I nod.
“Then you’ll want a room upstairs. Fewer stray bullets up there.”
An upstairs room would mean a more difficult escape route should the need arise—and it will. Without my cell to guide them to me, Erwin Four and the police might not find me here, but you will. I can maybe fight you off—if I’m prepared, if I take you by surprise—but I can’t fight off a bullet. I take the upstairs room.
“Do you happen to know if there’s a Best Buy nearby?”
She rattles off directions to one a couple of miles away, then slides the keycard under the screen along with the Wi-Fi code. I thank her and head back to the car.
After a few wrong turns, the Regal and I make it to the Best Buy, where I select a midpriced laptop, another piece-of-crap smartphone with a stockpile of prepaid minutes and a pretty pink phone case with butterflies swimming in golden glitter on the back, just because. The grand total comes to $846.23.
“Whoa,” the salesclerk says when I start peeling bills off a wad of cash. “This is Atlanta, girl. Put that away.”
I speed up the counting, even though I know it makes me look suspicious or at the very least, memorable. I also know there are two little cameras mounted to the ceiling on either side of my head, capturing my face in full-color high definition—and that those are only the two that I’ve seen. How many others did I miss on my jaunt around the store? Dozens, I’m betting. I push the thick mound of cash across the counter.
The clerk counts it, then counts it again. It takes him longer than it should. I’m paying in mostly fives and ones, crumpled and wrinkly from the church collection basket.
To be clear, I wouldn’t have taken the money if I didn’t need it, and I won’t be keeping it, not even a penny. Every single cent will make its way back into the Reverend’s collection basket at some point, even if it takes me years to repay it. I close my eyes, press a palm to what’s left in my money belt and remind myself that this is who I am now. Beth Louise Murphy, a runner. A thief.
The clerk passes me my change and a plastic bag bulging with electronics I could have never otherwise afforded. I’m back in the Buick a few seconds later, steering the car down the street to my next stop—a CVS I passed on the way. I pluck a basket from the stack by the door and stroll the aisles, dropping in items from my mental list: black liquid eyeliner, burgundy lipstick, enough groceries to tide me over for a day or two, toothpaste, a box of Miss Clairol. I pay cash and console myself with the only bright spot I can find in this shitty, shameful day: I’ve always wanted to be a redhead.
I’m pulling into traffic when the skies open up, the rain forming a shimmering silver curtain on the other side of my windshield. I flip the wipers as high as they’ll go, but they can’t clear the glass fast enough. I squint into traffic and think maybe the flash flood is a sign, an omen of things to come.
You. You are coming for me.
And I will be ready.
MARCUS
By the time I pick up my rental car at the Atlanta airport and point it north to the city, it’s almost ten, and the highway is dark and slick with rain. It floods the streets and beats on the roof and windows, jamming the lanes with the remnants of one hell of a rush hour. The road in front of me is basically a parking lot of taillights, flashing bright red. I hit the hazard lights, nudge my way onto the shoulder and punch through the gridlock.
The GPS spits me out at 1071 English Street, one of the addresses Jade said had a cluster of IP check-ins to the department website and Facebook page. I ease to the curb and squint through the rain, clocking the fresh coat of paint, the picket fencing, the light spilling from windows lined with frilly curtains. This place is too nice to be a boardinghouse. Way too nice. How the hell does she afford it?
I jog through the rain to the door.
On the covered porch, I lean my face into one of the windows and peer into a living room. Three men are lined up on a navy couch, beer bottles resting on their bellies, faces tipped to a Braves game on a flat-screen. I study their profiles, their clothing, the size of their feet propped up on the coffee table. The middle one. Long and lean and still in possession of most of his hair. He looks like the type to hit on another man’s wife. Is he staring at the TV and thinking about her? Is she in one of the rooms upstairs, thinking about him? Thunder rumbles overhead, and I rub a fist over my breastbone instead of what I really want to do: punch it through the glass.
I take deep breaths until I get myself under control, then ring the doorbell with a thumb.
It’s not one of the men but a woman, tall and curvy in a hot pink robe and hair curlers, who opens the door. She flips on the porch light, and whoa. I stumble backward on the porch planks and look again. That ain’t no woman. Nope. No way in hell.
He looks down his powdered nose. “Can I help you?”
Okay, so the voice belongs to a man, but those breasts. They look—well, if not real, then definitely expensive. I raise my gaze and—oh shit, he caught me.
I gesture over my shoulder, at the rain clattering to the asphalt in sheets behind me. “Some weather, huh?”
He doesn’t seem the least bit amused.
I clear my throat and turn up the charm. “I’m new to town. Just got in, actually. I heard this place has really nice rooms.”
“Sorry. We’re full.”
He starts to close the door, but I stop it with a boot.
“What’s your rate?” I say, giving him a chummy smile. “Because I’ll pay double.”
“I already told you. We’re full.” He looks down at my foot, planted in the open doorway. “Now please don’t make me tell you to remove your boot from my door.”
“Or else what—you’ll call the cops?”
His glossy lips curl in a smile. “Come on, honey. We both know you are a cop. Why don’t we just drop the charade? You tell me why you’re standing here, dripping all over my welcome mat, and I’ll tell you if I can help you or not.”
“I’m looking for somebody.”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t say.”
“Five foot eight, long, dark hair. Though she may have cut it since this was taken.” I pull up a picture on my phone, flip it around so he can see.
He leans down to take a closer look at the screen, and I get a partial view of a woman standing behind him—a knockout Latina in khakis and a T-shirt. Her eyes are wide, her expression frozen in surprise, or maybe fear. I lift my chin, and she steps out of sight.
“Sorry.” The man in the pink robe straightens. He shakes his head, and a curler bobs behind a pierced earlobe. “I’ve never seen that woman before.”
He’s lying. I’ve been a cop long enough to recognize all the signs. The tightening of the skin around his eyes, the way the sarcasm disappears from his tone. He knows.
“Okay, well, I appreciate your time,” I say, stepping back. I flip up my collar, and water runs down the back of my neck. “Y’all have a good night.”
He shuts the door without a word, and I return to my car, sidestepping puddles and grinning like a fool. If she’s not here, then I know where to find her. It was written on the pretty girl’s face, across her generous chest in big, black letters.
God Works Here.
* * *
My eyes pop open at five the next morning, and I’m instantly awake. I flip on the lamp on the nightstand and unhook my phone from the charger, wishing this crappy hotel had room service or a coffee machine because I slept for shit.
The Chief didn’t like my report. He claims it was half-assed, stitched together in a quarter of the time it should have taken me. He told me this in a long, shouty voice mail that ended with him taking me off the case. He’s passing the search for Sabine on to Detective Phillips, and if I weren’t so pissed I’d be insulted. Detective Phillips is a hack, a lazy investigator with questionable tactics and a fifty-fifty success rate. I need to get my ass back to Pine Bluff, like yesterday, to make sure Sabine’s case lands on the right side.
An alert sounds on my phone, and I watch the emails
roll in. Junk, mostly, but between the Facebook notifications and ads for penis implants and energy efficient windows, I spot the one I’ve been waiting for, from Jade. I tap it with a thumb.
Three of the burners are a bust, but one’s still live, the 607 number. No calls yet, but plenty of activity, including loads of check-ins from a hotel on the highway in Atlanta. And jackpot! They have a microcell. When you’re ready to go after her, give me a call, and I’ll help you track her in real time.-J
I toss the phone on the bed and head for the shower.
I’m dressed and behind the wheel of my rental thirty minutes later, a cup of coffee steaming in the holder. The streets are filling with early morning traffic, slowing the drive to the boardinghouse to a crawl. On English Street, I do a quick reconnaissance loop around the block, then park under a dogwood at the far end of the street.
By now the rain has moved on. The sky is cloudless and bright, giving me a clear view of the front door. I drink my coffee and watch the residents file out. The three men from the couch, now in construction gear; folks in kitchen attire, an apron slung over a shoulder; the pretty Latina in a ponytail and the same T-shirt she wore last night. She makes a beeline to an ancient clunker on the street, looking around as if she’s searching for someone. She falls in the car and cranks the engine, and after three tries it catches in a burst of black smoke. I start the rental and follow.
The girl winds her way through the neighborhood and onto the interstate while I stay out of sight a couple of cars back. I already know where she’s going, have already staked out the route from the boardinghouse to the church, and she follows it to a tee. The only thing I’m a little surprised about, and sure, also a little disappointed to see, is that she’s doing it alone. The way she looked at me last night... She knows something. I’m certain of it.
She takes a right onto the church driveway, and I go straight, gawking out the side window. The building is massive, a monster of brick and beige stone built to impress. A megachurch to beat all megachurches. It fills my rearview mirror as I hang a U-turn and pull into a parking lot across the street. I find a spot by the road, kill the engine and reach for my phone.
After striking out with the drag queen, I’m trying a different tactic today. I poked around last night on the church’s website long enough to find a cover—a church mission trip to build a school in Guatemala this fall, and a call for skilled volunteers. I don’t know shit about construction, but I know how to sling a hammer and a nail and some bullshit.
As soon as the clock rounds nine, I start the car and peel across five lanes of traffic.
The blonde seated behind the receptionist desk has an accent as sweet as her pink blouse and fat white pears. A fancy kind of drawl that belongs in a plantation town strung up with Spanish moss. Her name, she tells me, is Charlene.
I lean an elbow on her counter, and she blushes under my gaze. “Nice to meet you, Charlene. My name’s Marcus. I saw on the website y’all were looking for some skilled volunteers for a trip you’ve got planned to Central America. Where was it, Costa Rica?”
“Guatemala.”
I snap, pointing at her with a finger. “That’s right. Guatemala. It just so happens that I run a construction company down in Macon, with a group of skilled and enthusiastic guys who are looking to give back. I was thinking, you give ’em the opportunity, I give ’em a few days off and we make everybody happy.”
She clasps her hands on the desk and leans across it. “Oh my gosh. That’s...that’s amazin’. The Reverend is definitely gonna want to talk to you.”
Batting eyelashes. Lingering gazes. That glimmer of hope when she smiles up at me. This woman wants something from me, she’s making it very clear, but I’m not at all interested—not when I’m this close to my target.
I point down the long hallway to my right. “Is the Reverend in?”
“Oh.” She springs up from her chair, comes around the side. “It’s the other way, but yes. Come with me, I’ll take you right back.”
Charlene leads me down a shorter hallway, stopping before a door at the end. “Reverend, there’s someone here to see you about the Guatemala trip.”
“Send him in,” a voice calls out from inside the room. “And bring us some coffee, if you would, please.”
She turns to me with a flirty smile. “Coming right up.”
The man behind the desk is long and lean, with the sunken cheeks of a marathon runner. He stands, extending a lanky arm. “Reverend Erwin Andrews. How are you with a hammer?”
“Marcus Durand of Durand Construction. And I can drive a nail in three slams flat. So can all my men. Seven of us, including myself.”
“Do any of y’all speak Spanish?”
I laugh. “I don’t know how familiar you are with the construction business in this country, Reverend, but all of us speak Spanish.”
“Excelente,” he says, slapping his thighs. “What about music?”
“What about it?”
“Do you sing? Play any instruments? We could use somebody on bass guitar, banjo would be even better. And we’re always looking to add to the choir.”
This guy’s a trip, in his pressed polo and salon haircut—nothing like the solemn Father Ian. I’m guessing the Reverend didn’t take a vow of poverty.
I shake my head. “Nope, sorry. But my wife is pretty decent on the piano. Or at least, she used to be.”
“Well, bring her along. I’m sure we can get our hands on a keyboard.”
We spend the next half hour going over the details of the trip, dates and costs and required immunizations, all of which I tell him won’t be a problem. The guy’s a talker, and I nod and smile and pretend to listen, when really I’m just waiting for the right moment. It comes as he’s walking me out.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, almost as an afterthought. “I think I passed somebody I know in the hallway earlier, but she disappeared before I could chase her down. She’s the neighbor of a friend of mine who lives in one of those houses on English Street. About yay high, real pretty. Latina.”
The Reverend brightens. “You must be talking about Martina. Yes, she’s been with us for six months now. She’s a lovely, lovely girl.”
I nod, smiling. “That’s her. Please tell her I said hi. Oh, and tell that friend of hers, too. I can’t remember her name.”
“Do you mean Beth? She and Martina are attached at the hip. Or at least they were, until just a few days ago. I’m afraid I can’t talk about the circumstances.”
I raise both brows, try not to let on that my pulse just surged. “I hope everything’s okay.”
He makes a face I take as a no. “I’m certainly praying it is. Include her in yours tonight, if you don’t mind.”
“Consider it done.” I shake the Reverend’s hand for a second time, rattle off another round of thanks, and promise to email him the list of names and passport numbers in the next few days. Then I hurry to my car, one word roaring like a train horn through my head.
Beth.
The bitch is calling herself Beth.
BETH
Room 313 of the Atlanta Motel is as bad as I thought it would be, a dark, damp space that reeks of cigarette smoke and body odor. The bedspread is a throwback to the ’80s, a threadbare, floral thing covered in stains I don’t want to think too much about, which is why I slept fully clothed and curled up under a scratchy bath towel I spread across the sheets. The air-conditioning unit under the window rattled and wheezed all night long, but on a bright note, it drowned out the shouting coming from the room next door.
I haul my body off the bed and turn off the air. The room falls into silence, my neighbors on either side still sleeping off whatever they shoved up their veins. I peek out the curtains onto the catwalk—empty. Beyond it the sun is blazing, beating down on the parking lot with an almost-hostile brightness. People call this place Hotlanta for a reason.
In the tiny bathroom, the remnants of last night’s makeover are lined up on a narrow glass shelf and in s
mudged lines on my face. My emo makeup, black-lined eyes and dark-stained lips that no amount of soap could scrub off, and hair a color God could never have intended. The box promised me a rich reddish-brown, but the chemicals on my short, overprocessed locks came out less Radiant Auburn and more Bozo the Clown. I look ridiculous, but also completely unrecognizable.
I brush my teeth and return to the bed, pulling my new computer from the box and firing it up for the first time. The screen shuttles me through the setup, and I pause at the prompts. Name. Email address. Geographic location. Every one of them feels like a trap, each answer a potential land mine. I think of all the people who are looking for me—the Reverend, Erwin Four, Martina, you—and remind myself to be careful.
Once the computer is activated, I hop online with the code I got at check-in. Say what you will about this shithole motel, but its Wi-Fi is top-notch. The World Wide Web at my fingertips, and at lightning speed.
I enter the address for the local Pine Bluff newspaper in the search bar. The screen loads, and there she is. Sabine, the top story. And then I read the letters above her head, and the room in the air turns solid.
Missing Pine Bluff woman found dead.
A wave of nausea pushes up from the pit of my stomach, catching and swelling in my throat. I hold it back with a hand pressed hard to my lips, but the effort breaks me into a cold sweat.
Sabine is not missing.
She’s not in hiding.
She’s dead.
The knowledge hits me in a cold, horrible, horrifying rush, and I feel weightless. Not quite falling, not quite steady on the bed. I see Sabine’s face on the Reverend’s television screen and each of those times I went searching for more news, hoping, praying she was safe somewhere, hiding. I double over, hugging myself and fighting a sudden pressure in my chest. Is this what a heart attack feels like?
The truth is, I should have expected this. Since I first heard Sabine was missing, I’ve been frantic for some sort of update. The dread has been building for days, trembling in the hollows of my bones during the day, poke-poke-poking me awake at night with a worry that was too big, too terrifying to sleep through. This news has been coming all along. On some level, I’ve always known.
Dear Wife Page 24
