CHAPTER TWO
All he had to do to get the rest of his money was wait. Miranda’s schedule – at least how Eric laid it out on the paper he gave him – was consistent.
There was going to the movies, out for ice cream, and play dates at the park with another young mother and her kid. Malcolm read over the list and settled on Tuesday morning. Getting a confession would be easy enough, and his tape recorder would preserve it. Then he found himself reading the list again, imagining the kind of childhood this little girl had.
More childish daydreams. It hadn’t happened, and it would never happen. Even if his mother managed to rend time, reconcile with his father, and move back across the country it still wouldn’t have worked out. People wouldn’t have been able to just watch a movie with him around without sharing their unfiltered opinions. The ice cream server wouldn’t be able to lie when smiling child Malcolm asked him how his day was going. No. There was always too much truth in Malcolm’s world for “play dates” and other trappings of a normal childhood. He looked down at the schedule one more time to memorize the time and place. Then he crumpled it up into a little ball and tossed it into the trashcan.
There was nothing else to do until then except arrange a ride and get more beer. Getting the ride was easy enough. All he had to do was step outside and knock on the other red door. Paul answered it shirtless, even though the morning hours were long gone. He cradled an acoustic guitar in one hand and stroked it lovingly when Malcolm spoke. Then he started nodding. Hell yeah, man. Of course I’ll do it. Just knock on the door a few minutes before you need to leave. You don’t need me to bring anything, do you? Malcolm shook his head and left him standing at the door. He walked away from the porch and felt those wide eyes burrowing into his back. They were too wide – too eager to wander through the dirty world of affairs and other human manipulations. For a moment Malcolm’s legs turned against him and he twisted back to Paul’s door. It wasn’t a great idea to bring someone else into this. Whatever this was. And he could always take the bus…
Malcolm hesitated on the edge of the porch. His hands found his pockets and landed on crisp paper – paper he could use to go buy beer. In this way the matter was settled. He shuffled down the steps and walked to the corner store where everyone knew his name.
The rest of the weekend passed without any more client meetings, phone calls, or screaming redheads. Two beer-soaked days later it was time to collect Paul and do what he did best: bring out the truth. He got into Paul’s cab half-expecting him to turn on the meter. Paul sure looked the part with his leather hat and driving gloves – he insisted on wearing them even though it was the middle of the summer. He wore a huge grin too, the only cabbie to ever wear one when Malcolm was around.
Paul asked questions and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel when they swam through city traffic. He drove fast, swerving around potholes and trucks and angry bicyclists without ever giving his mouth a chance to rest. The words poured out of him faster as they picked up speed on the highway. Not once did he ask where they were going. He just followed Malcolm’s directions turn by turn, leaving behind all the people and city blocks for sugarcane fields and bugs splattering their windshield. Malcolm lowered his window and inhaled the morning air. It was wet of course – even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Tasting it felt like rubbing yourself with a bath towel that refused to dry.
Paul stopped talking for a moment, preoccupied by the bug entrails smeared across the windshield glass. He hit the water and wipers again until most of them disappeared. Then he leaned forward and stared through the film that remained. The sugarcane fields slowly gave way to gas stations and mom and pop diners. Cars came from the other direction now, and a church steeple poked into the sky in front of them. They passed a little strip of buildings that must have been the center of the town, each building an unpowered outlet in an electrical strip that either didn’t work anymore or someone had forgotten to turn on. A minute later the buildings disappeared in the rear-view mirror, and Paul was asking questions again.
“What next?”
Malcolm glanced down at a pocket-sized notebook on his lap. He carried it everywhere – by far the most professional part of his business. “Turn right on Oleander. It should be the second intersection.”
“Great.”
They passed a little fire station and the Tattersall public library before turning onto a tree-lined street. A few kids had cast fishing lines into the pond beside the road, joking among themselves without watching their lures. Next to the pond were a couple of empty baseball diamonds and soccer fields. A little playground completed the picture of idyllic small-town life. Children raced through tunnels and along wooden plank fort parapets while mothers sat on benches in the shade.
“Pull in there,” said Malcolm, pointing at the playground parking lot.
Paul hit the brakes instead. “Really? Shouldn’t we park somewhere farther and walk?”
“We aren’t trying to be subtle. Go ahead. But back it in will you? We’re probably going to have to get out of here fast.”
“What are you going to – yeah,” said Paul. “All right.” His face was pale when he turned into the parking lot, and it grew paler when the young mothers looked over at his taxi and started talking. He backed into two spots – the lot was nearly empty – and pointed the front of the car at the exit. “They see us. I don’t know about this, man. I really don’t.”
Malcolm grabbed his arm. “Look. I normally would just ask you to wait in the car, but she’s sitting too close to her friend. I need your help on this, Paul. I need you to come with me.”
Paul glanced in the rear-view mirror, then looked down at his legs and shook his head. “I don’t know. Aren’t I already helping you?”
Malcolm squeezed his arm now. “This is easy stuff, Paul. Easy for you at least.” He slid down in his seat. “You see the woman in the purple shirt – the woman with dark hair?”
“Yeah.” Paul slid down in his seat too, mirroring Malcolm’s every movement. “What about her?”
“She’s the friend. I can't have her getting in the way. I need you to distract her. Flirt with her or put a spell on her for all I care. Do whatever you do to get so many women to come home with you.”
Paul smiled a little. “I usually have my guitar for that.”
Malcolm glanced in the side mirror. The women were still whispering, ostensibly watching their children but looking back every few seconds to check the cab. “Can you help me with this? If you can’t just take me home. I’ll have to figure something else out.”
Paul pinched his forehead like he was trying to pop a zit. He pinched and pinched and sighed. “Fine. I’ll flirt with the brunette so you can get whatever you need from blondie. But you’re just going to walk up there and talk to her? Where’s the sneaky shit, man? Where’s the tapping phones and stakeouts?”
Malcolm stepped out of the car and fixed his face so there was just the right amount of worry in it. The tape recorder was already running in his pocket – fresh batteries and plenty of time to record. “Just follow my lead. Look pretty and don’t talk too much. Act worried, okay?”
“What?”
Malcolm shut the car door. A few seconds later Paul cut the engine and walked fast to catch up with him, chanting an “I don’t know about this” mantra the whole way. Malcolm led them straight for the women on the park bench. They watched them come. They wore sunglasses so their eyes didn't give anything away, but their bodies were stiff, hands clutched on cell phones and purses.
Malcolm waved to the women and smiled. “How are you doing?”
They looked at him tight-lipped and terrified. The brunette woman put on a tough face, but it looked like a bathroom mirror caricature made by a five-year-old. There wasn't any hardness behind it. Here was a woman who grew up under the shade of oak trees and watchful parents. A woman with the whole community behind her – a woman who had never seen any real hardship. She held up a hand when they approached, like m
anicured fingernails and a giant diamond ring would be able to ward off all the horrible newspaper articles and crime shows she'd seen on TV. Here was stranger danger, real and in the flesh...
And it was getting closer fast.
“What do you want?” she said. Her other hand found Miranda's arm and held it.
Malcolm smiled wider. “Sorry if we startled you. My roommate and I are just looking for our dog. He's been gone since last night.”
The strain on the women's faces eased. “I'm sorry to hear that,” Miranda said. She kept her eyes fixed forward, leaping from Malcolm to Paul and back again. But not even her worry could rid her of her small-town manners. “We haven't seen a dog here,” she added. “We've been here since ten.”
Malcolm looked at Paul, injecting the proper amount of disappointment into his face. “Too bad. This was our last hope really.” He stared at Paul and flicked his eyes over to the brunette woman with the purple blouse.
Paul picked up the slack like they'd worked together for years. “You sure you didn't see anything?” His eyes locked on Miranda's friend. He took her hand, introduced himself, and asked her to try and remember.
Red splotches formed on the woman's upper chest near her collarbones. She held Paul's hand a few seconds too long while they made their introductions and hemmed and hawed about maybe she'd seen a dog when they first got to the park. But it was hard to say. There was a lot going on – there always was whenever she watched her kids. But one thing wasn't hard to say: Paul had his hooks in her. Malcolm smiled and nodded while the women pointed out her twins, but he hardly saw them.
His eyes were on the little girl playing by herself.
She looked back at him with a serious expression, but that just made her cuter with her brown eyes and hair in little sandy ringlets. Her face was a picture of pure innocence. She stared him down, watching, waiting for Malcolm to act. He watched her a few seconds longer. Then he stuck out his tongue and the little girl burst out laughing.
Malcolm laughed too. It rearranged his face into an unfamiliar shape. It'd been too long.
Then something tugged at his sleeve – a tiny hand not much larger than a serving spoon – and brought him back down to reality.
“What kind of dog is it?” a woman said. The woman why he was here. She hadn't moved from the park bench. Her eyes settled on him with the same intensity as her daughter's.
“What?”
“Your dog. What's the breed?”
“Oh – he's just a mutt really. There's a little lab in there and some border collie too. We didn't even know what to say on the flyers.”
Miranda watched him, her face unchanged. “Hmm. I haven't seen any dogs around here. Not today at least.”
“I'm trying my hardest to remember,” said the brunette woman, “but I'm coming up blank here. It's the kids, you know. They take all your attention. But you don't look like you'd know anything about that.”
“Wait,” Miranda said. She sat up on the bench and clutched her friend's arm. They looked at each another, exchanging information through a damn near telepathic connection that only decades of friendship could develop.
“What are you doing all the way out here in Tattersall?” Miranda said. “That's an awfully long way for a dog to come from Lemhaven.”
“We're just desperate,” Malcolm said. “That's all. When we picked her up from the shelter they mentioned she was originally from a breeder out this way. I don't know. We thought maybe she wanted to go home.”
“Who's the breeder?”
Malcolm shrugged. “They just told us she came from out this way.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and turned on the tape recorder. “We won't keep you. Thanks so much for your help.” They were sitting too close together, she and her friend. It was easier to get people alone when he did this, but today was just going to be messy. He glanced at Paul, cleared his throat…
And then the brunette woman gave him his opening.
“Here,” she said, rummaging through her purse with a pen in one hand. She handed a paper napkin to Paul. “Why don't you write down your number? You know… in case she shows up after you leave.”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “Sure.” He grabbed the pen and motioned for the woman to scoot aside. She slid over and he leaned over the bench and began writing on the napkin. Malcolm slipped around the side of the bench. Miranda watched him with those questioning eyes, and he felt another pair burning into his shoulders from somewhere across the playground. He smiled at Miranda one more time and held out his hand and waited patiently for her to take it. “Thanks for trying to help.”
She offered her hand and a faint smile. “Sure. It's the right thing to do.”
“Sure,” Malcolm said, strengthening his grip. “But you know what isn't the right thing to do?”
She squirmed. Her eyes were huge now, and they grew wider every time she tried to yank her hand away and couldn't. “What are you – leave me alone.”
Malcolm leaned forward. “I asked you a simple question. You didn't answer it, but now you're going to answer this one. Are you cheating on your husband?”
Miranda jumped to her feet with her hand still tangled up in Malcolm's. She pulled and pulled and screamed.
Then everything started to happen at once.
The brunette woman jumped up beside her, yelling at the children to stay away and they started yelling too. Paul backed away while the woman turned into a tempest of arms and legs and threats. Malcolm covered his face as purses and hands smashed into it, but he didn't cover his mouth:
“I said, are you cheating on your husband? Are you cheating on Eric?”
Miranda launched a flurry of punches into his chest and called him a pig and told him to mind his own damn business. She pushed and screamed until she ran out of breath, but Malcolm just stood there motionless. Then, like always, all the bullshit faded away and there was only room for the truth.
“Ye – ye – yes,” she said, slapping a hand over her mouth a fraction of a second too late. She finally wrenched her arm away, but it wasn't the arm Malcolm was after. He had her words now. He had her since the moment they showed up.
Miranda fell backwards into her friend's arms. Her face went pale and her limbs limp, crumpled under the weight of her secret. Miranda's friend put the back of her palm against the woman's forehead and began to fan her with a magazine from her purse. She looked too weak to handle much more – his questions had taken almost everything she had. But his client had a condition.
He locked eyes with her and pressed on.
“Are you cheating with Craig? A man named Craig Fielder?”
The brunette woman actually stopped fanning Miranda and snorted. “Craig? He wishes. I mean he's a nice guy and all but… give me a break.”
“Yes,” Miranda whispered, “with Craig.” Then the light in her eyes went out and she swooned. The brunette woman started screaming again and laid Miranda out across the park bench. She screamed and cried and called them monsters. Then the children were circling, asking what happened and who were these strangers. Miranda's daughter squeezed past them and reached for her mother's hand. She grabbed it and frowned at Malcolm.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “She'll be okay. Just give her a minute.” The words came out all wrong. Saying them felt about as comfortable as trying to shave with the wrong hand.
“Lies,” the brunette woman said, holding a water bottle against Miranda's forehead. “Lies on top of lies.” She pressed a cell phone to her ear. “Hello? Yes. I'm in Riverside Park. Some men came up and accosted us. No, I'm fine. But my friend fainted. Yes, they're still here. What? Of course.”
Malcolm grabbed Paul by the shoulder. He was standing there with his mouth hanging open watching the drama unfold. “We need to go,” Malcolm said. “Now.”
That snapped him out of it. He got the keys out of his pocket and snatched the scrap of napkin – the napkin with his real phone number on it – from the ground where it had fallen. Malcolm led them toward the parking lo
t, looking back at first, but throwing caution to the wind when he was sure they weren't being followed.
They passed another pair of benches at the edge of the grass. A strange woman sat in one of them wearing an olive dress and evening gloves. She looked like she'd been plucked out of the opera. She hadn't been there before, but now she glared at them as they passed. Her hands were busy breaking off breadcrumbs and feeding them to the squirrels gathered around her. But her eyes were perfectly still. She never took them off Malcolm. She just sat there watching, skin pale, hair dark, with her lips twisted into a ruthless smile.
Great. Another loose end. A beautiful loose end, but another loose end all the same. Malcolm pushed Paul along even faster once their feet hit the parking lot pavement. His questions came rapidly now, and his admonishments came almost nearly as often.
Malcolm ignored them all.
He ignored everything until the car was rolling out of town and Paul had finally shut up. That's when he pulled out the tape recorder and unwrapped his little bundle of truth.
CHAPTER THREE
Paul let him have it once he'd parked the car in front of their duplex.
“Jesus, man. What the hell did you do to her?” The pitch of his voice rose as they climbed the front porch steps.
“Relax,” Malcolm said. “She'll be fine. It works better if I rile them up first. That's exactly what I did. Some people hide the truth a lot better than others. That's all.”
“No,” Paul said. “That's not all.” He held a finger in the air as if to bookmark his place in his tirade so he wouldn't get lost. Then he disappeared into his apartment and came out again with a beer. His fingers trembled on the bottle cap before twisting it open. “You said you needed help with detective work. Not that you were going to make some poor woman faint in the park and get the police called on us.”
Malcolm patted the tape recorder in his pants pocket. “It was the easiest way to get what we needed. Now we get paid. Besides, what would the sheriff even arrest us for? Lying about an imaginary dog and asking some personal questions? Lighten up.”
The Truth Collector (Demon Marked Book 1) Page 2
