by Zoe Sharp
It wasn’t subtle but they knew, just as I did, that I couldn’t leave Trey where he was indefinitely. Sooner or later I was going to have to make a move to collect him.
And when I did, the game was going to be over.
***
It had to go on record as one of the slowest car chases ever. Instinct made me turn left at the top of the street, trying to slow down my pursuers by making them follow me across four lanes of traffic to copy the manoeuvre. Fat chance. They pulled out smoothly with only two cars between us.
Damn, but driving on the right was taking some getting my head round.
I trundled through the next two sets of lights sticking bang on the speed limit. Bearing in mind Oakley man’s profession, I didn’t want to risk getting pulled by the cops.
The only experience I had of American traffic stops came through reality TV shows and the movies. If they were anything to go by, even if the officers involved were on the level I was likely to get hauled out of the car and subjected to a pat-down search. I’d no idea if the gun I was carrying wedged into the small of my back was officially registered, but even if it was, it certainly wasn’t in my name.
Mind you, it always seemed to be the State Troopers of the Highway Patrol who engaged in that kind of gung-ho behaviour, rather than the city police or Sheriff’s department. I vaguely recalled that Oakley man had been with the city police. Just how interconnected were the various departments? Was he working on his own, or was someone else lurking in the shadows pulling his strings? I didn’t have a clue.
I kept driving, the area taking a step down with each passing block. My brain was frantically concocting and dumping solutions to my current situation. The beige Buick had moved up to one car behind me, keeping station. Checking in my mirrors, I could see the guy in the passenger seat talking on a mobile phone. If they were calling in reinforcements I couldn’t afford to delay much longer.
I had to do something, but what?
Then something caught my eye up ahead on my left. Every little roadside shop and store, it seemed, stated their business on a sign about twenty feet up in the air, like all their customers were incredibly tall.
“We service and repair Harleys,” this one proclaimed in hand-painted letters that were peeling at the edges. “Bikes bought for cash.”
It struck a chord. I was a dedicated biker myself and had been so for far longer than I’d held a licence to drive a car. If bikers in the US were anything like they were in the UK then I might have found an ally.
I took a flyer, diving across the road and into the parking area without bothering to indicate as I did so. A driver coming the other way blared his horn and shook a desultory fist, but it was more force of habit than passion. The Buick pulled up a little further along on the other side of the road. The two men twisted in their seats and calmly waited to see what I was up to.
The business I’d picked looked run-down and slightly seedy, which was exactly what I’d been hoping for. There was no showroom as such, just a grubby workshop with a huge roller-shutter door to one side, halfway open. Stacks of rusting exhaust pipes decorated the entrance and all the windows had bars on them.
I jumped out of the Mercury and hurried into the workshop. The floor felt sticky underfoot and a hard rock station was playing on a slightly off-tune radio somewhere in the back. Two of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen were working on a stripped-down Electra-Glide with severe front-end damage, while three more blokes of equal size stood around and watched and drank beer.
They were discussing something that involved use of the word “fuck” at least twice every time they opened their mouths, and some of them were being monosyllabic. When they spotted me they shut up fast.
“Oh my God, do you have a phone?” I cried, racking an edge of hysteria into my voice as I rushed forward. “I need to call the cops. Oh God!”
“Yeah, we got a phone,” one of them said slowly, although his manner clearly said that fact didn’t mean I was going to get to use it. The others exchanged nervous glances at any mention of the law. “What’s the trouble?”
“They hit him and just never stopped!” I said, pressing my hands to my face. “I didn’t know what to do, and now I think they’re following me!”
“Who hit who?” asked the biggest guy of the bunch with mild interest, as though any fight he wasn’t personally involved in wasn’t high on his list.
“Two guys in a beige Buick,” I said. “They ran a red light and took out some poor guy on a Harley, just wiped him clean out. And they never even slowed down! I need to call the cops.”
The big guy forgot all about the next mouthful of beer he’d been just about to take from his long-neck bottle of Budweiser. Suddenly I had their utter and complete attention.
“A Harley?” he demanded. “What kinda Harley?”
“I don’t know,” I said, wringing my hands in a suitably girlie way. “It was just one of those big gorgeous bikes, you know?”
“It wasn’t kinda purple was it?” another of the group asked.
I made a show of deep thought, frowning. “Erm, yeah, it might have been.”
“Fuck,” the same man said, taking a step back and shaking his head like a dog coming out of water. “Must be Brad. He left here no more’n five minutes ago.”
“Is that the two sons of bitches over there?” growled the first guy, pointing to the car across the street.
“Oh my God, yes,” I said, feigning terror. “That’s them! They must know I saw the whole thing and I’m going to report them.”
“Don’t you worry none about the cops, lady,” said the big guy, carefully putting his Bud down and picking up a tyre iron. “You just leave ‘em to us.”
The five of them walked out of the workshop and headed straight for the two men in the Buick, uncaring of the traffic that squealed and swerved to avoid them. My pursuers took one look at the grim intent and the makeshift weaponry that was bearing down on them, and took off.
The gang ran back to the workshop and jumped onto the grubby assortment of bitsa bikes that were parked up outside, leaving me standing alone next to the Mercury. I watched them give chase until the Buick made a frantic right turn at the next signal and the convoy disappeared from view.
“There’s one thing you can say about us bikers,” I murmured to myself. “When the shit hits the fan we certainly stick together.”
Then I got back into my car, pulled out in the opposite direction and headed sedately back to the diner.
***
I found Trey elevated to a stool at the counter, recounting a frankly ludicrous story about the fantastic exploits of his recently deceased mythical dog. He had Joyce, another of the waitresses, and two of the other customers as his audience. I walked in on the tail end of it and had to suppress a wince at the sheer lack of believability.
Nothing like keeping a low profile, Trey . . .
Joyce’s expression when she caught sight of me showed she clearly knew something was amiss with the whole setup, even if her younger workmate was proving more gullible. When he realised I was standing behind him Trey bounced out of his seat and shut up, looking more than a little guilty.
I slipped Joyce a tip out of all proportion to the cost of the food Trey had managed to consume in the time I’d been away. She tucked the folded bill away into the pocket of her apron so fast it was almost sleight of hand, but her face stayed cool.
“So, what’s up?” Trey demanded as we walked out of the diner. “You went home, yeah? Is Dad OK?”
I didn’t trust myself to answer him until I’d unlocked the car and we were back inside, then my temper flashed.
“For fuck’s sake Trey! Do the words ‘acting suspiciously’ mean anything to you at all?” I threw at him. “When I left you all you had to do was look miserable and say as little as possible. Why you should find that difficult, God only knows! You’ve certainly managed it perfectly well all day. But no, you had to go shooting your mouth off.”
The shell grew back
around him almost instantly. I watched it harden over and cursed myself inwardly. Oh great, now we have the sulks again.
I sat back in my seat and let my breath out. “OK,” I said, trying to start again, calm, sensible. “Yes, I went back to the house. There was nobody there. Not only that, but the place has been cleared out – no clothes, no personal possessions. There’s just the furniture left. It’s like you were never there.”
“What about Dad?” Trey asked, sounding subdued.
“I’m sorry, there was no sign of him,” I said, as gently as I could. “I ran into one of your neighbours – Mr Brown. He reckoned he saw Keith loading up a U-Haul truck this morning. Even asked him to give a key to an estate agent.” I paused, flicked the kid a sideways glance. “Did you know your father was planning on moving out today?”
Trey shook his head mutely and that was the last I could get out of him. I didn’t think telling him about the two guys in the Buick was going to gain me anything other than scaring him half to death, so I kept their part in the proceedings to myself. With another sigh I started the Mercury up again and pulled out onto the road.
It was a little after four o’clock. Traffic was starting to heavy up for the evening rush hour and the quality of the light was already changing, softening down from the usual harsh brightness. I’d discovered that night arrives fast in Florida. You get maybe twenty minutes of sunset around six-thirty, then the day’s dead.
The idea of driving around all night didn’t appeal to me. Not in a car that the bad guys could easily recognise. Particularly not with Trey in the passenger seat. We needed shelter and somewhere to hide, and the sooner the better.
I was already heading towards the coast and the closer to the sea you got, the greater the proportion of motels to other buildings. I picked the first one that looked reasonable. Not too smart, not too shabby. The neon sign out front said they had vacancies and free HBO. Nevertheless, Trey looked horrified when I turned in.
I drove straight through the parking area to the back of the small diner next door where the Mercury couldn’t easily be seen from the road, and reversed into a space. The car only had a numberplate on the back and there was no point it making it easy to read for anyone doing a casual drive-by.
I switched off the engine. “Stay here,” I said. “Lock the doors when I’m gone and if anyone comes, hit the horn and don’t let them in. OK?”
He shrugged and muttered, “OK.”
I walked back to the reception via the central courtyard. The motel was made up of ugly two-storey blocks of accommodation lining the car park on three sides. Each block had ten rooms per floor. Their doors were all accessed from open walkways at the front with stairwells at either end. It looked more depressing from here than it had done when I’d picked it, but I wasn’t going to go back and admit defeat to Trey
I walked into the reception, which was small and nastily lit by a string of fluoro tubes across the water-stained ceiling tiles. It smelt of coffee that was brewed two days ago and has been on the hot plate ever since. The black girl behind the counter met my arrival with unsmiling lack of enthusiasm. Her name badge told me her name was Lacena. She had hair so elaborately styled and set it looked like a sculpture, and her fingernails were too long for her to have been able to put contact lenses in without the serious danger of losing an eye in the attempt.
She took an imprint of my credit card and a cursory glance at the photograph on my UK driver’s licence. Apart from my name, I filled in a completely fictitious set of details required on the registration form and took the key making as little eye contact as I could get away with.
Trey hadn’t shifted when I got back to the car. He’d even had the sense to slump down in his seat. I tapped on the window and he followed me silently to the room we’d been given.
We were in the left-hand block, on the top floor in the end room furthest from reception. The number on the key fob read 219, which was ambitious considering there were only around sixty rooms. Maybe they were just trying to make the place sound bigger than it was.
I opened the door on a pair of twin beds with cigarette-singed floral covers. The low-wattage bulb made the whole place look dingy and depressing.
“Oh man,” Trey moaned. “This place is a dump.”
He grabbed the remote control for the TV and flopped down on one of the beds. Even channel-hopping didn’t appease him, as he soon discovered that the promise of Home Box Office movies was a broken one. The picture on the other channels was so badly adjusted they were just about unwatchable. Still, there were hundreds to go at and he seemed determined to try every one.
I left him to it, pulling the edge of the curtain back slightly and looking down on the car park. It all looked quiet. No-one new had arrived since we’d checked in.
In my head I backtracked, replaying the conversation I’d had with Livingston Brown III outside the house. So Keith Pelzner had gone, apparently of his own accord. Sean, on the other hand, had not gone quite so willingly. I would have put money on it.
Then a man who’d come to the house as a policeman – and I could only assume he was a genuine cop – had followed Trey and me to the amusement park and tried to grab the kid. Something about the setup didn’t quite hang true. I kicked and pummelled at my lumpy thoughts, trying to break the sense out of them. Then my brain tilted, and in the light of what Brown had told me I began to look at things from a slightly different angle.
Supposing Oakley man hadn’t followed us? Supposing he didn’t need to, because he already knew where we were going to be? After all, Keith knew exactly where his son was heading. Exactly.
Just after he’d handed me that wedge of cash that morning he’d turned to the boy and said, “I suppose you’re gonna drag Charlie onto your favourite old woodie until one of you is sick, huh?”
Oh yes, Keith had known precisely the area of the park where we could be located, and that’s just where Oakley man had picked up our trail. I saw again the gun in his hands, the people scattering. The woman he’d shot fell again before my eyes.
But if the cop was there simply to snatch Trey, why had he fired at us?
I let the curtain fall closed and turned away from the window, moving to sit on the empty bed.
“Trey,” I said. “We need to talk.”
He sighed and clicked off the TV. I got the feeling his reluctance was more to do with a desire to avoid the subject rather than fascination with a fuzzy game show.
“OK,” he said. “Talk.”
“Have you any idea where Keith might have gone, or why he’s disappeared?”
He shrugged. “Sounds kinda like he’s run out on me, doesn’t it?”
I might have known this would be all about Trey. “Why would he do that?”
Another hunch of those skinny shoulders.
I waited, and when that seemed to be as much of an answer as I was going to get I added carefully, “Is there any reason you can think of why your father might want to harm you?”
His head snapped up at that, eyes unnaturally bright. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I can think of plenty.”
I sighed. God preserve us from teenage angst. “He’s your father, Trey, why would he want to do that?”
“Why not?” the kid threw back at me, his voice oozing with bitterness. “He already murdered my mother.”
Five
For a moment I sat very still, my face expressionless while my mind reeled. I skimmed back over every chance remark and casual word I’d overheard since I’d arrived in the Pelzner household and came up blank.
No-one had mentioned Trey’s mother.
From somewhere I’d formed a vague impression that it was a bit of a sticky subject as far as Keith was concerned, but I’d no idea what the official line was on her whereabouts.
I glanced at the boy. He was worrying at one of the burn holes in the bedspread with the end of his finger, staring fixedly at the bed. His other hand was clamped onto his own wrist so tight the knuckles showed up as a row of whitene
d double indentations. I wavered over believing him or dismissing the whole thing as another of his fantasies.
“What happened to her?” I said quietly.
“When I was a kid we were living up in Daytona and she and my dad used to fight all the time,” he said, speaking so low I could hardly hear him. “One night they had this mega row, like total war, screaming at each other and throwing stuff. The next day, when I got home from school, Dad told me she’d gone.”
“It happens,” I said, disappointed at the lack of concrete evidence – or just of fresh laid concrete in the back garden. I tried not to put anything into my voice, one way or another. “Marriages break up every day.”
He speared me with a single vicious look. “She would never have left me,” he said, vehement. “Oh she talked about going, but she swore she’d take me with her. She swore. Every time after they’d been fighting she’d come into my room and sit on my bed and cry and tell me how she’d find a place for us real soon, and it would just be the two of us.”
He sniffed, letting go to wipe the back of his arm across his nose. He’d been gripping so tight he’d left reddened finger marks on the skin of his wrist. His hand still picked at the burn hole in the bedspread, which was now big enough for him to get his fist into, and growing all the time.
I eyed the oblivious destruction. “How long ago did your mother disappear?”
“Five years,” he said. “It was right around the time I turned ten. She’d promised me this real big party. The best ever. Dad was going on at her how we couldn’t afford it, ‘cos he wasn’t doing so good then. But that’s how I knew, when she didn’t come home, that it was down to him.”
I closed my eyes momentarily, trying to get a handle on the logic. OK, supposing just for a moment that there was any grain of truth in all this. Supposing Keith Pelzner had murdered his wife five years ago. It seemed far-fetched, but then so did being pursued and shot at by an imitation or off-duty cop in an amusement park. So did being followed in broad daylight by a couple of hardcases in a Buick.
