She was a Latina and spoke excellent English. She had a trace of an accent, but not much. She was about Chrissy’s height, but thinner, with angular features and her dark hair pulled into a braid. Chrissy reached up to undo the chain but hesitated, looking back at her visitor. There was something in the way the woman was looking at Chrissy that didn’t seem right. She was too intent, too hard. Chrissy still had the phone open, out of view of the other woman, but pressed against her shoulder. She turned the phone around so that the conversation would be audible for Micah should he get back on his end of the line.
“My, uh, husband is coming back in a minute. Could we wait until then?”
The woman pursed her lips and continued staring. “I am very sorry. Please, if I could just check the phone. This is the last room on the list.”
“Why don’t I just check the phone for you?” Chrissy offered.
In the next instant the woman’s hand flashed through the gap in the door, grabbed a handful of Chrissy’s hair, and slammed her forehead into the edge of the door. Chrissy screamed but was suddenly silenced by the feel of metal against her cheek.
“You will open this door and let me in, Chressaidia Salazar, or the man following your husband will shoot him in the head.”
Chapter 94
Chrissy!” Micah said loudly into the phone as his heart leapt to his throat. The people around him in line looked at him. “Chrissy!” he shouted again and began pushing his way out of line.
“Sir, your sandwiches!”
He pushed through the door and stood on the sidewalk. Her phone was still on, and he could hear muffled voices, but nothing definitive. He ran for the car, yelling her name into the phone, and fumbling in his pocket for the keys.
Seconds later he still had the phone to his ear as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Chrissy!” he yelled again, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. “Oh, please,” he muttered under his breath as he looked both ways and cut through traffic in order to get into the far lane. A car honked as it swerved out of his way. The phone went dead. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a silver car pull into traffic behind him. He was just panicked enough to think the worst.
Micah was on the second 1 of 911 when his phone rang. It was Chrissy. He quickly answered it.
“Chrissy,” he said breathlessly. “What’s going on?” He made a right turn. He was only a few blocks from the motel now. The silver car was right behind him. His heart began beating so fast he couldn’t feel the individual beats anymore.
“You will bring me my parts,” a woman’s voice said. “You will bring them to the motel, or I will kill her.”
Kill her? Micah’s heart pulsed wildly. “Who are you?”
“You should not have interfered.”
This had to be the other Chressaidia. How had she found them? What do I do? “I don’t have them,” he stammered, then wondered why he’d lied.
“Bring the parts to me,” the woman said calmly. “Or she dies.”
Micah swallowed. “I want to talk to her.”
“No.” The woman’s voice was tight and calm.
“How do I know she’s still okay?” Micah said. He heard some muffled voices.
“I’m okay,” Chrissy’s voice said. She wasn’t on the phone, but in the background somewhere, and her voice didn’t sound scared; it sounded angry. For some reason her anger gave him confidence. “Don’t come!” she yelled right before the woman got back on the line.
“Twenty minutes,” the woman said. “And if the police come, I’ll kill her.”
The line went dead. Micah blinked while taking a breath and trying to get his thoughts lined up. He almost ran a red light and slammed on his brakes, already two feet into the intersection. The silver car was right behind him and had to slam on its brakes too.
In the next instant, Micah punched the gas, swerving around a SUV going through the intersection. The silver car wasn’t quick enough. Micah flew past the motel and whipped around the corner before the silver car began to move.
He saw an underground parking lot and headed for it, scraping the bottom of the car on his way in. He pulled into a parking space and tried to catch his breath. The newspaper wedged between the passenger seat and the middle console caught his eye. He picked it up quickly, scanning the second page Chrissy had read to him that morning—the article about the investigation of the dead guy.
“Detective Long,” he read out loud as he grabbed his cell phone. His own words rang back to him, “It’s too big for us.” He only hoped he was doing the right thing.
Chapter 95
Sit,” the woman said, waving the toy-looking gun at Chrissy. But Chrissy had researched the gun purchased in her name and this one looked just like it, which led Chrissy to not take it for granted. The other woman had hung up with Micah a moment earlier and put Chrissy’s cell phone in her pocket.
Chrissy took two steps backward and sat down when the back of her knees encountered the bed. She didn’t take her eyes off the woman. The other Chressaidia. It was surreal to be in the same room with her—to realize the only name she knew for her was Chrissy’s own. This was the woman who had turned Chrissy’s world upside down. And this—Chressaidia—now had the power to end it if she chose to.
“Why did you do this to me?” Chrissy asked.
The woman had been scanning the room, but now she looked back at Chrissy. “To you?” she said as if disgusted. She took a few steps forward, but only to pull the motel phone cord from the wall. “You should not have come here.”
“I had to come here,” Chrissy said, glaring at the other woman. “You turned what was a good life into something I don’t even recognize. I have nothing left.”
This brought what could almost be described as a smile to the other woman’s face. “Except your life.” She stared at Chrissy, then lifted her chin. “You should be proud of your contribution,” she said after a few seconds had passed. “In your own way, you will have saved a nation.”
Chrissy scrunched her eyebrows together. “Saved a nation?” This woman really was cracked.
“Guatemala,” the woman said, the slightest touch of wistfulness in her tone. “My homeland. A country being swallowed by what you call the American Dream.” She waved the gun around as if to indicate the room, or the state of California as a whole. “You are so worried about people coming into your country, but you do not care that you invade others. American, Chinese, and European industry comes and builds factories, takes over the government, institutes the Central American Free Trade Agreement, which only continues to force the true citizens into poverty and subordination. But I will change all that. I will make things right.”
So, Jon Nasagi was right—she was Guatemalan. Not that it mattered right now. The woman continued. “And your name, your life, helped me do that. As I said, you should be proud.”
“I see,” Chrissy said slowly, scanning the room and racking her brain for a way out of this. “And are you proud? Are you proud of the fact that your child now belongs to the state of California and that his father is dead?”
The other Chressaidia’s nostrils flared slightly, then her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
Chrissy’s anger continued to build, pushing down the fear, leaving no room for any other emotion. Her common sense told her not to push this woman, and yet she’d destroyed so much, ruined—and ended—lives. And she was okay with that? Because of some political agenda, this woman could write off all she had done? Baby Salazar came to mind. “What a blessing your son was born with a deformity that allowed him freedom from you.”
The woman lunged forward, grabbing at Chrissy’s shirt and pinning her to the headboard before Chrissy had time to react. She glared at Chrissy, their faces only inches apart. “That mutante was proof that my mission was to be different. And I have proved myself worthy of my appointment.” Her voice grew louder, making it harder and harder for Chrissy to hide her terror. This woman was unhinged, and she had a gun. Why on earth was Chrissy pr
ovoking her?
Because she needed answers.
Even if she only had five minutes left on the earth, she needed those answers, she had to understand. The other Chressaidia continued, “You are not one to undo what I have created. You will not defeat me!”
She seemed to catch herself and her loss of control and let Chrissy go, stepping off the bed and turning toward the door for only a moment before turning to face Chrissy again, her demeanor calm once more. She held Chrissy’s eyes and raised the gun. “I should kill you now,” she said. “You are too much trouble.”
What could Chrissy possibly say to that? She was spared begging for her life by a knock at the door. Chressaidia snapped her head to the side.
Is it Micah? Chrissy thought, tears coming to her eyes. She should want him to stay away—this wasn’t about him—and yet she longed to have him here.
Chressaidia walked to the door and looked out the peephole. Whoever she saw made her inhale sharply and pull away. Chrissy took advantage of the distraction and scooted to the far side of the bed. Why would she react that way if it were Micah at the door?
A deep male voice said something in muffled Spanish from the other side of the door. Chressaidia suddenly looked terrified. After a few moments, she walked forward and pulled open the door as if she had no choice.
Chrissy took the opportunity to slide off the bed, stand, and scoot along the wall. Not that there was any way out other than the front door that was opening, but putting some distance between her and the other woman seemed to be a good idea. Having her feet underneath her seemed equally wise.
The door slammed shut almost as soon as it had opened enough to allow the man to enter. Chrissy tensed against the wall at the ease in which he entered. Was he an accomplice? He was older, short but thickly built with a gray-black beard that matched his hair. As soon as he was inside the room, he grabbed Chressaidia’s left arm, pulling up the sleeve of her shirt. Chressaidia, who had been so severe, so fierce, was now scared, almost submissive.
Who was this man? Chrissy wondered. And how could his appearance, which was obviously a surprise to Chressaidia, work to her advantage?
The man stared at a tattoo on Chressaidia’s arm. “What have you done?” he said in Spanish. “You indulge yourself to think you are worthy of a commission after what you have done!” He shook her arm as he issued the reprimand.
“Papa,” Chressaidia said, causing Chrissy to raise her eyebrows. This man was her father? What, was this some kind of Guatemalan mob? Whatever else Chressaidia was going to say was cut off as the man raised his hand and slapped her hard enough that her hair arced, and her neck snapped to the side.
Chrissy gasped at the force behind the man’s blow and wondered again how she could possibly get out of here.
He looked up, saw her standing there, and narrowed his eyes. “Who is this?” the man asked, causing Chrissy’s mouth to go dry.
The other Chressaidia had only just raised her head. “No one,” she said, shaking her head and not looking at Chrissy as she spoke. “Only insurance.”
Her father looked back at her. “You should not need insurance,” he said, glaring at her, his eyes drifting to the tattoo on her arm again. She lifted a hand to cover it.
What did it represent? Chrissy wondered. Why was it so important?
“You said everything was going well,” he continued. “You dared tell me Frederico was killed by a dealer.”
There was a pause for several seconds. Chrissy looked between the two of them in the silence.
When Chressaidia spoke, her tone was resigned, surrendered. “How long have you had Eduardo?” she asked, still in Spanish. Chrissy wondered if they thought she couldn’t understand them.
“I sent Eduardo to Frederico long ago, to keep track of him, to oversee what he was doing in the U.S., to see how he cared for his father’s business.”
“Frederico was squandering it,” Chressaidia said, her voice raising. “He was using the drugs, going to parties. His heart was not in our cause.”
“That was not your job to decide!” her father yelled. “You were to bring me an heir! You should have come home when you failed, not killed your husband, not put the entire alliance at risk. What am I to tell his father? How am I to explain?”
“I was the only one who could fix things,” she said back, though her tone showed her continued hesitation. “I was sent here to
further our interests, to strengthen our armies. He stood to destroy all of it! I could not let that happen.”
“And yet, you did not help our cause. The joining of our families is ruined now. There can be no trust, no alliance between us.”
“I did help our cause!” she yelled as if forgetting herself entirely. “I found the parts. I fixed the trade. I did that—I did all of it!”
Chrissy edged even closer to the bathroom—or more appropriately—away from them.
“And then you lost the parts,” her father said.
She fell silent and her eyes turned to Chrissy, who stopped as the woman’s eyes narrowed. “I did not lose the parts,” she said in English, presumably so that Chrissy would understand. “They were stolen from me, and they are coming back.”
Her phone rang, and though she hesitated, she picked it up, keeping her eyes on Chrissy. She put the phone to her ear. “Where is he, Eduardo?”
After a moment her eyes drifted closed for only a second. “How could you have lost him?” she spat into the phone. “Or did betraying me get in the way of this mission entirely?”
Her father grabbed the phone and began speaking to Eduardo. Chressaidia was still staring at Chrissy, planning, plotting. It was all Chrissy could do not to shrink under her gaze, but she didn’t dare move, didn’t dare disrupt the tenuous climate of the room. Another moment passed, and then Chressaidia’s face relaxed as she pulled Chrissy’s cell phone from her pocket. She lifted her gun and pointed it at Chrissy again, then looked at the phone in quick glances while dialing something before putting it to her ear.
“Tell Eduardo to bring the other parts here,” she said to her father over her shoulder.
Her father’s fist spun out and hit her right ear, making Chrissy cringe. “Marked or not, you are not a general.”
Chressaidia took a breath, and her eyes swung back to focus on Chrissy. She took a step forward, and Chrissy fell a step back, even though that only took her closer to the corner of the room. Her heart began racing as she tried to figure out what this woman was doing.
“You’re running out of time,” Chressaidia said into the phone. Then she shifted the gun ever so slightly to the right and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 96
Even though Chrissy watched the woman’s finger squeeze the trigger as if time had stopped completely, the impact of the bullet still caught her off guard. She screamed when the bullet tore through the flesh of her upper arm. She stumbled and fell against the wall as her left arm erupted with fire. For the next few seconds she didn’t know what had happened, what was going on. All she knew was pain unlike anything she’d ever felt as time and space began to spin around her.
“That shot won’t kill her,” Chressaidia said into the phone. “But the next one will, if she doesn’t bleed to death first. I want my parts right now.”
I can’t lose it, she thought to herself. Not now. She took a deep breath and forced her eyes open. She clamped her right hand over her bleeding arm, nearly screaming out again at the pain the pressure caused.
My life is still my own, she told herself. How badly do I want it? She focused even more on pushing the clouds of pain and nausea from her mind, reinserting herself into this room, this moment. She could hear herself moaning, but couldn’t seem to stop it.
Chressaidia paused, listening to the other person on the phone. “Oh, she’s alive,” she said. “For now.”
Chressaidia closed the phone and turned to her father, who seemed to be regarding her with something akin to respect. Was her shooting Chrissy some kind of show? Some sor
t of test? “Is Eduardo coming?” Chressaidia asked him in Spanish.
“Yes,” the man said. “He will be here soon, but you are no longer in charge of this mission.”
Chressaidia hesitated, then lowered her head as if to accept the changing roles, though Chrissy saw the resentment in her eyes.
Chrissy pushed herself to her feet, her whole arm throbbing, her stomach rolling as her ankles wobbled. The man and woman began talking again, and Chrissy didn’t try to listen in this time; it took too much energy. She had to stop the bleeding. She saw the oversized T-shirt she’d worn as pajamas the night before. It was laid neatly on the bed, likely put there by the maid. She picked it up and carefully wrapped it around her arm. The sight of her own blood covering her hand and clothing, seeping through the fabric of the T-shirt, made her head spin.
The phone rang again—not her phone, with the Shakira ring—but the other Chressaidia’s. She looked up to see the man answer it; he spoke too quietly for her to hear for a moment, and then lowered the phone again. Chrissy was standing now, her back braced against the wall since the floor was still shifting.
“Eduardo is here,” he said, turning to put his hand on the doorknob. He looked at Chrissy, then back at the other Chressaidia. “Can you take care of her?”
The “take care of” part didn’t sound like the good kind of care.
“Of course,” the other Chressaidia said back.
“I will go check the truck,” the man said. He left, but as the door closed, a man passed by on the outside. Chrissy met his eye for just a moment, enough to see an almost imperceptible nod and to see the baseball cap he wore. The man wasn’t Micah, but he wore Micah’s Boise State cap and had communicated his awareness of her. She wasn’t as alone as she felt. Chrissy’s pulse increased as the man disappeared.
She looked at the other Chressaidia, who had gone to look out the window and left the door open a few inches. Despite her injury, Chrissy knew this would be her chance. As it was, her steps were shaky atop her Blahnik heels as she moved toward the door. She thought of Micah asking her how she could walk in them at all. Had that conversation only taken place this morning?
Her Good Name Page 25
