  Unfortunately, my thoughts didn’t lend to me paying attention, and by the time I realized I was running west, away from the garage where I could snatch my BMW, it was too late to turn back.

  The Mégane squealed around a corner. Then—luck, I love you—it oversteered and missed the intersection, instead sliding noisily into the wicker tables and chairs of a café. Petrol scented the air and screams punctuated the chaos.

  I dashed down the street and didn’t stop until I’d reached the tree-lined walk that fronted the Seine. I decided to forgo the garage and my car for the moment. It wasn’t due to be picked up for days and I was troubled about the phone call with Fitch. It was time to look into the matter. And where would answers most likely be found? Fitch’s place.

  The cyber goddess’s place was but a few blocks off. Wherever a person could see the river, they would eventually find Fitch. Usually she moored the barge in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, but on occasion she’d move north a mile or so.

  The bells in Notre Dame struck four o’clock. Tourist traffic and the booming megaphones from the bateaux mouche bussing along on the Seine busied the late afternoon with a sensory overload. In the summer months, the river was colored green from algae. Not conducive to a refreshing swim. I’d keep these land legs behind the wheel where they belonged.

  I found Fitch’s barge moored near the pont de la Concorde. Half the deck was walled with an iron frame and thin glass to create a Victorian terrarium. Fitch liked plants, and plants liked her. If I so much as glanced at a living green object, it wilted. Which probably goes a long way in explaining why I’d been banned from the greenhouse. I didn’t even touch! The flower just…broke, somehow. At least, that’s the way I recall it.

  Crossing the river, I found a bench along the quai des Tulieries and waited. Behind me, the fabulous royal gardens buzzed with tourist overflow. I had no plan to chat with Fitch right now. My intentions were more devious.

  There were lights visible in the main living quarter on her barge, so I dug out a stick of peppermint gum from my duffel, popped it into my mouth and began the wait.

  A cavalcade of Segways motored past me, a small tour group of six. The futuristic two-wheeled human transporters always gave me a giggle. Just walk, will you?

  About forty-five minutes later, the lights in Fitch’s barge blinked out. I squished down on the bench until my eyes were level with the top of the iron railing that bordered the river.

  Skipping across the dock connected to shore, Fitch’s spiky red hair beat at the air with as much attitude as was packed into the petite senior. The plant-loving hacker took the sidewalk paralleling the river in a full-speed power walk. She kept in shape, and I’d once noted her body looked ten years younger than it should.

  Allowing a full five minutes to elapse, I then, assuming a natural air, strode across the street and took the steps down to the riverfront as if I lived there and had every intention of simply walking onto the barge. The city was alive, the bridge peopled with tourists and residents blended in so seamlessly that no one even noticed me.

  All business, I palmed the foreign shape in the outer pocket of my duffel bag. The Glock. Just in case. I’d done enough running for a good while. From here on out, I was in defense mode.

  Stepping onto the barge deck, I was always startled not to feel it rock like a moored boat. Silly me. I liked to drive, but on solid ground, thank you very much. I’d never developed sea legs, which is why I planned to stay on the continent a while longer. I’d taken the Chunnel from England to France, but to even think back about riding beneath all that water…?

  I surveyed the glass walls of the terrarium. Spotless. Fitch must spend hours washing the ten-foot-high paned windows. Inside, green shadows stalked along the glass and reached for the ceiling. Succulents were Fitch’s passion. Not cactuses, as she’d once corrected me, succulents; big difference. Sure, if she said so. They were all squat, green and looking like something you could only find in a desert.

  Drawing out a small leather case from my canvas bag, I selected two lock-picking tools. I rarely used them—and they weren’t strong enough to work an automobile door lock—but one never knew when they might come in handy.

  Bending before the door to the main living quarters, I again scanned the area. A speedboat zoomed past, loud music blaring and scantily clad women shimmying their hips for the rich young Frenchmen who ogled them. Waiting until the racket sailed by, I then listened for a moment. No movement or sounds behind the door, so I slipped in the pick tools and began to work my magic.

  Maybe not so much magic. A bit of luck was always welcome. Twisting the torque bar, I mined for the inner pins of the lock. Two pins gave easily, slipping up to sheer level, but the third proved more elusive. An overhead security light blinked, drawing unease to the surface. It was broad daylight. No need to worry. I piston-chewed my gum, which always ratcheted up my confidence.

  I shouldn’t risk so much time at a pick. “Yes,” I whispered, as the final pin slipped up into place.

  Still kneeling, I twisted the knob and pushed the door inside. Peering into the cool shadows, I first surveyed the doorframe, looking for laser sensors, anything out of the ordinary. Fitch, of all people, would secure her place like the Louvre. Not because she needed to, but simply because she could.

  The door swung for a while before hitting a table. The impact loosened some DVDs and sent them falling. I lunged inside and caught a handful of black plastic cases before they hit the floor—thus proving the lack of a set security system. Laying on my back, and using the ambient green light from all the computer hardware, I squinted at the titles—Martha Stewart reruns, all of them.

  “Oh, Fitch, you need a place in the country where you can grow fields of flowers.” I smiled as Adam Ant’s tune “A Place In The Country” fixed itself in my brain as Fitch’s theme song.

  I reached and closed the door, then, remaining in place, scanned the rest of the small room for alarm devices. Thing is, the room was so heaped with junk that an alarm, if set to scan or trip, would hardly serve its purpose because it was most likely blocked. Confident the room wasn’t hot, I drew a small flashlight from my duffel and began to search.

  “And what do I need to find?” I murmured as I navigated a pile of tangled electrical cords.

  I tried to stand, but my boot toe hooked under a white cord. I toppled, yet caught myself from splaying out like a fool by slapping a palm to the edge of
a desk.

  How did the woman get around? Who would have thought such a snappy, organically creative mind could be such a slob. This place hadn’t been a disaster when last I’d visited, which had been a few years. Unless, she’d had unwelcome visitors who had trashed the place?

  Didn’t figure. Fitch would never have left it like this.

  Maybe.

  Hell, I didn’t know the woman as well as I should. Everyone changed. (Or at least, tried to.) This may just be normal to Fitch.

  I glanced over a literal Star Central Command of computer equipment. Fitch kept everything on her computer. When she traced a call, it was all done through the computer.

  “She must keep records of all calls.”

  Dancing my fingers over the bamboo spikes of an aromatic oil air freshener released a pungent wave of lemon and mint. I drew in a breath and nodded. I was doing this—breaking into and entering the house of a woman I had, until now, trusted. I was stingy when it came to trusting women, not sure why—oh hell, you know why. The only woman I’d ever trusted had driven away from me.

  Wanderlust. What a foul word.

  I made my way over to the desk of tiny blinking red and green lights. The entire desk was set up with monitors and hard drives and scanners and plastic boxes that hummed with fans and motors and drives. I couldn’t begin to guess at what each did. Aside from an engine, the iPod was as technical as I could manage.

  Bending before the keyboard that looked to be the main one, I tapped the space bar. A widescreen LCD monitor brightened to display a background of two naked men going at it.

  “Oh, Fitch.” I tilted my head, perusing the men’s position. “Is that even possible?” Of course it was. And it was happening right before my eyes. “Plants, Martha Stewart and gay porn. Hmm…Change that theme song to ‘Whip In My Valise.’”

  There were some things a person should not learn, even about their closest friends.

  And that was the pity. I didn’t even know my closest friend, and she may have turned on me.

  Avoiding looking at the naked men, I sat before the monitor and perused the keyboard and various accoutrements attached by twisted cords. A camera, I think, perched atop the monitor like a one-eyed owl. I didn’t know if it was on; it probably was. If I was being recorded I’d better make this snappy. I’d worry about an excuse to offer Fitch later, if she ever questioned me. Hell, I now had blackmail material.

  Possessing but rudimentary computer skills, I was glad Fitch owned a Mac, the kind I had learned on. I double-clicked the icon of a rose in the upper right corner—just above a naked man’s foot—and up popped a window of documents and programs. I scanned through them, feeling more and more that this was a mistake.

  What was I looking for? And why did I think I could extract any information from Fitch’s files? She was the expert. Fitch—

  Behind me, the door clicked and creaked open.

  Instinctively, I sank to the floor, tucking the canvas duffel to my gut and sliding my hand inside it.

  In strode Fitch. The room wasn’t dark by any means, but I hoped to blend in with the mess. Had she forgotten something?

  “I know someone’s in here,” she announced. “I got me a thirty aught six.”

  Slipping the Glock into my palm, I stood, twisting at the waist, and aimed. “It’s me, Fitch.”

  She startled, catching a palm to her breast at the sight of my gun. “Fuck me.”

  “I think it may be the other way around. You fucking me, Fitch?” The aforementioned thirty aught six was brazenly missing. Scare tactic. “How did you know I was in here?”

  “You tripped an alarm.” She pointed to the messy table and shoved aside some clothes to reveal a phone. It had fallen off the cradle, a green light blinked on the panel.

  “Don’t—” I crossed the room, gun held purposefully “—move a muscle.”

  Fitch placed her palms outward and high above her head. Too high, but I wasn’t about to get picky.

  “Oh sure, holding a gun on the defenseless old granny? That’s not very PC of you.”

  “You’re not defenseless, you’re a black belt karate master. And as for being a granny…?”

  Fitch made a bold move, lunging a foot to reach for the phone buttons with her big toe, revealed by walking sandals.

  I squeezed the trigger. The blast startled us both. The monitor over Fitch’s shoulder sparked and blinked out.

  “Damn it all!” Replacing her hands in the air, Fitch then whistled. “Someone has been practicing since I last saw her.”

  “If you’re implying I’m a lousy shot, I don’t know who you’ve been watching target practice.”

  “You just missed me by a mile, sweetie.”

  “In—” I was about to say intentional, but why let on I’d never think to cause her harm, even if she had screwed me up the river.

  “You know why I’m here, Fitch. Who is it?”

  “Who is who?” She dropped her hands to her sides. Drawing a gaze over the smoking monitor with the bullet hole through the screen, she again whistled. “You know how much it’ll cost to replace that thing?”

  I maintained aim. I’d like to rip her head off for turning on me. Still, I hadn’t confirmed that, so I was holding out hope.

  “I bet it’ll cost a lot less than it took to buy you away from me. What’s screwing your friends run nowadays? A hundred euros?”

  “Come now, Jamie, don’t be catty. A hundred euros would barely get me a dinner and a bottle of wine. Unless I go for the cheap stuff—”

  “Someone tried to kidnap me this morning, Fitch. The last-minute pickup wanted me, not a ride. And I know you were surprised to hear my voice when I called. Now, I need a name or—” I switched aim to the large computer on the floor under the desk, guessing it was the mainframe, “—the computer gets it.”

  “No,” she hissed softly.

  Oh yeah, I’d guessed correctly.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought I paid you well.”

  “Jamie, love,” Fitch said patiently. She made to step forward, but the spilled DVDs kept her in place. “I’m not proud of ratting you, but sometimes a woman’s hands are more valuable than another paycheck, if you know what I mean.”

  “You actually believe whoever is threatening you will let you live after I’m dead?”

  “Now, I don’t think they want you dead.” I could only gape at that gentle admonishment. “I would have never agreed to the pickup if I’d suspected something like that. Not my choice. You’ve gotta believe me, darling.”

  No, Fitch was an independent operator. She chose her jobs, she kept her nose clean. If someone was making her do this, they had to have really put the screws to her.

  “I need a name,” I insisted.

  “It’s a wrong—” Sacha Vital made to flip the cover of his cell phone shut. Someone must have dialed a wrong number. He heard a female voice speaking in the distance. And another voice, but he couldn’t determine the identity for the muffled static. Neither was talking to him.

  He pressed the phone to his ear, straining to hear bits of the conversation. He recognized the southern accent. Kennedy Fitch. And—sweet score! The other voice must belong to le lapin.

  “Turn down the radio!” he commanded his driver.

  The car went silent. Sacha could hear bits and pieces, but not enough to figure the content of their argument. Didn’t matter. The call could only be coming from one place. He knew she operated out of a barge. Speed dialing, he formed a plan.

  The phone clicked on. “Thom?”

  I watched Fitch worry her lower lip. She had sold me out. But only because she’d been threatened. Sunday bloody Sunday. What to think?

  “You know I’ve always been truthful with you, Fitch.”

  “I know, damn it! Don’t be pulling the big sad eyes trick on me. I am impervious.”

  “Cold-blooded, more like. Max would have sooner died than endanger a friend.”

  “Oh!” Throwing up her arms, Fitch surren
dered dramatically. “It’s someone you’ll recognize as soon as you lay eyes on him,” she finally offered. “But you won’t know him. Damn it, I don’t know what is going on; I had thought I’d curtailed him for the other—”

  “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

  “Cain’t,” she twanged. “You know how it is.”

  “I thought you were on my side?”

  Fitch shrugged. “I am. I just…I value my fingers. They serve me well.”

  “Someone threatened to…?”

  “Chop them off. Bit by bit. See the slice right here on my index finger?”

  I did. And the cut had to have been deep, for it clearly showed a thick red line of dried blood. I couldn’t ask her to risk so much.

  “So you see?”

  “I do. Hell, what am I going to do? Something is up, Fitch. I’m not safe.” I pressed a hand over my heart, but maintained aim with the Glock.

  “Oh, damn it all to Kentucky! I’m not about to sacrifice you, sweetie. You’ve heard the name Sacha Vital?”

  I wasn’t sure. Sounded familiar. Max had bandied about a lot of names in my presence, knowing I never wanted to pay attention. All I’ve ever wanted to do is drive. “Elaborate.”

  “Vital’s father is a notorious kidnapper. He’s taken royals and politicians in his illustrious history. He’s also big into white slavery. Left his mark all the way from Mexico to Brazil to Tokyo. Right now, he’s sitting in a high-security lockup in New York City. But rumor has it the son, Sacha, has continued the family’s criminal legacy. I just got a name; I didn’t meet him in person. You know how I work.”

  All digital. Conversations were usually voice-altered. Which didn’t explain the cut on her finger.

  “Why would a kidnapper want me?” I dropped my aim and stuffed the gun in my bag. Fitch wasn’t a danger to me. But I wouldn’t let down my guard.

  “Best thing for you would be to hop a plane to the States and never look back,” Fitch said. She shrugged and slapped her palms to the backs of her hips. “Vital’s hot for you after you spoiled the biggest take he could have brought in.”