Made for Murder

by Julie Hyzy

  The dark-skinned girl behind the counter smiled. “May I help you?”

  Jen ordered three pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes and an iced tea with lemon.

  The girl thanked her, looked over Jen’s shoulder, and asked, “Will these be together?”

  Jen turned.

  Hippie man stood directly behind her.

  “Hey, there,” he said.

  Jen took a step back, banging her butt against the counter.

  He held something in his hand, and smiled, proffering it. “Did y’all lose this?”

  Jen stared at it, not comprehending. It couldn’t be her cell phone. Her right hand instinctively grasped at the pocket on her purse where she kept it.

  Empty.

  Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “It must have fallen out.” The stranger tapped Jen’s purse. It was a too-familiar gesture, and she pressed further backward against the counter.

  He handed her the phone.

  She made herself say, “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, his drawling tone guileless, his face blank. “Y’all should be more careful. Somebody gets ahold of your personal info, there’s no telling what they could do.”

  “Excuse me,” the chicken-order girl said.

  Jen turned to answer her, not wanting to turn her back to the hippie, not wanting to be in this store a moment longer. “No,” she said in a sharp tone, “not together. I’m by myself.”

  The moment the words escaped, she wished she could call them back. Should have made it sound like she was meeting someone. Should have faked it better.

  Jen paid for her meal, then stood off to the side to wait. She had half a mind to bolt without her food, but realized she was probably giving too much weight to coincidence.

  Just because the guy showed up at the same fast-food place didn’t mean anything. After all, he didn’t act threatening in any way. Well, except for tapping her purse. That had felt—funny. The “uh-oh” feeling to warn little kids about Stranger Danger.

  Jen took a deep cleansing breath. Too much imagination would be the death of her.

  She shuddered. Bad thought.

  The hippie finished ordering, and sauntered over. Jen kept her back against the wall.

  He was late-forties, wearing faded blue jeans with a rip in the left knee. The T-shirt she’d seen from the car wasn’t plain white. It sported the name, “Geeks and Freaks,” and the satellite logo on the front. The guy apparently had a job, maybe even his own business. How dangerous could he be?

  The girl from the counter called to them. “Oh, are these for here or to go?”

  Jen said, “To go,” just as the hippie answered he wanted his for here.

  Letting her shoulders relax, Jen even offered a tentative smile of her own as he stood next to her, a respectable distance away.

  “So, where y’all from?” he asked.

  Surprise made her slow to react. “What makes you think I’m not from around here?”

  He reached in to invade her space yet again. Fingering the car keys that dangled from her purse strap, he smiled as they clacked together. The chain boasted the name of her rental car company in bold letters. “Dead giveaway.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “So?” He raised his eyebrows, making a little wiggle with his head, prompting her to respond.

  “Chicago,” she said, because she couldn’t decide on a lie fast enough.

  “Chi-ca-go,” he repeated, elongating the word as though making fun of Jen’s pronunciation. “Makes sense.” His gaze wandered over her. “Midwestern accent, Midwestern look.”

  Jen pressed her lips together.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m being too forward. Nasty habit of mine.” Taking a half-step closer, he extended his hand. “Name’s Pik.”

  “Pik,” she repeated, reflexively offering hers in return. Like his license plate.

  Rough. His hand was calloused and dry—scratchy against the cool dampness of her own.

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Suits me, don’t you think?”

  “Nice to meet you.” Extricating herself as she made the rote reply, she glanced toward the counter where her meal was being prepared by two chattering old women in matching blue caps.

  Jen’s nerves jangled with uncertainty—but a little conversation never killed anyone, right?

  Another bad thought.

  Behind the counter, one of the elderly women tottered over to the drink dispenser.

  “So, where you staying?” he asked.

  This time Jen had a lie ready. “Bradenton.”

  He scrunched up his face. “Really?” His tone was skeptical. “Whereabout?”

  She shrugged. “Just north of Cortez.”

  “Why are you all the way out here then?” He gestured. “Especially a place like this?”

  She shrugged again, watching her iced tea trickle into a tall paper cup.

  He moved sideways, blocking her view. “You sure you don’t mean Sarasota?”

  “I’m sure,” Jen said, forcing a smile. She stepped around him and knocked her knuckles on the stainless steel counter. “It’s fine,” she said, stopping the woman. “I don’t need a lemon. It’s fine.”

  Flustered, the elderly lady turned fast, clipping the counter’s edge with the full paper cup. Iced tea shot across the shiny expanse. “Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jen waved away the blue-capped workers who’d moved in to clean up. “It’s okay,” she said. In one movement, she grabbed her bag of food and started for the door.

  “But your tea,” the older woman said.

  Pik stood directly in Jen’s path. He waited a breath too long before moving out of her way. As she passed, he moved back in, and their arms touched, sliding against one another, oh-so-briefly, but enough for Jen to realize he’d made it happen. He’d touched her on purpose.

  “Nice meeting you,” he called to her.

  She didn’t turn.

  Early the next morning, Jen thanked the photo department clerk as he rang up her finished prints. Nothing was open yet, except this twenty-four hour drugstore and a couple of gas stations. Carrie was probably at breakfast now—the kids were scheduled for an event at the Opera House at nine.

  She took the fat packet of pictures back out to the car, started the engine and cranked on the air.

  Pulling at the envelope’s gummy flap, Jen smiled in anticipation as she flipped through the prints. There was Carrie, right before they left from Midway Airport, sitting with her feet up on her carry-on, holding the grungy stuffed dog she’d slept with for the past eighteen years. Grinning—scared and excited. Jen could read it in her eyes.

  She'd taken pictures of Carrie all over the Sarasota area. They’d posed in front of their favorite fudge shop in St. Armand’s Circle, they’d waded into the water at Lido beach, and they’d even taken a couple of shots of the outside of a Wal-Mart.

  Jen smiled as she stared at that one, remembering their dorm-shopping. Her eyes began to mist again.

  She blinked, then stared at the picture.

  Far behind Carrie, from inside Wal-Mart’s doors, Pik smiled straight at the camera. Straight at her.

  Jen yelped, dropping the pictures across her lap.

  Hands shaking, she scrambled them back up, then steeled herself to look.

  St. Armand’s Circle. Jen sucked in a hard breath. She’d missed it the first time. There he was, sitting on a molded bench behind Carrie. Wearing that Geeks and Freaks t-shirt. Staring into the camera.

  In front of Kilwin’s fudge shop, again behind Carrie, far enough away that Jen would never have noticed him otherwise. He held up a double-dip pink ice cream cone, as if in salute.

  Except for the shots she’d taken at the airports, except for the super close-ups of Carrie, he was in every one.

  Slamming the car into reverse, Jen drove out of the parking lot, aware that her tires squealed as she made two hard rights to get back onto southbound Tamiami Trail, knowing even
as she drove that she’d reacted too fast. The nearest police station might be north of here. She had no idea where she was going.

  She blinked away her sudden light-headedness—blowing out breaths to keep from hyperventilating. Keeping one eye on the traffic around her, she studied her GPS screen until she determined where she was and the fastest route to the police.

  Moments later, as she turned onto Fruitville, Jen’s cell phone rang. She jumped at the sound of the swinging Calypso beat, then glanced at the number on Caller ID, nearly crying in relief.

  Carrie.

  In the half-second before she answered the phone, Jen decided not to tell her daughter about Pik. No sense in alarming her, yet. She would talk to the police first. Then, show her daughter the pictures. Make her promise to stay on campus until they caught this freak.

  “Honey—” Jen said.

  “Jennifer.”

  Pik’s voice.

  On Carrie’s cell phone.

  Jen’s world went white.

  “Stop screaming,” the voice said.

  Jen struggled to keep the car from crashing into the parked vehicles on the street. One hand clutched the phone against her ear so hard the plastic casing creaked. She sped up, prepared to turn. The police station was just a few more blocks.

  His calm voice whispered, “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “What?” she asked, rushing her words. “Do what?”

  “Don’t go to the cops, Jennifer,” he said. “They’ll only complicate things.”

  Her gaze swept the street, the sidewalks, the other cars, but little sunk into her brain. She looked for the white pickup, but all she got back were dirty looks and hand gestures from drivers annoyed with her erratic lane changes.

  “Pull over before you kill yourself,” he said. “Find a place to park.”

  She pulled into the closest empty spot, her hands shaking, her mind numb, yet needing to know.

  “Where’s Carrie?” she asked.

  She heard him laugh.

  “Car-rie,” he said, elongating her name, “Car-rie from Chi-ca-go.”

  Jen could feel blood rush to her face, veins pulsing out from her neck. “Where … is … my … daughter?” She smeared away sweat-plastered hair, looking all directions at once. “Why are you doing this? Who are you?”

  “Do y’all really care?”

  “I want my daughter,” she said, hearing those worst-nightmare words fall from her mouth as she sobbed. “Where is she?”

  “Safe. For now.”

  She listened harder, straining to catch sounds in the background. “You’re lying.”

  “Now, would I lie to you?” He gave a throaty chuckle. “But, then again…my idea of safe might be just a little bit different from yours.”

  Jen’s mind vaulted through her choices—leave the car, stay in the car, beg a stranger to call the police, run, sit, scream—knowing, even as she weighed and discarded each option, she needed to keep him talking. He could be watching. “What do you want?”

  “What I want…” He smacked his lips as though tasting the words. “What I want…”

  Jen pressed the handset harder against her head, blocking her other ear with a finger, every cell in her body listening to Pik’s background noise. Maybe she could get a clue where he was.

  “Mother-daughter,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That would be something new for me,” he said. “I always enjoy new experiences. Don’t you?”

  Jen’s stomach heaved at the sick pleasure in his voice. She pressed a fist against her mouth.

  “You want to see her again, don’t you?” he asked.

  Lips clamped shut, Jen could only whimper.

  “I’ll call you back in ten minutes. Stay there.” He sounded slightly distracted, but a half-second later, his tone was harsh again. “And Jennifer?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t even think about calling for help. I’ll kill her if you do.”

  “Wait,” she said. “No—”

  She screamed as the connection went dead.

  Crammed with terror, Jen’s brain couldn’t grab hold of anything solid. Thoughts, ideas, plans dissolved in the dampness of her fear.

  Jamming fingertips into her forehead as though to physically force logic into her thoughts, Jen stared at the dashboard.

  Panic can kill you. The words reverberated in her brain from a long-forgotten self-defense class. Panic can kill you.

  So … Don’t … Panic.

  “What do I know?” she whispered.

  I know what he looks like, she thought. I know where he works.

  No, she thought, recalling the sign on the truck. A magnetic placard, it could have been purchased almost anywhere.

  Jen tapped fingers against her forehead. What else?

  She knew he had Carrie.

  Or did he?

  Her head shot up, startled. Doubt washed over her as she put together what she actually knew. Maybe he didn’t have Carrie … Maybe he just had her phone. Like at the chicken place. He might have lifted it from Carrie’s purse when she’d been preoccupied.

  Breathing more evenly now, Jen continued her mental checklist. I know he’s following me, watching me. I know he’s nearby.

  Or …

  Jen’s gaze wandered to the GPS monitor she and Carrie had depended on since they started exploring Florida. Her eyes scanned the device as a thought began to grow. And even before she spotted it, she knew what she’d find.

  And there it was—in the lower right-hand corner of the GPS screen. A tiny silhouette of a satellite, exactly like the one on Pik’s “Geeks and Freaks” truck.

  My God, she thought. He’s been tracking us the whole time.

  The idea nearly paralyzed her. Her stomach clenched—she struggled to keep from retching. Taking short, shallow breaths, she strove to calm herself, to fight off the growing dread.

  If she could disable the system, maybe he wouldn’t know where she was. Her brother David had one of these things on his car. He’d gotten it right before they’d left and, it being his newest toy, he’d wanted to explain every nuance of how it worked. Jen remembered him telling her that the defogging mechanism in his windshield messed with the signal, and necessitated installing an antenna. Without it, the satellites couldn’t track him.

  She bolted from the car and grabbed the slim metal mast with both hands, wrenching it off the back windshield of her car. The motion sent her off-balance, and she fell against the car’s side, teeth grating from the strain. She slammed the antenna to the ground.

  An older woman walking a small dog stared at Jen, then picked up her pace and crossed the street.

  Jumping back inside the car, Jen fought the fear that threatened to freeze her movements. She bit down hard on the insides of her lips, threw the car into gear and drove; her destination, the Opera House where Carrie should be—if Pik hadn’t gotten to her yet. Jen looked at her watch. Ten to nine.

  Three blocks later, the phone rang. That Calypso music she and Carrie had chosen for its cheerful beat now sent a sick chill to her very core. She took a deep breath.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  His words were sharp. “Where are you?”

  Before she could reply, he cut her off, his voice high and wild. “Where are you?”

  “I’m…” her mind raced. “I’m right here,” she lied, striving to maintain control as she navigated traffic. “You told me not to move.”

  He was silent a long time.

  “Stay there,” he said.

  And hung up.

  Jen took the turn onto the street in front of the Opera House, and scanned the crowd of young people for some sign of Carrie. Terror made her blind—the college students blended together in a sea of T-shirts, blue jeans, and tanned skin. All the girls stood the same, wore the same type clothing, gestured the same, and with their backs to the street, Jen couldn’t make out her daughter’s face among them. Carrie would have her backpack purse on—a denim thing, with light b
lue laces. She searched … stared, but not one looked familiar.

  She put the car in park—the doors automatically unlocked—then held down the car’s horn till all heads turned her way. Jumping out, she slammed the car door, running up and down the curbside. “Carrie!” she screamed. “Carrie!”

  When she heard, “Mom?” in a confused voice from the middle of the group, Jen nearly wept in relief.

  As Carrie approached the curb, Jen resisted the urge to sweep her daughter up in a bear hug. Instead she pointed to the car. “Get in.”

  Carrie tilted her head the same way she’d always done when presented with a situation she didn’t understand. “But…” she said. She gestured toward the Opera House doors, where the kids were beginning to go in. “But I’m supposed to be—”

  “I know. There’s no time to explain. Just get in.”

  “Mom,” Carrie began. Standing next to the car now, she ran a hand along the side of her slim face, pushing her already-tucked hair behind an ear. A sure sign of nervousness. Her blue eyes were bright with worry and her voice dropped low, weighted by uncertainty. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just get in.”

  Something in her voice must have struck a chord of obedience, because without another moment’s hesitation, without even removing her backpack purse from her shoulders, Carrie opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Jen slid back into the driver’s seat, starting the car even before the doors were shut.

  Jen’s phone rang.

  “Hey,” Carrie said, with excitement as she studied the Caller ID, “Look, it’s from me. Somebody must have found my cell.”

  “Don’t answer that,” Jen said, as she reached to pull the door closed. But she was too late. Carrie answered the phone, smiling, “Hello? Who is this?” As she did, her eyes widened, staring just past Jen’s shoulder, at whatever it was that had blocked Jen from shutting the door.

  She turned.

  Pik held a knife low, near his hip. “Carrie,” he said, throwing the phone into the car between them. “Glad y’all could make it. Your mom and I are old friends.” He shoved Jen toward her daughter. “Move over, I’m driving.”