by John Locke
I watch the EMS guys climb back into the ambulance, put it in gear, and roar past me. I turn my head to watch and see them fl y past a line of parked cars that includes a blue 2004 Toyota Celica—like Mary drives.
I stay put until I hear the director yell, “Cut!” Then I get up and start walking toward Mary’s car. Two coeds are rushing toward me, curious about what’s going on in the park behind me. As they approach, one says, “Any big-time movie stars here?”
“None that I recognized,” I say.
“Told you!” she says to her friend. To me, she says, “Have a nice day,” and they hurry past me toward the film crew. I suppose for Louisville, this is a major event despite the lack of big-time movie stars.
Looking through the windows, I’m positive this is Mary’s car because of all the junk inside. I now know that Mary wasn’t in the fi lm, so why’s her car here? I look around to make sure no one’s watching me as I reach up into the wheel well, feel around a bit, and finally extract the magnetic key box. I retrieve the key, slide it into the door lock, and enter the car. I’m in no rush to check the trunk. I’m hoping to find some evidence that she’s not in the trunk.
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, looking around. Mary’s car is as messy as her garage. There are papers and envelopes and fast-food wrappers all over the seats and floor. It would take an hour to sift through all this crap, and anyway, I doubt there’s anything here that will help make sense of the last few hours.
So the car looks like Mary’s, and it had a key in the wheel well like Mary’s. I open the glove box, and the insurance registration confirms what had seemed so obvious: it’s definitely my sister-in-law’s car.
So where’s Mary, in the trunk? I laugh at the thought.
I shuffle a few items around but can’t find her purse, which means she’s probably having lunch at the Rock Creek Diner.
I wonder if Mary came to see the film shoot this morning because someone told her the actress filming the scene could be her twin. Or maybe she was never here at all this morning. Maybe she showed up for this final shoot because someone called and told her she looked like the actress who’d been at Seneca Park all morning. She might have only been here a half hour or so. Maybe she was one of the park extras just now, one of the people chasing “Limo Schlub!”
I’m feeling much better about the day. Sure, the whole gangster thing was nutty, but they were obviously actors. I’m not as happy about the trick someone played on me with Rachel and the bra thing. Someone obviously found out about my tryst with Karen this morning and wanted to make me squirm. And they’re making Karen squirm about it too, by subjecting her to a fake body.
Maybe that’s why Karen disappeared. Maybe the warning worked, and she wants nothing to do with me now.
I’m not happy one of the actors rendered me unconscious and stole my car this morning, but it all fits in with the theme. I just have to rack my brain and try to figure out who has the motive and means to fuck with me like this.
On the bright side, it turns out Rachel’s okay. No one molested her or tied her up. Someone did pretend to be her and ruined one of her bras trying to make some sort of sick point about my affair, but it’s clear that Rachel doesn’t know about Karen—not yet, anyway. And as far as I can tell, Mary’s safe.
Look in the trunk!
I get out my cell phone and call Karen’s home phone. It rings eight times, and I hang up. I’m sure she’s fine, but I’m worried she might be planning to end things without ever speaking to me again. If so, I’ve got an ace in the hole: her driver’s license. I might be able to parlay that into a discussion about getting back together.
What about her purse? What woman would go off and leave her purse and wallet lying on the floor?
I can only think of two scenarios that ring true: either she’s been kidnapped or she’s part of the hoax.
Part of the hoax? Doubtful. She was too frightened. No one could act it out that convincingly. Her screams were sincere. Maybe the guy in her trunk wasn’t her friend, maybe he wasn’t dead, but she was definitely convinced. And she’s gone, at least for now.
I exit the car and look up and down the street. On the far side of the park, away from me, the film crew and most of the extras are still hanging around. On this end, still a distance from me, people are walking their dogs, flinging Frisbees, and jogging down side streets. I pull out my cell phone and dial Karen’s number again.
I try to remember her office number, but can’t quite conjure it. I give up, dial information, and have the operator put me through. I’ve spoken to Dana, the receptionist, before. She answers, and I tell her it’s me.
Dana says, “Hi, Sam, Karen’s not here yet. Would you like to leave a message on her voice mail?”
“No, that’s all right,” I say. There’s a long pause before I realize I’m still on the line.
Dana notices too and says, “Karen called in sick this morning, but she called back at—” She pauses. I hear paper rustling. Dana’s found her notes. “Karen called at eleven fifteen to say she was feeling better, said she’d be here after lunch.”
I check my watch. It’s nearly one thirty. “You haven’t heard from her since?”
“Not a word,” Dana says. “You think something’s wrong?”
I think something’s definitely wrong!
“No,” I say. “She probably had a recurrence. I’m sure we’ll both hear from her soon.”
“If she calls or comes in, I’ll have her call you,” she says.
“Thanks, Dana.”
I end the call and try Karen’s home phone again and her cell phone, for good measure. Her cell phone prompts a factory-installed voice message: “The cellular customer you’re calling is out of range or out of service at this time. Please hang up and try your call again.”
I end the call and look around the area again but still don’t see Mary. I don’t want to hang around waiting for her. I want to go home and see if I can find a throwaway phone. I’m sure Mary’s okay, and anyway, if she were to show up, what on earth would I say to her?
Hi, Mary, I thought you’ d been killed this morning, so I’m snooping through your car looking for evidence of your death. Oh, and also, I’m wondering if you know anything about my affair with Karen Vogel or if you know who might have kidnapped me this morning, put me in a movie scene, stole my car, wrote some initials on your sister’s bra, and placed it in my laundry hamper, and—oh yeah, while we’re on the subject—do you know anyone who looks just like Rachel that might want to be tied up to the floor of our kitchen and photographed seminude?
I place Mary’s spare key back into the magnetic key box. I’m about to place it into the wheel well when the voice in my head screams, Check the trunk!
I slide the little key box open for the second time, take out the key, place it in the trunk lock, and turn till it clicks. I can’t say if the car has been in the sun for hours like I originally thought, but the metal is hot against my fingertips as I slowly lift the lid of the trunk.
Though widely considered a sports car, the 2004 Toyota Celica has an astonishing amount of trunk space. Mary’s two-door, four-seat model contains seventeen cubic feet of cargo space. Enough volume, it turns out, to hold my sister-in-law’s dead body.
Chapter 14
I’m grounded, but the world around me starts swirling at an insane speed, like I’m stuck in the eye of a tornado, only there’s no flying cow. I want to vomit. I want to fall to the ground and pound my fists and scream until this crazy day ends. But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t do them because—all the madness notwithstanding—I seem to have gained enough clarity of focus to consider that three hours ago, I’d been completely fooled by a photograph of someone I thought was my own wife. So, although this definitely appears to be a dead body, it’s within the realm of possibility that the woman in the trunk isn’t dead or if she is, she might not be Mary.
Keeping my head above the trunk, I reach my hand in and poke her body with my finger. I
f she’s faking, she’s good. I feel around wondering if what I’m about to do will keep me out of heaven. I do it anyway. I poke and prod the body until I find one of her boobs. I pinch it as hard as I can between my thumb and forefinger until I know the woman in Mary’s trunk is not pretending to be dead.
I understand on a gut level I have to do something right now that I don’t want to do. I have to make absolutely certain it’s her. I duck my head a few inches into the trunk, and I’m suddenly aware of the searing stench. It fills my nostrils, burns my eyes, and triggers my gag reflex. I feel the bile working its way up my throat, and I start dry-heaving. I’m forced to turn my head away. I put my hands on my knees and assume the classic vomit stance. Then it dawns on me I’m standing on a public street with my back to a wide-open trunk that contains the body of a dead woman. I spin around, lower the trunk most of the way, and look around carefully to see if anyone is watching me.
I see no one but the dead lady in the trunk and a bunch of people in the park who are busy doing their own thing.
I take a deep breath, lift the trunk a couple of feet, and focus on the woman’s face. I’m certain it’s Mary, but the photograph they gave me of Rachel fooled me, so again, I have to be sure. Fortunately, I know a way to positively identify Rachel’s sister.
Last year, Mary and Parker had the family over for their tenth anniversary. The girls and their mom were giggling over something that turned out to be scandalous by their standards: Mary had gotten a tattoo. Of course, after hearing the explanation, it turned out to be more charming than titillating. She and Parker had gotten each other’s names tattooed on their ring fingers to celebrate the occasion.
“Hurt like hell!” Mary said at the time.
The lady in the trunk is wearing a wedding band that looks exactly like Mary’s. I take another deep breath, prop the trunk open with my left hand, reach into the trunk with my right, and tug on the woman’s wedding ring until I see the tattoo under it that says, “Parker.”
Mary’s dead.
I slam the trunk shut so hard that something breaks and it springs back open slightly. I fall on it, face first. My hands begin shaking uncontrollably. I press them against the hot metal to hold them still. The heat from the metal burns my forehead. I can feel my heart beating in my ears. I try to stand and feel my knees buckle. My stomach lurches, and this time, I can’t hold it back. I vomit hard on the street behind Mary’s car.
Then something hits Mary’s back window just above my head, and an explosion of glass slams into the back of her car, followed by the sound of a gunshot and then another and another! I look up and see four men—not policemen, not actors, not gangsters, but midgets, four of them—running toward me with guns drawn, firing.
Chapter 15
HOLY SHIT!
I run to the driver’s side, fumble in my pocket for the key, and— bam!—Mary’s backseat window, street-side, sends a shower of glass fragments raining through the cabin. Shards of glass are everywhere, including the back of my right ear and neck. I force the car onto the street, smashing the rear of the car parked in front of me. I’m pedal to the metal, but Mary’s Celica is a far cry from my Audi. Still, I’m barreling down Reece, toward the camera truck and puzzled crew and cast members who are trying to jump out of my way. I brake hard to keep from hitting someone. Several shots ring out in unison and hit something metal behind me, making a rat-a-tat machine-gun sound. I glance at the rearview mirror and can’t see anything behind me. Another rat-a-tat sound makes me aware I owe my life to having broken the trunk latch moments ago. It had risen up and caught the bullets that were meant to strike the back of my head. Feeling lucky again, I lurch forward and put Seneca Park behind me.
I’m racing down Reece in a Celica with Mary’s dead body in the trunk—the wide-open trunk! I don’t want to get stuck like this at a busy traffic intersection, so I slow down, take a side street for a block, turn right again, and head back toward the park.
No one on earth expects me to do this, right?
I stop and park a couple of cars away from the corner of Cannons Lane and Rock Creek, not far from where the gangsters parked their limo this morning. I take off my left shoe and sock, place the sock on my right hand, and begin wiping down every surface I might have touched in the front seat. I get out of the car and do the same there, wiping down everything including the wheel well, roof, and top of the trunk. I even wipe down Mary’s ring before lowering the broken trunk.
I hear some animated elfin chatter up ahead and see the four midgets—the ones who’d shot at me moments earlier—thirty yards away, laughing and high-fiving each other before climbing into a waiting limousine and driving off.
What the hell is that all about?
I’d understand if they’d hit me or killed me or stopped me. But they’d only succeeded in scaring me off. Is that what they’re celebrating? And if so, I wonder, why? I think about following them in Mary’s car, but I decide it’s more important to check on Karen.
I put my sock and shoe back on and walk the two blocks back and one block over to my Audi. No one’s blocking me this time. I climb in, back the car out, and start driving to Karen Vogel’s condo.
A shrill noise explodes from under the driver’s seat, and I’m so startled I nearly crash the car.
It’s a cell phone—not my cell phone, mind you, but a new one that’s hidden under the driver’s seat, the same place they’d hidden the photo of Rachel this morning. Only it’s the loudest cell phone ever built. It could wake the dead.
I click the “talk” button. It’s the gangster.
“We got your lady with us,” he says.
They’ve kidnapped Karen!
“You’ll never believe where we found her. Hey, she seems upset. She doesn’t want me to tell you where we found her. Funny, huh?”
“Leave her out of this!” I scream. “What the fuck’s going on here? What do you want from me?”
“You like, you can talk to her now. But only for a second.”
I hear a muffled sound as the phone is being passed, and then a voice shouts, “Sam! Oh my God, these men—”
I feel like I’m on a hundred-mile-an-hour roller coaster to hell, with Stephen King at the controls.
The voice isn’t Karen’s.
Then I hear a scream.
… not Karen Vogel’s scream …
Rachel’s.
The voice and scream are Rachel’s. They’ve kidnapped—are kidnapping—my wife.
“Oh God! Please!” I shout. “Let her go. I’ll do anything. I swear to God, anything. Just let her go!”
“Sam, you sound like you’re ready to talk. So what I want, you go home now, go home, get on your … whatcha call … Web site, wait for my call.”
“Look,” I tell him, “let Rachel go, you don’t need her. If this is about the money, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give you the codes. I’ll give them to you right now. Just let her go.”
“You got the codes memorized?”
“I do.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line while he thought about it. Finally, he says, “Go home, Sam. We’ll call you soon.”
I hear the sound of Rachel struggling in the background. “Rachel!” I yell.
Then I hear a couple of sharp sounds, and Rachel emits a bloodcurdling scream that sickens me to the core. I’m trembling with fury and helplessness, thinking about that Mr. Clean motherfucker putting his hands on my wife. “Rachel!” I yell again but realize I’m speaking into a dead connection.
Chapter 16
I feel trapped, like a rabbit caught in a snare. Would I give up the codes to the fortunes of the world’s most dangerous men in order to save Rachel? Of course I would, the same way a rabbit would chew off its own leg to get away.
Because this shit has got to stop.
I’m on Westport Road, heading home, wondering if the gangster and Mr. Clean are there with Rachel. He seemed t
aken with the idea of where they found her, so my best guess is she was on her way home. Last we’d talked, she was heading to lunch. I’d mentioned I was at the house, and I probably sounded funny to her. She asked if I was sick, so maybe she decided to come home and check on me and got ambushed.
I realize there’s another possibility. Maybe she knows about Karen. Maybe she went to Karen’s condo during her lunch hour. Maybe the gangster picked her up at Karen’s.
Did he pick up Karen too?
No. He would have said. Or Rachel would have said something about her just now.
So where’s Karen Vogel? And why was her purse upended on the kitchen floor?
I want to check on Karen, but I have to get home in order to save Rachel. I’ve known Karen one month, had sex with her exactly once, and my life has turned into a living hell. Mary’s dead, Rachel’s been kidnapped, and God only knows what’s going on with Karen.
I want to pick up speed and get home as quickly as possible, but the road has tapered into two lanes and I’m behind a line of cars. We’re moving, but regular speed. There’s nothing to do but follow the other cars past the church, soccer field, assorted fast-food restaurants, and …
My cell phone rings—mine, not the new one. I pick up.
“You trying to rob me, Sam?”
“Who is this?”
“Donovan Creed.”
Shit!
“No, sir, of course not.” My mind is racing. Creed is the professional hit man, the last guy on the list I’d want to piss off. Why on earth would he think I’m trying to—Wait, the computer! I’d entered Creed’s code a couple hours ago when I thought Rachel might have been kidnapped, before I found out she was okay. Though now she’s been kidnapped for real. Christ, will you just listen to me? Can this really be happening? It must be. You simply can’t make this shit up.
