by Cindy Bokma
Run Delia Run
Cindy Bokma
Foster Embry Publishing, LLC
244 Fifth Avenue, Suite E148
New York, New York 10001
www.fosterembry.com
Copyright © 2020 by Cindy Bokma
All rights reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 2020
For Dylan and Riley, with love
Chapter 1
Present
Listen,” I whispered into the phone, clutching the receiver tightly in my hand, “can we stay with you for a couple of days?”
“Of course, however long you like,” my friend Camille answered smoothly. “Juana will set up the guest room.”
She didn’t know the truth, not many people did. How could they? Who would ever suspect it of someone like him?
Stealthy as a thief in the night, I moved around the room trying to not make a mess, although my hands were trembling. I frantically threw items in the suitcase: pants, shirts, underwear, socks, and other random things. I couldn’t be too obvious and take too many items, for then he would notice. No, I had to take what I absolutely needed, but leave enough behind that he wouldn’t know. At least, not right away.
It was all carefully planned, but I would have to do it quickly. I had it designed down to the second. I would leave the house with our son, Will, at noon. We would arrive in Mexico in the early evening; Camille’s driver would pick us up at the trolley station coming in from Chula Vista. We would stay for a few days at the hacienda, and then pick up and move again. It took years of careful planning and now it was time. I closed my eyes and took a breath. It was happening. Finally. But even after all this, there is still that small voice whispering the question, is this right? Am I making a mistake? I listened to the voice for far too long, I ignore her, but she’s still there, like the little devil tapping me on the shoulder.
Connections with some questionable fellows in a seedy part of Los Angeles helped me obtain false identification for Will and me. No longer would my name be Delia Kubias, and I would part with my blonde hair. I would have a new name, a new look, a new life.
The identification cost me plenty, but I was willing to pay whatever they asked. I’d needed cash to cover the cost. I slipped a ruby studded ring from my finger and slid it, along with a Tag Hauer watch, across the counter at a pawn shop. “Whatever you can pay me, I’ll take,” I said.
I had enough cash saved up during the past couple of years, so I would not leave a paper trail with credit cards. I had exercised thrift and shrewd behavior, lying about the cost of the things I bought and pocketing the difference. Despite always being in control of our finances, down to the penny, Leo never found out. This gave me a bit of satisfaction. I tucked away several large and ridiculously expensive jewels into the bottom of my big leather bag. The jewelry would help me raise more cash later when I needed it. I had thousands already, folded up into little squares beneath the folds of my underpants and bras, and tucked into the toes of socks and sneakers.
Certainly, people would talk. People know who I am. Imagine the shock, the scandal. This was Los Angeles after all. News traveled fast and I couldn’t control the speculations that would come later. I knew my name and my face would be splashed in the news, tabloids, and blogs. Leo would be furious, but I wouldn’t be there to see his rage.
But now, as I carefully orchestrated our final hour in the vast Beverly Hills mansion that I called home for the last several years, I couldn't allow myself to think of the gossip hounds, news casts, or reports of what people might say.
Leo Kubias, hotshot movie producer, was right now having a lunch meeting, dining at a four star restaurant with paparazzi outside, cameras ready. He was probably throwing around smiles and winks to charming young ladies, anxious for a moment to show him their resumes or display their acting talents. As far as I knew he never cheated on me. Infidelity wasn’t the problem.
I glanced at my watch, a crystal encrusted pink alligator skin, which was a gift from Leo only a few months ago. I should have sold it at the pawn shop. It was gaudy and it’d bring attention to me. I hated it.
“Come on, Will,” I called, my voice echoing in the staircase. “We need to get going. Turn the tv off.”
I heaved the heavy leather suitcases down the steep, slippery steps one at a time. When the bags were piled by the garage door, Will turned the television off with a puzzled look on his sweet little face. I paused, frowning at my innocent, six-year-old son. I didn’t have time for second thoughts, but my stomach twisted as I wondered how he would react when we didn’t return home to his father, his friends, everything he knew. I shook my head; I didn't want to concern myself with that now. It was in his best interest to get away from Leo, too.
“Where are we going?” Will asked, wrinkling his nose like his father did when he questioned something.
“This is going to be fun. An adventure! You’re going to love it.” My voice was high pitched, unnaturally upbeat. I smiled at my boy, ignoring the pounding of my heart.
My plan had been brewing for so long that the bus schedule had a rip down the middle and the ends were soft from me unfolding it and studying it. I glanced at it one last time and shoved it in my pocket.
As I loaded the bags into the Mercedes, Will buckled himself into the backseat, content for now with a bag of jelly beans, which was usually forbidden by Leo.
“Where are we going? What are we doing?” Will asked, blinking. I answered him, again telling him we were going somewhere exciting. He made a face. I pushed away any lingering feelings of doubt.
I locked the door, making sure on the way out that everything looked normal and right. I filled the fridge with a new gallon of milk and fresh fruits and vegetables, all crisp and indicating that we would be around to eat them.
Leo often left the house late in the morning and came home late at night. Many times I was already in bed when he came home. During the last year, I had taken to sleeping in one of the guest rooms, hoping to throw him off my trail when the time came to leave for good. If he were used to me sleeping in another room, he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t home at all when he came strolling in late at night after a long day.
We drove down the street as if we were simply going to the mall, not leaving the country. On the radio, I turned to an easy listening station, steadying my rapid heartbeat to the mellow hum of the song. With sweaty hands, I drove slowly, carefully. I continued past the well-manicured green lawns trimmed with bright flowers and exotic plants maintained by gardeners and landscapers. The homes were sprawling Tudors and Cape Cods, well-crafted, from the 1930s with ornate wooden doors and stained glass windows.
Will sat in the backseat, done with his candy already, playing with his iPad, a slight smile on his face.
“Are we going to the mall? I don’t want to go there! The store? Not Whole Foods again!” He put a hand to his face and moaned. He moved his head to the slow beat of the song and looked out the window.
He was so innocent and pure. My insides battled with each other, I was taking him away from everything he knew, but I had a very good reason. I was protecting him, wasn’t I?
“We are going on a journey.” I had told him in a whisper last night. He gave me a blank stare and tilted his head. “I love you so much.” I hugged him tightly, smelling the green apple scent of
the shampoo I used on his hair.
I didn’t want to tell him too much. In the morning, he was surprised to find me packing bags and throwing things in the car. It was impossible to be honest about where we were really going or what was happening. I created a story about heading off on a fantastic trip, reminiscent of one of his favorite books where a character goes a hot air balloon ride around the world.
“Remember how we talked about this? Super top-secret trip? No one can know. It’s up to us to keep this secret and pretend to be other people, right?”
I hated myself in that moment. It was too much to ask a child to keep a secret. To not speak the truth went against everything I believed. But we couldn’t stay. I had no choice.
We drove to a less desirable part of Los Angeles. I parked the Mercedes on a side street and left the keys on the passenger seat.
“Come on honey, let’s get these bags out,” I said, lifting the suitcases from the trunk.
Will watched me without saying a word. My son was a deep thinker who lived in his head and didn’t talk much. Leo made me take him to a variety of doctors, demanding answers for our quiet son. Finally, the head physician at the top pediatric hospital pronounced Will perfectly fine and normal.
“He’s obviously not normal,” Leo said, his ice blue eyes flashed like a storm. “I don’t believe you.” Will was in bed, but I knew he could hear the rise of his father’s voice, which echoed down the hall. I pushed the memory from my head; I didn’t have time to look back on everything that brought us here.
I took a wrench from the emergency kit and removed the license plates, and then wrapped them in newspaper and tossed them in a nearby garbage can. Two years ago, at a swap meet, I picked up a bunch of old, rusted license plates for a couple of dollars from a toothless man in overalls. I intended to use them to decorate Will’s room, but instead I hid them in the back of my closet for this very day.
If and when Leo reported us missing, the police would track the Mercedes. Just in case the car wasn’t stolen, as I hoped it would be from this part of town, they might skip right over the Utah license plates.
By leaving the car on a side street with the keys in plain view, I figured someone would be tempted to steal it, strip it, and sell it before the police got a whiff of what actually happened.
I called a taxi from a pay phone that smelled of whiskey and sweat. Within ten minutes the yellow cab pulled up along side the curb. I researched and planned everything out, writing down the name of a local taxi service so when the time came, I could quickly place the call. The location settings on my iPhone were turned off but knowing how anyone could be tracked, I took a hammer to it and tossed the pieces in the gutter. I had a burner phone tucked into my purse.
Leo had placed a tracker on my car, I found it accidentally one day, which was not entirely shocking because I had also discovered he had forwarded my emails to his account so he could read them. Once I knew how Leo watched my every move, I stopped using my phone and stopped emailing from my Gmail account. I removed the tracker for errands I didn’t want Leo to know about but put it back when I went to the mall or library or when I picked Will up from school. How do you outsmart one of the smartest people you know?
Now we waited on the corner of a busy intersection in front of a pool hall. Since it was daylight and we were in full view of the patrons, I didn’t feel nervous or unsafe, even though this was a high crime area. Cars and trucks sped past us, creating a breeze that ruffled my hair. The air smelled like exhaust fumes. Will waved a hand in front of his nose. I put on my cap and sunglasses and waited. I made Will hold my hand and stand right up against me, our legs touching.
“Where are we? What is this place? Can I have my iPad back?” he asked, glancing around, his eyes taking in this new neighborhood he had never seen before. “It smells bad here.”
“This is part of our fun adventure!” I said, forcing a smile. “Do you remember what I told you?”
He rolled his eyes in an exaggeration motion. “Yes. Adventure. A journey but no hot air balloon. Don’t ask questions and have fun.” He said it in a robot voice and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re a silly boy,” I said, squeezing his hand.
After loading our suitcases in the trunk, the cabbie held the door open for us. I told him to take us to Los Angeles International Airport (LAX), departure gate for Southwest. We weren’t flying anywhere, but, if questioned, the cabbie could honestly say he dropped us off at the gate and that might throw Leo off the path for a while, buying us time.
Leo was capable of anything. He had the money and the means to find us. I didn’t want to be found. I didn’t want to risk anything. It was extreme but justified.
At the departure area of LAX, we blended in. A mother and son simply boarding a flight, nothing to see here.
“My legs hurt,” Will whined, dragging his feet.
“I am so proud of you. You’re going to get a big treat for being such a good boy.” I hated bribing him, but I needed him to work with me. We didn’t need any attention like a meltdown in the middle of the airport with people watching my son implode.
Everyone was going about his or her business while my own heart hammered in my chest, my vision blurred from anxiety. My ears rang like alarm bells and I clutched Will’s hand so hard that he cried out. “Mom. You’re squeezing me too tight,” he whimpered from underneath his ball cap.
“Sorry,” I whispered, looking around. Surely, someone would recognize me. I feared at any moment a woman would scream out my name. It was one year ago that Leo and I were featured in Los Angeles Magazine, a full spread of our newly renovated kitchen and an interview with us. Leo was charming to the pretty, blonde reporter, nodding his head and paying her compliments, laughing at her jokes as I sat primly, hands in my lap, plastic grin on my face.
When the story came out, everyone we knew insisted Leo was the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband, perfect father. The public already knew he was a successful businessman, producing quality entertainment, mostly romantic comedies.
He was handsome and wholesome. He was well-dressed, debonair and suave. Each morning he went off to work wearing his sharp designer suit and tie with his Italian leather shoes tied in perfect bows on each foot. He combed his hair back from his head, not hiding the receding hairline but accentuating it, drawing attention to the graying temples. His face was angled with hard cheekbones, a sharp nose, and plump lips. But his eyes were cold, cold like a sharp edged icicle. No one could imagine what he was like behind closed doors.
For a while, I couldn’t go anywhere without someone calling out, “Delia! Delia Kubias!” They mentioned the article, asked questions about Leo and his connections to the famous people of Hollywood. Our photos were in the society pages of magazines; mostly Leo was featured without me. If given the choice, I would stay home curled up on the couch watching a movie, reading a book, or knitting. I enjoyed spending time with Will, reading to him or going for walks around the neighborhood. Oftentimes, Leo dictated that I stay home; he didn’t want to be embarrassed by his slightly overweight (by Los Angeles standards) wife.
Now in the airport, men, women, and children, bustled by with backpacks and carry-ons. Lines for various airlines stretched around and around the dark blue ropes; people standing in lines, waiting with their phones in their hands, staring at the screen before them. The air seemed to buzz. It was stuffy with so many people packed in together, smelling vaguely of cigarette smoke and body odor.
I immediately found an escalator to bring us to the ground transportation level.
“Are we going on a plane? Where’s daddy? I’m hungry,” Will moaned. I struggled to carry four large suitcases while he held his backpack. His little shoulders slumped forward and, despite the ringing in my ears and my own aching back, I experienced a sense of sadness for him.
“Daddy’s not coming with us,” I murmured.
I groped around the bottom of my purse and pulled out a protein bar. His face lit up and he ate
it in three big bites, and then grinned at me with chocolate on his lips.
“I love you buddy,” I said with a smile. The corners of my lips quivered. I hope he didn’t sense the anxiety that coursed through my body.
Will and I waited at the bus stop with other weary travelers. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone; I kept my sunglasses on and my head down. It was dark, damp, and cool where we waited but sweat dotted my shirt. Buses pulled up and moments later, the tires rolled away with a belch of smoke from the exhaust pipe winding into the air and disappearing. I watched people get on and off, struggling with their bags, anxious to stretch their legs, tired, and carsick. The exhaust fumes were enough to make me ill just standing there, or was it fear that made my stomach clench?
Finally, our bus to San Diego pulled up, the door squealed open with a hiss and the driver slowly came out to help us with bags. While smoking a cigarette with two inches of ash at the tip, he loaded our bags into the belly of the bus, which Will thought was exciting.
“The bus swallowed our bags.” he proclaimed loudly.
“Shhhhhhh. Quiet,” I reprimanded him with a hiss. I didn’t want to call attention to us. I purposely dressed both of us in drab colors; I wanted to be as anonymous as possible.
When we finally reached Mexico, I intended on cutting and dying my hair. I had always worn it long and now my fingers were itching to hack it all off. Leo insisted that I wear my hair down my back, blonde, and straight. I longed to chop it off and dye it an unappealing shade without him standing over me, a smirk on his face, telling me I was ugly.
“You were cuter when we first met,” he said recently with a twisted grin on his lips. “Now you’re fat and ugly like a regular housewife.”
He won’t tell me that ever again, I told myself.
Sitting on the bus, on seats that were scratchy and smelled like vomit, Will settled in to draw on a pad of paper and I opened up a magazine, only pretending to read. I couldn’t concentrate. I looked at my watch.
