If She Wakes

by Michael Koryta

  38

  Abby did fine until they reached Portland.

  Driving out of Tenants Harbor and back to Rockland, she stayed on winding two-lane country roads that were no problem, and in Rockland she picked up Route 1 heading south, although it would have been faster to take 17 west all the way to Gardiner, where she could jump on the interstate.

  She was in no hurry to get on the interstate, though. She was in no hurry, period. She wanted time to think and plan, and if the kid was bothered by her choice, he didn’t voice concern. Didn’t voice anything at all, surprisingly. His focus was undeniable, his eyes and the muzzle of the gun returning to Abby any time she so much as shifted position, but at last, finally, he was silent.

  He seemed to want this time to think too, although they were contemplating different goals. Abby wondered if he was any closer to understanding how to reach his.

  Traffic was minimal on Route 1, the occasional chain of stoplights in one coastal village or another breaking things up, and the road always had a shoulder if she needed it, a place to pull over and catch her breath and focus her eyes.

  They curled through Wiscasset and up the hill where, in the summer, tourists would gather in long lines outside Red’s Eats waiting for lobster rolls, and then they crossed the Kennebec River into Bath, where naval destroyers rested in their berths at the last major shipbuilder in Maine, Bath Iron Works. Once they’d made five-masted schooners here; now they made Zumwalt-class destroyers at four billion dollars a ship.

  The hills were lit with fire-bright colors, but clouds kept pushing in, and the rain fell in thin, windswept sheets, flapping off the windshield like laundry on a line. The pavement was wet, but the Tahoe’s tires were good and the car never slipped. Abby was trying to think about the things that mattered—Tara and Shannon Beckley in Boston, the kid with the gun in the backseat, those vivid, real things—and yet her mind drifted time and again to the feel of the tires on the wet road, to the weight of the car pressing on the curves, and to the fear that she would push too far, too fast. The power of a phobia was extraordinary. Yes, I know there’s a gunman right beside me, but I think I just saw a spider in that corner…

  It was as if the brain couldn’t help but yield the battlefield when a phobia appeared, no matter how irrational the fear.

  Just drive, she told herself, breathing as steadily as she could. Just drive, and keep an eye on that shoulder, and know that at these speeds, nothing that bad can happen. You’re in a big car, cruising slow.

  She was through Brunswick and her mind was on the upcoming I-295 spur and its increase in speed and traffic when the kid broke the silence for the first time in nearly an hour.

  “We’ll need to lose the Tahoe before we hit civilization.”

  For a moment, Abby was ridiculously pleased, as if they were going to take the bus or the train from here while the kid held the gun on her and smiled at the other passengers in his polite but detached fashion. He added, “We should be in my car already, but I had different visions of the way this day was going to play out. An oversight on my part. Oh, well. We’ve got options. Stealing a car is one, but that has its own risks. The other option is at your office, I believe. The sports car. What kind is it?”

  A shudder in her chest, cold and sudden, like a bird shaking water from its wings.

  “You know the car I’m talking about,” the kid said. “What is it?”

  “Hellcat,” Abby managed. Then, clearing her throat: “A Dodge Challenger. Hellcat motor.”

  “Nice ride. The title is in Bauer’s name, but the police already searched his office, and I doubt they thought to add that plate to the mix, since the car was still there. It was pretty clear what car of his you stole after you killed him.”

  To Abby, the idea of shifting to the Hellcat somehow seemed worse than the lies he was telling.

  “I also doubt they’re waiting for you there,” he continued. “Small county with limited resources, and common sense says you’re not going to show up at the office. So we will.”

  “Back roads,” Abby blurted.

  “Excuse me?” The kid leaned forward, the gun’s chrome cylinders bright in Abby’s peripheral vision.

  “I’ll need to take the back roads to get there. Otherwise, we’ll go through the toll. The tollbooth cameras will pick up this plate. They’re wired in with state police.”

  She had no idea if this was true, but it sounded good.

  It also apparently sounded good to Dax, because he leaned back and said, “Good call, Abby. I knew there was a reason I’d entrusted the driving to you. Take the back roads, then. We’re in no hurry.”

  The approach allowed her to avoid the I-295 spur and stay in the thickening but slow-moving traffic, bouncing from side street to side street, grateful for the stoplights and speed limits. It added at least forty minutes to the journey, and in truth they wouldn’t have had to pass through a tollbooth, but Dax evidently wasn’t familiar enough with the area to know that.

  Abby’s focus was entirely on keeping control—of the car and of herself—until they reached the office. Then the memory of Hank’s dead face, his head rolling on his broken neck, rose, and she felt sick and shamed. Not only had she been unable to save Hank; she was now chauffeuring around the man who’d killed him.

  Dax was sitting tall in the backseat as they approached, head swiveling, scouting the surroundings for any watchers. There were none.

  The office of Coastal Claims and Investigations had once been a hair salon, and Hank had kept some of the mirrors and one of the barber’s chairs. He’d insisted the chair was comfortable and too expensive to waste, and he liked to sit in it and have a cigar while he read the paper, which always made him look like a man waiting on a ghost to cut his hair.

  The building and its oversize detached garage sat alone in a large gravel parking lot surrounded by empty fields. There was a Dunkin’ Donuts visible just down the road, and a gas station across from that. They were the only possible places for covert surveillance, but Abby agreed with the kid—the police would have seen no purpose for that.

  “Drive past,” Dax said.

  Abby cruised by, came to the four-way stop with the gas station and the Dunkin’ Donuts, and waited for instructions. The kid was leaning close again, the gun in Abby’s ribs.

  “If you saw something out of place, speak now or forever hold a hollow-point in your heart.”

  “Looked clear. He has security cameras, but they don’t work. Just a deterrent.”

  “I noticed that in my previous visit, but I appreciate your honesty. Okay. Go on back.”

  Abby turned around in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and drove back to the office where she’d spent countless hours as a child talking tires and engines with Hank and her father, the office to which she’d returned when she couldn’t get a job anywhere else.

  “Open the garage door,” Dax said.

  Abby hit the button and the overhead door rolled up, exposing the low-slung Dodge Challenger with the red paint, black trim, and black hood, looking every bit deserving of the Hellcat name.

  Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of it.

  “Pull in.”

  Abby parked next to the Challenger and put the garage door down, sealing out the daylight. She cut the engine on the Tahoe and the kid said, “Do you have keys to the office?”

  “Yeah. But I’ve also got the keys for that car. There’s no need to go inside the office.”

  “Actually, there is. We’re going to make a phone call.” He got out of the Tahoe and waved the pistol at Abby in a hurry-up gesture.

  Abby got out and led the way across the narrow opening to the office. A few stray raindrops splattered off them, and the parking lot was pockmarked with puddles. A relentless gray day. The cars on the road passed quickly, everyone in a hurry to get home. Still, being there was a risk. Locals knew Hank, and locals knew that no one should be at his office.

  “Let’s go,” the kid said, impatient, as if he was thinking the same
thing.

  Abby opened the side door and stepped in, entering behind a desk facing the windows. Hank’s various collections of oddities filled the room—the barber’s chair, an antique gas pump, a neon Red Sox sign, a gumball machine filled with gumballs that had to be forty years old.

  The kid settled into the barber’s chair, swiveled to face Abby, and pointed at the desk. “Pick up the phone.”

  “If I use that phone, it’ll be traced back here.”

  “The guy you’re calling is going to ask me to trace it, so I think we’re good.”

  Abby looked at him, surprised, and Dax nodded. “You’re calling my boss. Terms are going to be straightforward, and you’re going to set them, just as you promised before. You’ll give him Oltamu’s phone if he gives me up. Now, you don’t trust him, of course, so you’ll want a nice public spot. Safety. You’ll want me to come to you, not the other way around. Someplace you’re familiar with, and I won’t be. Someplace with good visual potential, where there might be cops I won’t notice. What sounds good to you?”

  Abby thought about it. “The pier at Old Orchard Beach. Wide open, plenty of people, and if I got there first, I’d be able to see everyone coming and going.”

  The kid smiled and pointed at Abby approvingly with the pistol. “That’s not bad. It’s even better because you thought of it. Now, where are you going to give him Oltamu’s phone? Can’t be the same place. He’ll want it before he gives me up.”

  He said it without sorrow or anger.

  This time Abby didn’t have an answer.

  “You’re going to put it inside the mailbox of a vacant house in Old Orchard,” Dax said, “and at eleven forty-five tomorrow morning, you’ll text him the address. By noon, I’ll need to walk onto the pier. You’ve got to give him time to pick up the phone. That’s only fair.”

  “He’ll think there’s a trap in both places,” Abby said.

  “Yes. But he really needs that phone.”

  Abby looked at him, sitting there so at ease in the barber’s chair, with the dim light filtering through the blinds and painting him in slats.

  “You’re going to kill him too,” she said.

  The kid shrugged. “Too early to say.”

  “No, it isn’t. If he’s willing to trade you for the phone, you can’t overlook that. It’s personal to you.”

  “Nothing is personal. It’s a matter of price point, Abby. I feel like mine is moving north.”

  Abby parted her lips to say more, but the kid stopped her.

  “Just make the call. The same number you did before.”

  Abby reached for the phone, then hesitated. “I don’t know it. It’s written down, but it’s out in the Tahoe.”

  She moved for the door as she spoke. If she could get to the garage alone, if she could open the door and get behind the wheel while the kid waited in here, then maybe she could—

  “Good news,” the kid said. “I remember it.”

  He did, too, reciting it without taking his eyes off Abby. The gun muzzle never wavered. Outside, cars passed in the rain, but there were no lights on inside the office, no indication that anyone was inside. If people gave the place a glance, they’d think nothing was amiss. Maybe they’d mourn Hank Bauer and curse Abby Kaplan for killing him, but they would not slow.

  She punched in the last of the digits, and the line hummed, and then rang. Once, twice. Then—“Hello?”

  It was the same man. For a moment Abby couldn’t remember what to say or how to begin. Then Dax left the barber’s chair, leaned across the desk, and punched the speakerphone button. He set a digital recorder down beside the phone, then leveled the pistol at Abby’s head.

  Abby finally spoke. “I don’t want this thing,” she said to the man Dax had called Gerry. “This phone or camera or whatever. I don’t want it, and I never did. It has nothing to do with me. I don’t understand what it is, so I’m no threat to you once it’s gone. Do you agree?”

  The man said, “Yes. That’s a smart choice,” with enthusiasm that bordered on relief.

  “But I need him,” Abby said.

  “I gave you his name.”

  “And you said that it wouldn’t be worth a damn. I need him. Not his name, his address, or even his fucking fingerprints. I want him.”

  Dax smiled in the darkness. Approving of the performance. His eyes, though, weren’t on Abby. They were on the phone. He was waiting to hear whether he was considered expendable.

  The silence went on for a long time. Abby watched the recorder on the desk count off the seconds of silence. Eleven of them passed before the man spoke.

  “How am I supposed to get the phone?”

  Dax stepped away, as if he’d heard enough. He returned to the barber’s chair.

  Abby followed the script—the phone would be in the mailbox of a vacant house in Old Orchard, and she’d give them fifteen minutes to pick it up and get clear. The kid would need to step onto the pier at noon. Throughout her spiel, the man never interrupted, just listened. Abby could hear the faint scraping of a pen on paper.

  “What’s your plan for him?” he said when Abby had fallen silent.

  Abby hadn’t anticipated this question. She hesitated, then said, “That’s my business.”

  “I need to know. Are you coming for him with police or…”

  The answer rose forth easily this time.

  “I’ve got something else in mind for him,” Abby said. Dax lifted his head to meet Abby’s eyes. He smiled at her.

  “All right,” the man said. “Then if I see a cop, everything’s off.”

  “You won’t see one. After what he did, I’m not worried about police. I want him.”

  Abby held the kid’s eyes while she said that, but Dax never lost the smile. Instead, he gave a respectful nod.

  It was then that Abby realized that she wasn’t lying to the man on the phone. She didn’t want police. She wanted to kill him. Or try.

  “So you’ll text the address at eleven forty-five tomorrow morning,” the man said, “and you’d better pick a location that’s close to the pier.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not going down there myself. Think I trust you? He’ll get the phone, then I’ll get the phone, and then I’ll send him along to you. So choose your spot carefully.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Abby said. “Just make sure he’s there.”

  “He will be.”

  The kid left the chair, walked to the desk, and killed the connection. Then he set the phone back in the cradle, picked up the recorder, and put it in his pocket. The smile was still on his face, but it seemed to have been painted on and forgotten.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s that. Nicely done, Abby. You’re going to survive all of this, I think. You’re earning your way out.”

  Abby didn’t say anything. They stood looking at each other in the office that Hank Bauer had worked out of for thirty-three years, and then the quiet was shattered by a shrill ring. Abby looked at the desk phone, but Dax stepped away and reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell. Before he answered it, he lifted the revolver and put it to his lips, instructing Abby to be silent. Then he said, “Yeah?”

  Abby could hear the caller’s voice faintly, but she couldn’t make out most of the words.

  Dax said, “Old Orchard is pretty exposed. You couldn’t negotiate a better spot than that?”

  The voice on the other end rose a bit this time, and Abby heard the phrase know your role. Dax’s face never changed.

  “Right,” he said. Then: “So we’ll pull her away from the pier beforehand. You’re sure that she’ll go?” He listened to the caller. “Why don’t I pick out the house? I can sit on it all night. Make sure it’s clear.”

  Pause. Then: “All right. We’ll ride together. I’ll drive.”

  Pause. Then: “You’re the boss. I’ll be there. Let’s put an end to this one. This bitch has been too much trouble already.”

  Pause. A smile slid back onto his face, and this t
ime it was genuine, and it was cold. “Yes, I did allow it to happen. I realize that. But trust me—I’ll end it, too.” He disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket. “Get the gist, Abby?”

  “He’s lying to you.”

  Dax nodded. “In his version, he will pick the house. I would expect that’s where you and I are supposed to die. The pier was never ideal. A vacant house, even if you pick it, is much better—provided there are no police. And you know what? I think he believed you on that. He’ll check first, of course, but…he believed you. Do you know why I’m so sure?”

  Abby shook her head.

  “Because I believed you too,” the kid said. “I don’t think jail is the fit you want for me anymore. You want me to die.”

  He seemed to wait for a response. Abby said, “Doesn’t matter either way, does it?”

  “Actually, it does. You’re finally growing into someone I understand.”

  He walked around the desk and opened the top left-hand drawer. The Challenger keys rested beside a spare set for the Tahoe and one for the office.

  “Grab the winners,” he said.

  Abby picked up the keys. The kid faced her, gun extended, and smiled. “Now we really ride,” he said. “But keep the race-car-driver instincts in check, okay? No flashing lights in the rearview mirror tonight.”

  Abby moved woodenly out of the office, across the rain-swept parking lot, and into the garage. The Hellcat sat before her, looking smug, as if it had always known Abby would return.

  This time, Dax took the passenger seat and not the back. Abby slid behind the wheel. The interior lights glowed bright, then dimmed down once she closed the driver’s door. She felt an immediate claustrophobia when the door was shut. When she turned the engine over, the 6.2-liter engine’s growl filled the garage and put a low vibration through the base of her spine. The dash lights glowed red, her mouth went dry, and her pulse trembled.

  Beside her, the kid laughed. “This is a beast, isn’t it?”

  Abby put the garage door up and backed out. In reverse, the car only hinted at its power. Once they were outside, though, when she shifted into drive and tapped the gas, she could feel it immediately. The car seemed to leap rather than accelerate. It was always crouched back on those beautiful Pirelli tires, just begging for the chance to spin off a few layers of rubber. At low idle, the engine offered both a throaty growl and a higher, impatient tone, a whine like a beehive.