Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  “Whoa, what’s wrong, you having a bad hair day?”

  It was Fred DeLuca. I promised to call him from Atlanta, then rushed out of the house. In the car, my stomach heaved. I was still far from one hundred percent, but I craved action more than I needed bed rest.

  The motor turned over easily. Five minutes later, I was passing the domed gates that mark the entrance to Telham Village. I pedaled the gas and switched on the radio. The weather report was pretty grim. Four inches had fallen, and more was on the way. The road was slick, especially when it started running parallel to the Stone Hill river. I checked the car clock. Quarter after four. At the current speed, I’d probably miss my flight. There was one more flight, at eight-forty, but I knew from past experience that even a single hour could make the difference between a successful and a failed skip trace. And unless there was a last-minute cancellation, I’d be out of luck.

  If Maggie was smart enough to use someone else’s credit cards, she was smart enough to know how easily her movements could be traced. Obviously, this woman was desperate to disappear for a while. I just didn’t know why.

  I sliced into a bank of fog that completely obliterated the road. The car skidded into the left lane. In the rear view mirror, I could just make out the glow of headlights charging toward me. In a flash, I decided to make a sharp turn onto Snow Hill Road instead of edging back into the right lane. The short cut over the mountain was twistier, but free from fog. I picked up speed, whipping around the curves with a recklessness that made my blood rush. Finally, my limbs began to heat up. Branches from the pines lining the road slapped against the windshield, pounding the car roof with miniature avalanches. I felt like singing.

  My foot twitched from the gas to the brake and back again. It was like music, the rhythm pounding in my veins. Good, I thought, as my flesh began to sweat, the thermals growing damp around my thighs, in the small of my back.

  Under my skin, bullshit. I could expel the memory of K.T. as surely as I was discharging the poison from my blood.

  I fishtailed around an S-curve, a satisfying crunch rattling the car. Must been a rear light, I mused indifferently. I glanced into my rear view mirror to see if my brake lights were working. Dim headlights were still behind me, matching me curve for curve. The adrenaline rush derailed. I hunched over the wheel and hit the accelerator. There was a series of tight curves ahead that were a challenge even on a clear day. I took them at top speed. The car behind me kept pace.

  I checked again. No. It hadn’t kept pace. The lights were gaining on me.

  My confidence shaken, I scanned either side of the road with concern. I’d driven Snow Hill many times in the past. I was smack in the middle of a wooded stretch that ran for three miles, without so much as a mailbox to indicate signs of inhabitation.

  Concentrate on the road, I warned myself. But I was edging around the curves with less sureness now, my wheels swerving in the thickening snow. Another glance in the mirror made me gulp hard. My pursuer was close enough for me to identify the make of the car. A Ford Bronco. A four-wheel drive van with chains on its tires. The vehicle was tearing up the road like a snowplow.

  The driver was invisible behind the rapid swish of windshield wipers and the spit of snow from the van’s wheels. But as I felt the jolt on my bumper, the intention was clear. The Bronco was trying to run me off the road.

  I turned my eyes back a second too late. I bounced over a snow drift and landed hard on my front tires, the back tires skidding violently to the right. A second later, I felt another impact that rattled my jaw. I revved the engine and jerked forward. A speed sign warned me to slow down to twenty-five. I gritted my teeth and pressed the speedometer to forty. By now, my heart was beating so fast I was afraid I’d pass out. I took the next turn way too fast and lost my nerve, slamming hard on my brakes. The car spun one hundred and eighty degrees, sideswiped a young birch, then shot over the shoulder. With a jolt, I smacked into a snow-filled ditch, the shoulder harness whipping me back with a snap.

  My head wrenched forward, glancing off the steering wheel. In shock, I stayed like that for a moment. Then I rapidly released my seat belt, fumbled for the lock, and fell into the snow. I didn’t have to turn around to know the Bronco had stopped as well. The rushing silence was horrifyingly articulate. I plunged ahead into the woods, the snow blinding me. There was nowhere to run. Already, the snow was calf high. Despite my bravado, I knew I wasn’t strong enough to outrun my pursuer. The chill had penetrated my bones again and I felt as if an ice pick were cracking through my scalp.

  The ground sloped suddenly and my toe caught on an unseen root. Tumbling headfirst, I rolled forward in a whitewashed hush. When I landed, I spit blood onto my parka. Then I gave up. I turned around, ready to greet whoever had chased me here.

  Surprisingly, I was alone.

  My eyes darted in every direction. All I could see was the hard-driving snow. Even the road was invisible from here.

  Even the road.

  I spun around, panicked, each intake of breath a fiery assault. I forced myself to stop. The icy air sandpapered my cheeks. Sweat beads on my forehead began to freeze. Using the back of my wool gloves, I patted my face dry, then unfolded my turtleneck till it covered my mouth. I was still shaking, but my breath was less ragged.

  Stay calm, I urged myself frantically.

  Right. Three miles from anywhere in the middle a snowstorm. Why worry? I was surrounded by evergreens and brown-edged rhododendron stretching in every direction, the only trace of color visible. Where the hell was the road? I was on the edge of state game land. If I headed in the wrong direction my chance of surviving would plummet from improbable to “don’t count on it, kid.”

  All I had to do was follow my own footprints back up to the road. I studied the drifting banks of snow and felt my hopes shrivel. The snow and wind had already swept away my trail. I squinted into the wind. I knew I had fallen downhill, but there was no slope discernible. The snow had rendered my surroundings dimensionless. It was as if I were standing amid a cloud. A strange peacefulness descended on me. For an instant, the cold dissipated and I wanted nothing more than to lie down. Then a sound, a moving stillness in the muted rush of air, jerked me back to attention.

  Snow masked the details, but I could just make out the swash of cocoa-colored fur as it bounded around a bramble a few yards away. It stopped short, sensing my presence. My first thought was, the bears had not yet begun hibernating. But then its head turned toward me. The buck’s antlers were magnificent, the glint in his eyes at once defiant and indifferent. He bowed his head, once, then disappeared into the cover of snow.

  The buck had unmistakably come downhill. I fixed my sight in that direction and started trudging through the drifts. Within seconds, I realized my eyes were useless against the snow. I had to rely on instinct. And I had to keep moving. Even as I paused I could feel my toes and fingertips losing sensation. I closed my eyes, bent my head into the wind, and concentrated on the crunch of snow under my feet, the steady pulse of the wind. I felt the ground pulling up and I knew I had found the slope.

  When I opened my eyes, I was a few feet from my car. I dove inside, pumped up the heat, and dug my elbow into the horn.

  Chapter Nine

  I opted for first class. It seemed that there had been several cancellations due to the snow. Dry socks and new sneakers on my feet, a cup of coffee between my palms, and lobster thermidor in my stomach, I was remarkably content.

  A state trooper had responded to my horn’s relentless blare. I lied pitifully about my dying grandfather back in Decatur, until tears formed in the young stud’s eyes. He turned on his siren and in the spirit of the holiday whipped me over to the local airfield. American Express took care of the rest. I had missed my scheduled flight, but caught the eight-forty, which didn’t take off till midnight. I didn’t care. I was warm and full. Best of all, I was alive to take revenge on the bastard who had run me off the road.

  Of course, there was the possibility that the
driver was unrelated to either Noreen or Maggie. But I doubted it. The timing was too coincidental. For the hundredth time, I reviewed the list of people who knew I was on the way to Atlanta. Dean, of course. Then Helen and Amy. Shoot. I had opened my stupid mouth to Douglas Marks and Fred DeLuca. Who the hell didn’t know I was leaving town?

  I downed the last sip of coffee, flipped up the food tray, and dragged my overnight bag from under my seat. A flip of a switch and a perky beep told me that my Dell laptop had valiantly survived the accident. I wasn’t sure my new Subaru had been so lucky.

  I stared at the list of names, struggling to figure out who could have been so anxious to get rid of me that they had run me off the road and presumably left me for dead. The only logical explanation was that someone figured I knew too much. Then another thought hit me. Maybe it’s Maggie who knows too much.

  After fifteen minutes of staring at the screen, I rubbed my eyes, suddenly bone-tired. I glanced at my watch. Nearly one in the morning. The plane would be landing soon. I tilted back my seat and closed my eyes, the image of a blue-hooded flower flickering just at the edge of consciousness.

  The doorman opened the taxi door with a condescending nod. I knew I looked like hell. The flight attendant had mentioned it to me sympathetically when I downed two brandies shortly after take-off.

  The Hotel Nikko was a class operation. The place was Japanese-American modern chic, complete with a gurgling rock garden and black glass and marble check-in counter. I propped myself up on my elbows and waited for the cashier to hang up the phone. I was seconds from collapsing and this jerk with a hawk-nose was whining to his girlfriend about having to work a double shift on Thanksgiving eve. After a minute, I thumped the counter like a true New Yorker. He hung up with a grimace, then turned on the charm. I checked his name tag.

  “Hi, Billy. I called earlier. I wanted to surprise my sister Noreen. Is the room next to hers still free?”

  His eyebrows furled together. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to appreciate his next words. “Sorry. She checked out a little while ago. Just after your mother showed up. I guess your family doesn’t communicate too well.” He was trying to be cute. I wanted to slap him. I just didn’t have the energy.

  “My mother?” Even to my ears, my voice was shrill.

  “Yes, ma’am. I don’t mind telling you, your family’s been marching through this place like Sherman.” I noticed he heightened his Southern accent for effect. I groaned silently.

  “What did my mother look like?”

  With a subtle flare of his nostrils, he described an elderly woman who could be anyone or no one. Matter of fact, it sounded as if whoever “mother” was had done an exceptional job of impersonating the kind of homeless person who propels others into mystical meditations on shoe leather.

  “Great.” I needed an aspirin badly. I rubbed my temple and asked, “Did they happen to say where they were headed?”

  He shook his hawk nose at me, obviously bemused. “They didn’t leave together. Your mother said she needed to make a phone call. I had to give her a quarter,” he said meaningfully. “Two minutes later, your sister called down for her messages. I told her your mother was in the lobby and she hung up. Next thing I know, the old—” He caught himself and smiled. “Your mother caught a cab.” He scratched his stubbly chin and laughed. “Man, you Northerners.”

  “When did Noreen leave?”

  “I’m not sure. I was on my break.”

  I tried to match his laugh, but snorted instead. Nothing like a world-class goose chase to piss someone off. Without another word, I headed back toward the front door. It was already three-forty. The first flight to Newark left at 7:00 a.m. I intended to be the first one in the cabin. Assuming there were seats available.

  “Hey, Ms. Finnegan!”

  It took me a second to realize Billy was calling me. I barely had the energy to turn around.

  “I almost forgot. I got another message for Noreen after she checked out. She told me she was waiting for an important message. Thought this might be it, so I took it down thinking she might still call in.” He was waving a striped sheet of paper that I suddenly wanted very badly. I practically snapped Billy’s wrist as I jerked it from his hand.

  Message delivered for Noreen Finnegan at 12:40 am:

  Your sister Ellen called. Said she’s sorry you had to wait so long. She’s home now. Come by as soon as you can. The apartment is listed under Addison.

  The Peachtree address couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes away.

  I don’t remember tipping Billy. But I should have slipped him a ten.

  The cab driver was a Haitian who, for some reason, wanted to know if New York City had as many gays as the papers said. I had never seen any official numbers so I wasn’t too helpful. We had a brief but fascinating political discussion before he dropped me off at the Peach Haven development, on Peachtree Street near the corner of Peachtree Road. If the word peach is ever stricken from Atlanta addresses, half the city will be nameless. At four-ten in the morning, I found the thought hilarious.

  The upscale development consisted of seven painfully modern buildings, none taller than four stories. I headed down a brick path lined by — what else? — peach trees and magnolias. Giddy with lack of sleep and the excitement of tracking down Noreen’s sister, I could barely focus on the brass address plates. Finally, I hit on the right one. A quick scan of the windows told me which floor probably housed Ellen Finnegan. In an otherwise darkened building, seven windows on the third floor were blazing.

  The intercom plate looked like oiled steel. I scanned the names, which read like the roster for the Mayflower. Jefferson. Madison. Aldicott. I pressed the button next to apartment 3F, T. Addison, and waited.

  The reply was almost instant. Without asking my name, the party on the other end buzzed me in. In New York, I would have had to supply my driver’s license and birth certificate.

  The elevator doors slid open so fast I barely had time to check my image in the corner mirror. I charged out just before they snapped shut again and collided with a woman who looked nothing like Noreen. Blonde hair teased into a Dolly Parton coiffure, she was an aging debutante. Here it was, the dead of night, and the woman was wearing a pearl choker with matching earrings, a tidy shirt-collar dress with puffed sleeves trimmed with lace, and delicate leather pumps. The only thing not delicate about her were her boobs, which strained against the dress’s cotton fabric like a cat trying to fight its way out of a plastic bag. I had a feeling they rarely won.

  She looked at me quizzically and asked, “Noreen?”

  That answered my first three questions. This was indeed Ellen. She had no idea what her sister looked like, and Maggie had failed to inform her of Noreen’s demise. I almost giggled. This day was definitely one to remember.

  I took her by the elbow and said, “We better go inside.”

  She nodded, apparently dumbstruck, and led me through the open door at the far end of the corridor. My stomach sank at the sight of her meticulously arranged home. Ellen was a woman who liked order. And I was about to shoot it to hell.

  The Berber carpet was camel, the wallpaper had pale yellow stripes with hand-painted vines running along the border, and the casement windows were so clean the glass was invisible against the night sky. Opposite the couch was a mahogany wall unit in which books were arranged by size, and knick-knacks by composition—crystal figurines on shelf one, ceramics on shelf two, and pewter on shelf three.

  Ellen lowered herself into a Bentwood rocker and said, “You don’t look like me at all.”

  I exhaled abruptly and shook my head. “I’m not your sister.”

  Apprehension sprang into her eyes. “Then who—”

  I spent twenty minutes trying to explain. When I was done, Ellen’s composure had completely dissolved. She blew her nose noisily with a handkerchief she had retrieved from the bedroom, then crossed to the wet bar separating the living and dining rooms.

  “This Maggie,” she said with dist
aste as she poured herself a bourbon, “this Maggie may have killed Noreen?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Do you mind explaining—”

  “Again?” She grimaced as the liquor went down her throat. Obviously, Ellen was not a practiced drinker. I was relieved. “Why not?” she said, pointing the bottle at me as an offer. I waved my hand and waited for her to begin.

  “My husband Tyler works for American Airlines. The company just transferred him to Dallas, so I’ve been down there the past two weeks examining properties.” She licked a drop of liquor off her lips with such salaciousness that I wished I hadn’t turned down the drink. “I just got home a few hours ago. You can probably tell from the mess.”

  I looked around. In the hallway was a single bag of tweeded Samsonite strapped to a luggage cart.

  She threw another ice cube into the glass and continued, “The first message came in on Sunday. She said it was Noreen. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t her? We had only talked once before.”

  Shifting uncomfortably in the straight-backed couch, I asked, “When was that?”

  “Last April. A detective tracked me down. What was his name. Oh, yes. George Morris. Apparently, I was the first one he located.”

  “The first one?”

  “There were six of us. Three girls and three boys. I’m the youngest.” She swirled the glass with a teal stirrer shaped like a coyote that made me crave margaritas and chips, then she sat down next to me. “When our parents died, a cousin took me in. I was raised here in Atlanta.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Susan, the woman who raised me, didn’t think it was wise to stay in touch with the family. This may sound cruel, but I have to agree with her. I don’t remember much of those early years, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Her chin jutted toward me defiantly. “That’s what I told Noreen when she called.” Then, as if she remembered Noreen’s fate, her eyes softened. “I know she was my sister, but she was a total stranger to me. You have to understand, I was was just four when the house burned—”