Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “.22, watch this, because I want you to try to do the same thing.” Julie dug a quarter out of her coin purse. “Now, watch carefully.” She cradled the coin on the side of her index finger and slipped the tip of her thumb underneath, pausing, then thrusting upward in a quick release action that sent the coin careening into the air, heads, tails, head, tails, heads, tails before it toppled back to the table, to spin crazily and roll to a stop against an uneven plank in the wood top.

  .22 was mesmerized. His eyes had followed every move of the coin.

  “Here. It’s your turn.” She held the coin out.

  Suddenly he began to shake his head faster and faster, eyes closed, fists pounding on the table.

  “Stop.” Julie leaned across the table and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Please, .22, tell me what’s wrong.” What a strange reaction. She’d never expected this. He pulled away and stuck his hands in his pockets. But at least he quieted. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

  “Can’t do. Can’t do.” He was rocking now, the side-to-side movement that often preceded a bout of howling.

  “.22, I know you can do it. I watched you on video tape, in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. You put a coin into the pop machine, it fell out, you picked it up and flipped it. Do you remember?”

  He was deathly still, staring at her. She heard the happy squeals of children playing on the swings in a park across the highway. A breeze fluffed a tuft of .22’s hair as a fly investigated the udder cream. He didn’t move. She started to push back from the table.

  “Sit down.”

  Where did that voice come from? She didn’t know that voice. Resonant, bass, commanding. But she couldn’t sit. She needed to run. Instinct screamed in her head to get away. Before she was able to articulate, even isolate what it was, all her senses had gathered to warn her, to scream at her. This was danger. This man—this wasn’t .22 in front of her. Run. She tried to move.

  “I said sit.” The hand that clamped onto her wrist had shot with lightening quickness from under the table to nail her, hold her. “There’s a gun pointed at your gut. I suggest that you do what I say.”

  She sank back to the bench.

  “Say, is everything all right out here?” The man who had served them was standing at the side door, peering over at them, leaning on a broom.

  “You don’t want people hurt, do you?” The threat was hissed before .22 let loose of her wrist and started beating the shake cup on the table. She noticed that one hand stayed out of view.

  “We’re fine. Just a little misunderstanding over having another shake,” Julie called back, hoping her voice didn’t quiver.

  The man nodded and walked back inside.

  “We’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to get up first. You walk ahead of me. Don’t get cute. I’ve killed before. You won’t make any difference.” The voice belonged to someone else, but it was .22 who stumbled getting up, thrust his head forward and dangled one arm at his side before assuming that familiar disjointed gait that made him walk haltingly beside her.

  He brushed against her as she stepped back, pulling the car door open. Not that she hadn’t believed him, but she caught a glimpse of the small revolver above the pocket of his slacks. The barrel was pointed at her; his hand was steady.

  “Now, open the back door.” When she hesitated, he added with a short laugh, “Thought I’d let you out of my sight and go around to the other side? Get real, bitch.”

  She did as she was told, then slipped behind the wheel. She was trying to think, but the words “killed before” echoed, demanded attention. Had it been Sal? Yes. That made sense. But couldn’t it have been Ahmed? Or both of them?

  “What are we waiting for?” The coldness of the gun’s barrel surprised her as it pressed into her neck. She started the car.

  + + +

  “They left here about twelve-thirty. We had to end our interview when a busload of tourists stopped in. Some lady called asking the same question. I hope Julie and the boy aren’t in some kind of trouble.” Morley was waiting for an answer, but Ben didn’t want to say too much.

  “I hope not, too.” He knew that wasn’t going to satisfy Morley but it was all he wanted to say for the present. “Were they going straight home?” Maybe, if he kept him answering questions.

  “They could have been. I don’t think she had any other interviews.”

  Ben tried to remain calm. He hadn’t passed Julie’s car on the highway. Did she have other errands, ones she didn’t mention to Morley? And wasn’t Tommy out on the road somewhere right now setting up a roadblock a few miles north of the reservation?

  “Oh, wait a minute. The youngster was hungry. Julie said she needed to get him some lunch.”

  “Do you have any idea where they might have stopped?”

  Morley shook his head. “My guess would be some burger place. You got about ten to choose from.”

  “Could I borrow a phone book?”

  Morley shuffled behind the counter and handed one over.

  “Last year’s. You can have this one. It don’t make no difference; nothing ever changes around here.”

  Ben sat in his truck and looked up drive-in food vendors. Morley was right, there were nine and all more or less clumped together along the south end of the main drag. He’d drive by and look for Julie’s car.

  But there was nothing—one trip up then down the street, a couple detours around the back of a McDonald’s and a Whopper Burger to check parked cars, but none was Julie’s. There was no trace of them. Yet, he felt they couldn’t be that far ahead of him.

  If they were on their way back, he should be able to catch up with them. But what if something had gone wrong—.22 had accosted Julie, threatened her over the package ... Ben had no way of knowing. He headed across town to pick up Highway 32 and passed an independent burger place, Bob’s. On a whim he pulled into the parking area. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

  “Good looking woman with a retarded kid? Big kid, close to full grown? Yeah, they just left. Maybe, fifteen minutes ago. Headed out 32.” The man at the counter remembered them well. “Is that kid safe?”

  Ben felt his knees wobble. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I thought she was having a problem with him at one point. It looked to me like he was trying to strong-arm her. He sure had her locked in a grip all right. I bet that young fellow’s strong as an ox. They are sometimes and don’t know their own strength. My wife’s cousin—”

  “What happened to the woman?” Ben gripped the counter.

  “Nothing. I asked, but she said everything was all right. She sure was good with him. She cleaned him up after he ate a couple burgers and fries, then she entertained him out there on the park bench. It looked like she was trying to teach him how to flip a coin.”

  “Flip a coin?” At first he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. But, no, that was just like Julie. She’d try to prove that .22 either could or couldn’t. And it was for him. Ben knew that. She probably took .22 with her in the first place because she thought she could help. Ben ran outside and jumped in his truck. Fifteen minutes. She was alive and well fifteen minutes ago. But maybe just barely, if .22 had grabbed her like the man said. The coin toss must have given it away. .22 must have known he’d blown his cover. And that meant he was dangerous. Ben peeled out and gunned the truck up an embankment and onto Highway 32.

  + + +

  .22 was sweating. The sun glistened on the red-gold stubble that outlined a square, prominent jaw. She studied him in the rearview mirror as he leaned over her shoulder, the muzzle of the gun still buried in her neck. Who was this man? Who would pick at sores to keep them scabbed over so he could pretend to be someone else? And for what? What would he get out of all this? Money? Was he being paid to impersonate the real .22? It would give Julie time to think if she could get him to talk.

  “Do you have a name? I can’t continue to call you .22 or Harold.”

  His legs were bent, one knee pushing
into the back of the front seat. He looked cramped and nervous. Julie adjusted the rearview mirror. He glanced out the window. Would he tell her who he was? Curiosity was almost calming as she pushed the gas pedal down. Fifty-five, sixty, seventy—hopefully, some of Tommy’s men would be patrolling.

  “Hey. Don’t get smart. Drive the speed limit.”

  He worked the gun’s muzzle up under the occipital ridge behind her ear. She dropped back to sixty-five.

  “If you won’t tell me your name, will you tell me if you’re an actor by trade?” She watched as he made eye contact in the mirror. She had his attention. ”You were perfect. You fooled the best. If you hadn’t been caught by a hidden camera, no one would have ever known.”

  “Yeah.” For a minute she thought it wasn’t going to work. Then she caught the sneer, the thin smile that reeked of bravado and heard it in his voice when he said, “I could be an actor if I wanted. I’m good. And you can call me Carl.”

  “How did you meet Hannah, Carl?”

  “I’ve known her all my life, dear old Auntie Hanny.”

  “You’re her nephew? You’re doing this for your aunt?” My God, Hannah had involved a relative. Was he her sister’s son? “Which means the original .22 is probably dead?” Julie hadn’t meant to ask that and bit her lip when she saw the flare of rage.

  “Why don’t you shut up?”

  She needed to try a different tactic. “Why don’t you wise up and not get into more trouble? You really haven’t done anything wrong. You haven’t committed fraud, haven’t been examined by the board and collected any money. You could still get out of all this.”

  “Nope. A dead man says I can’t turn things around now.”

  She felt him lower the gun as a car passed going in the opposite direction. It hadn’t been anyone she knew. But what would she have done if she’d recognized the driver? What could she do? Swerve? Lay on the horn? Her only hope was somehow getting back to civilization.

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “When I grow up? Isn’t that the way that goes?” He leaned forward; his breath tickled her ear. “Well, between you and me, I’ve grown up just fine. Hannah and me are going to get the hell out of this shit hole. You’re not going to stop us.” The menacing tone made her cringe. “You want to know what happened to .22? He died of a cold. After all that damned attention— ‘baby Harold can’t do this, baby Harold can’t eat that, baby Harold is worth all that money’—all those years I took care of him, he just up and dies—one month before he would have graduated from that special education program. That little prick owed me.”

  “And Hannah thought up a plan to get the money anyway.”

  “Yeah. With a new baby Harold.” He let his mouth go slack, then sucked loudly on his thumb while she watched in the rearview. Carl to Harold, Harold to Carl. It really was a remarkable acting job.

  “So whom did you kill, Carl?” Go for it. He seemed willing to brag. Maybe she could get some answers. What did she have to lose?

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” That snarl again.

  “Did you kill the trader?”

  His eyes gave it away before he said, “What if I did? He was butting into things where he didn’t belong, getting greedy, thought his cut should have been as big as ours. I was smart to off him. I knew I could pin it all on Sal, use the scalping to pressure him into giving up the—”

  They saw the flashing lights at the same time—a barricade of patrol cars across the highway about two miles ahead. She sucked in her breath. Could she dare to hope Tommy knew? That he was looking for her? Was Ben with them? She took her foot off the gas.

  Then her eyes locked with the hard, cool blue ones in the rearview mirror and his animal fright bore into her, seemed to travel down the muzzle of the gun. There was nothing to keep him from killing her, too.

  “Take the side road. There. Dammit—step on it.”

  Her breathing was shallow. She was so close to safety. If she could only get someone’s attention. She grabbed at the steering wheel as it jerked through her fingers when she left the highway and jolted down the gravel incline. She reacted quickly and steered the car onto the jutted dirt, two-track drive that led around, then up and through an outcropping of rock to God-knew-what on the other side. There were lots of these cart trails barely kept passable by ranchers needing access to areas that might hide livestock in need of help—areas that were rough and remote and a part of the badlands and would only give up their secrets if you had a four wheel drive vehicle.

  The car bottomed out twice before the tires grasped enough gravel to propel it forward and upward, the floor-boarded engine whining a protest even after she’d rammed it into Drive3. She was afraid of careening off the side to hang precariously before rolling down among the boulders or breaking an axle in the foot-deep ruts that banged both of them against the car’s interior. The going was slow, and the car was already overheating. Julie watched the needle climb.

  “Stop here.”

  She put on the brake, turned off the engine and pulled the emergency. They were on an incline, behind a boulder nestled between two overhanging outcroppings of rock—and hidden from view. Julie was certain of that. Hidden and out of range of hearing but she laid on the horn anyway. In case Tommy’s men were scouting—

  The pistol butt crashed into the side of her head, snapping her neck to the side.

  “Don’t do that again. I’ve told you. I have no reason not to kill you.”

  She watched as Carl lit a cigarette. The smoke seemed to dance and skip over the seat between them, and she realized how dizzy she was. The force of the blow had blurred her vision. She shook her head to clear it. There was no doubt he would do what he threatened. It wasn’t just the blow to the head, she felt numb trying to think, figure out some way to get away. The lump was already pushing up into a good-sized knot just above her ear.

  He sat immobile, still holding the gun to her head. Was he trying to decide what to do? Probably. It was obvious that a roadblock wasn’t in his plan. But was it meant for them? Julie allowed a glimmer of hope. It had to be. She needed to believe that. A couple more long sucking drags on the cigarette and .22 tossed it out the window.

  “Open the trunk.” .22 got out of the car.

  “No. You can’t make me get in the trunk. I’m claustrophobic. Gag me. Tie me up somewhere. But not the trunk.” She had locked the driver’s side door. Her voice sounded shrill, thin and wavering, and she clutched the steering wheel in some kind of death grip hoping he couldn’t pry her fingers loose.

  “You stupid bitch. We’re through playing around. I need the package. Sal’s package. The one you took out of the locker. You following me? You must have gotten up real early to drive over here and back. So I just bet it’s still somewhere in this car.”

  He grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head back against the seat, then over it as far as her neck would extend and gave her hair a yank. “Are you paying attention to me? I don’t need any more of your games. Now, unlock that door. Step out real slow and walk to the trunk.”

  He released her hair, and Julie did as she was told. She wasn’t sure he wouldn’t throw her in the trunk, but he could have broken her neck just then. And the package? What was his interest in Sal’s package? Better yet, what should she tell him? The truth? But then he might kill her. Should she stall? Lie? Say she forgot? But they were in the bus station, he saw the empty locker. Maybe, she had forgotten it, maybe she left it at Morley’s.

  “It’s not in the trunk.”

  “I’ll tell you whether it is or not.”

  He made her stand beside him as he leaned into the trunk pulling out mats, dismantling the tool kit, tossing tire iron and jack to one side. He ran his free hand under and over and between every two pieces of matting. It seemed to Julie that he was looking for something awfully small. He wasn’t acting like it was a fetish jar that he was after.

  “Empty your purse.” He grabbed her arm and propelled her around the side of the
car, tucked the gun in his belt, scooped the purse off the front seat and tossed it to her. She dumped everything on the hood and Carl went through the same motions— opened her cosmetics case, looked carefully at her address book, ripped the lining around an inside pocket.

  “It’s in your damn equipment, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s at Morley’s. I wanted his opinion.”

  Could she keep up this charade not knowing exactly what he was looking for? Her life probably depended on it. But what had been in the fetish jar? A piece of jewelry? A one-of-a-kind artifact worth some ungodly sum?

  She wasn’t prepared for Carl’s reaction—he was laughing. Was she wrong to mention Morley’s? Did he know that she didn’t have a clue as to the jar’s contents?

  “I just bet you did. Getting the old coot’s opinion was pretty sly. You were going to steal it, weren’t you? How long was Sal’s notebook even in the locker? Long enough to get a receipt and a key and figure out that Sal wasn’t coming back? Or did you even put it there in the first place?”

  She didn’t say anything, just shrugged. Did she look guilty? A notebook? All this, her death, maybe Sal’s, over a notebook. Was it some kind of blackmail? Yes. That had to be it. Sal knew something about Carl being a fake. He had written something incriminating. But then, what would that have to do with Morley?

  “Do you think all this is worth killing over?” Me, the trader, not to mention Sal, she thought, but went on. “How can the contents of that notebook justify taking a life?”

  “Because, beautiful, it’s going to make Aunt Hanny and me a whole hell of a lot of money. It’s a little investment for the rest of our lives. I got a feeling I don’t have to tell you that. Now, why don’t you just get in the car real slow and throw all your crap out for me to take a look at.”

  He pushed her ahead of him and into the back seat. The recorder and notebooks were in two bags on the floor behind the passenger seat.

  “Is Sal dead?” Maybe if she distracted him ... and then what? She needed to buy time. Think. She had to think.