by Dan Taylor
Annabelle’s curious. “Who was that?”
“Nobody. Just my friend Megan. I’m handling her investigation.”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“I made a promise not to get anyone else involved, especially a female. I didn’t want her to find out about you.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me to stay quiet during the conversation?”
“I did not think of that.”
“And did you press the call reject button?”
“Yeah, why?”
The phone starts ringing again.
Then Annabelle says, “Because of that. You should’ve let it ring out. Now you have to answer it.”
“But won’t that seem weird…” I don’t finish the question. I know better than to second guess one female’s interpretation of another’s female’s thought process. “Damn. Okay. Can you be quiet while I speak to Megan?”
“That’s a good idea. I can do that.”
I answer the phone. “Megan, hi! How’s your day?”
“You sound weird. Is there a female in your car?”
I blow the dust off my fake laugh. “What makes you think that?”
“The reason I just said.”
“Which was?”
“You sounding weird.”
“Would I have told you no if I had a female in my car?”
“You would, but you didn’t say no in response to my question. Now I’m doubly convinced.”
“Are you sure I didn’t say no?”
I glance at Annabelle. She gives me a sarcastic thumbs-up.
Then Megan says, “Just tell me who she is, Jake. I promise I won’t get mad.”
“There’s no need to get mad anyway. I’m all alone. I even farted without suppressing it or winding down the window a couple minutes ago.”
Megan’s silent a second or two. Then she says, “How far are you off Hickston?”
“Two hours, I reckon.”
“And how far away are you?”
“In miles?”
“No, in caterpillar lengths.”
I sense her sarcasm. It’s one of my many superpowers. I see a sign whizz past. “I’m not too sure. There hasn’t been a sign for miles.”
Megan sighs. “Just tell me who she is, Jake.”
“If I did have a female in the car—and we’re talking about a pretty big if—are you still not going to get pissed if I tell you about this hypothetical female?”
“Jake, I’ll respond appropriately.”
Some cliché comes to mind, something about not mixing business with pleasure. I’d use that, but at this instant, in my friendship with Megan, I’m failing to recognize any pleasure.
“Then no, I don’t have a female in the car,” I say.
“Hi, honey,” Megan says.
I try to stop Annabelle from responding with the universally recognized stop code while driving a car: beeping my horn like I’m having a stroke. When the beeping stops, Annabelle says, “Hi, Megan.”
Before Megan can respond, I say, “And that’s the impression of a girl I’ve been working on. Pretty accurate, right?”
“Cut the shit, Jake. Just tell me she isn’t a hooker,” Megan says.
“She isn’t a hooker.”
“Then who is she?”
Great question, Megan. My dad gave me some great advice about lying: reveal half the lie, and then let the female…or man, or whoever, work out the rest. Of course, the example he referenced for its effectiveness was a little flawed. My dad had lost his wedding ring in a high-stakes poker game with a transvestite hooker one drunken evening in Atlantic City. Upon Mom noticing his missing ring, he told her about the transvestite hooker but not the poker game. Clever guy, my dad.
I’ll use his advice now, but I’ll get it right where he went wrong.
“Are you going to tell me who she is, or do I have to ask her?”
“I’ll tell you. She’s…”
“Yes?”
“Just your regular non-college-age hitchhiker.”
“College age? Real nice, Jake. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“Not you, Jake. The girl. He hasn’t tried it on with you or anything?”
Annabelle says, “He’s been really kind actually.”
Actually?
“Jake, take me off speaker phone,” Megan says.
I instruct Annabelle to take the wheel as I disconnect the damn thing. Then I take back the wheel and put the phone to my ear.
Megan says, “Am I off?”
“You are.”
“Why the hell did you pick up a hitchhiker?”
“What happened to the little sorority you were forming a minute ago?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Okay, funny story.”
Megan sighs.
I continue, “I’m just driving along, minding my own business, reciting those rules you gave me, thinking about this case of yours for which we haven’t agreed on a fee, when Annabelle catches my eye. She’s walking by the side of the freeway. Out of it. I mean, anything could’ve happened to her. Then I thought to myself, Well, Megan has her rule, but wouldn’t she want me to break that rule if it meant doing the right thing? Megan wouldn’t be a stickler for her set of rules in a situation like this. Not the Megan I know. So I picked her up.”
“And then?”
“What do you mean ‘And then’?”
“Just what I said.”
“And then I haven’t involved her in your case whatsoever. Technically not breaking your rule.”
“Where are you driving her to?”
I reckon my driving her to the same town, or even just a stone’s throw away, might be a problem in maintaining the level of discretion Megan had hoped for. But then again, she might get pissed if I’m taking a huge detour to get to Hickston. Quite the pickle.
“North,” I say.
“Not what direction, to which town?”
I look to Annabelle for help. She shakes her head, leaving me high and dry. My dad’s advice to let the person to whom you’re lying work out the rest of the details isn’t working out too well. At this point, Megan thinks I banged the transvestite hooker and that she made off with my wedding ring in the morning while I slept, which, of course, was my mom’s assumption. I decide to come clean.
“Hickston, as it turns out.”
“The same town? Huh, that’s actually worked out quite well then. She can help you get the lay of the land, or whatever. Lord knows you need the help. Just don’t tell her any details.”
“I won’t. And you hired me.”
“Okay, Jake. Keep in touch.”
She hangs up, and I breathe a sigh of relief at having escaped telling the whole story about investigating Annabelle’s rape. God knows how I would’ve explained my way out of that one: “Hey, Megan, I’ll totally be able to discreetly get in and out of Hickston having found out that your boyfriend probably just has relatives there, all the while investigating why the rape of the hitchhiker I picked up went ignored by the sheriff. How could you doubt me, even for a second?”
Annabelle interrupts my thoughts: “That plan about asking the sheriff subtly? Yeah, I think we might need another plan.”
16.
LOOKS LIKE ANNABELLE might sleep the rest of the way. Which is a good thing. A couple minutes after the phone call, Annabelle compiled a list of self-help books about emotional intelligence I should read. “To improve the relationships you have with women,” she said. Now that I think about it, I believe talking about that very subject is what put her to sleep.
I spend the three-hour drive thinking about what questions I’ll ask the sheriff, what cover story I can use, and what avenues I’ll explore for Julius Collingwood’s having been in Hickston. The relatives angle I’ve already mentioned. If I had to guess, and I generally do, I reckon Julius traveled to Annabelle’s hometown to engage in some sort of illicit activity that he could gain access to in Hickston, but which he couldn
’t in Hollywood. Cock fighting, maybe? Orgy with half a dozen hick dwarves? The list goes on. I’ll pick Annabelle’s brain when she wakes, about the unusual activities the people of Hickston engage in. If this were some bad novel, these two cases would be connected, and it would turn out that Julius traveled to Hickston to get him some raping, having learned on some rapists’ forum that Hickston’s the place do it, because of the lax sheriff. Hell, the sheriff might be the leader of Hickston’s rape ring. And I’d be able to tie both these cases together with a nice, neat bow.
But Old Hancock’s not that lucky. Not by a long shot.
We drive past a sign that reads, “Welcome to Hickston. The Home of Good Livin’.”
I prod Annabelle. Say, “We’ve arrived.”
She wakes with a start, as though from a bad dream. She looks around the car with bugged-out eyes and then spots me. She shrieks, probably knocking out a few frequencies.
“Relax, Annabelle. You’re safe now,” I say.
She’s getting her bearings, even looking at me like I’m not a rapist. “Where are we?”
“Hickston. The Home of Good Livin’.”
“How long was I out?”
“Long enough for me to come up with a killer plan.”
She yawns, then asks, “Does it still involve the sheriff?”
“It does. But I’ve thought of the perfect cover for my investigation.”
“What’s that?”
“The way I figure it, Hickston’s not exactly a tourist spot.”
To our right, we notice a farmhand type walking a chicken on a leash.
Then Annabelle says, “How did you guess?”
I continue, “Anyway, I need to get close to the sheriff, ask him questions about the town, while subtly investigating if he’s actively covering up your rape claim. What better way than to act as a member of a tourist board, doing some sort of tourism survey on his nice little town? His Home of Good Livin’.”
What I don’t mention to Annabelle is why this angle I’m going with is effective for Megan’s investigation. As I mentioned, I think there’s some activity Julius Collingwood sought that’s unique to Hickston. This angle will allow me to naturally question the sheriff about Hickston’s attractions without him getting suspicious. I find out what it is that attracted Julius, I find out what he was doing here. Probably. Maybe. If it turns out I’m totally wrong, then at least I’ll still be able to use my time with the sheriff to look into why he ignored Annabelle’s rape accusation.
Annabelle says, “Do you think the sheriff will buy it?”
“Giles Baker.”
“What?”
“That’s the name of this tourist guy I’ll be posing as. Pretty decent name for some goofy tourist guy, right?”
“It’s okay, I guess. But you should probably come up with a more official-sounding title than goofy tourist guy before speaking to the sheriff.”
“I’m on it.” I think a second. “How about Director of Tourism?”
“Sounds totally fake.”
I think some more. “Tourism discovery coordinator?”
“Getting warmer. But I’m not sure what it is you’re coordinating.”
“Okay, lose the coordinator part. Tourism discovery agent?”
“Giles Baker, tourism discovery agent… I think it might work.” She yawns again.
For someone who’s been through a week-long sexual assault and kidnapping, Annabelle sure is blasé.
“What should I do?” she asks.
“Nothing. You’re going to hole up somewhere. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“No fair. I want to be involved somehow. Can’t I keep an eye on Bradley, make sure he doesn’t skip town?”
“It’s a good plan, apart from one small detail.”
“What’s that?”
“You look exactly like you. I don’t think you’d make the greatest tail under the circumstances.”
“I could go incognito.”
“I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t, Annabelle.”
“Jake, you feeling better isn’t my main priority. I mean, I trust you and everything, but I’d kinda like to be involved in the investigation of the potential cover up of my own rape.”
“Then I’ll think of a safer gig for you. In the meantime, you’re going to spend time in a Motel 6. There’s one on the town’s eastern fringe.” I roll my eyes. “Those things are everywhere…Anyway, you can relax awhile, catch up on your beauty sleep.”
Annabelle’s silent a minute or so. I suspect she’s in a mood with me.
Then I say, “Tell me about Hickston.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What the people of this township like to do. That kind of thing.”
“Township?”
“I’m practicing Giles Baker’s way of speaking.”
She thinks a second. “Just the usual, I guess. Getting drunk. Line dancing. Hog racing.”
“Hogs, as in large motorcycles?”
“Hogs as in domestic swine. If there have been recent developments in the leisure activities of Hickston’s population, I’m unaware of them. I moved away.”
“Any activity you know of that would attract tourists of a certain persuasion?”
“What persuasion are we talking about?”
“Yuppie. Waxed chest. Back, crack, and sack. Seeking thrills for the weekend that supersede anything he could find in Vegas?”
“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“Just making small talk.”
She’s silent a second. “Oh, now I get it. This is about Megan’s case.”
“Not at all. It’s been awhile since I’ve made small talk with a college student. I’m out of practice.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. But don’t worry. Megan’s secrets are safe with me. I’m guessing the yuppie type is her boyfriend.”
I change subject. “This sheriff, what can you remember about him?”
“He totally is.”
“Totally is what?”
“Megan’s boyfriend.”
Or not.
“If I say he is, will you drop it? I’ve got a client—”
“Client-investigator confidentiality to protect?”
“I was going to say a client who would bury me in the desert in an unmarked grave if she knew I told someone I was investigating her boyfriend. But what you said works.”
She’s silent a second. “I promise I won’t ask any more questions.”
“Good.”
We drive in silence the rest of the way. I spend the time looking around at the place, thinking about Annabelle’s ordeal and what she said happened afterwards, while Annabelle looks bored. Hickston’s a farming town. Dusty roads. Endless fields. And a faint smell of manure everywhere you drive, even with the air conditioning turned way down. Nice place.
As we pull up to the Motel 6, Annabelle says, “How will I stay in contact with you?”
“Any time you want to summon me, turn on the bat light.”
“I don’t think it’s called that.”
“Bat beam?”
She rolls her eyes. “Just give me your cell number, Jake.”
I do. Annabelle also needs cash to pay for the motel. I cough up. Before she gets out, she kisses me on the cheek, and thanks me for helping her out.
And as I watch Annabelle walk towards the reception desk, looking around, unsure, I get to thinking about why that bitch just told me a pack of lies.
17.
SHE DIDN’T LIE about lying low in the motel. I believe her about that. Though come to think of it, if Annabelle is a compulsive liar, everything she told me might have been lies. She might not even be called Annabelle English…
The bat signal. That’s it!
Anyway, what pack of lies did Annabelle tell me? The rape story of course.
Rape has a bad rap…wait, let me rephrase that. Rape victims have a bad rap. It’s the one crime in America where a good third of the people who find out about your
accusation don’t believe you. Especially the accused dude’s parents. I saw a documentary about it. I was pretty drunk, but I remember bits. Something about college campuses covering up rapes to maintain their reputations. Word gets out, mothers don’t send their daughters to colleges where they’re likely to get sexually assaulted. If there are no girls, there are no guys. Then there’s no college.
Anyway, truth is, there’s roughly the same proportion of false accusations for rape as there is any other criminal accusation. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this, is to reassure you that I’m not some bro-code douchebag who’s skeptical about every rape accusation made, because I’m a dude, and “dude’s should stick together,” or some shit. It’s Annabelle’s accusation specifically I’m skeptical about.
It was convincing enough, if not for a few details. Even if you overlook the bit about the condom and the guy being gentle, which is a stretch, there are a couple of details in her story that don’t make a bit of sense. Her visiting the sheriff for one. Annabelle was out of it when I picked her up, still suffering the effects of what the guy had supposedly drugged her with, and according to her, she’d just been to see the guy. She could barely get a word out when sitting in my car, but she’d been compos mentis for her talk with the sheriff? She wasn’t in a fit enough state to have been able to go and see the sheriff when I picked her up, never mind several hours earlier. Huge hole in Annabelle’s story.
Or at least I think she had been to see the guy hours earlier. I didn’t press her for details. But if she’d been held captive and raped for a week, then earlier today would have been her only opportunity.
Come to think of it, how did she get so far away from Hickston if she escaped this morning? And how did she escape?
There’s something fishy about all this.
But as Annabelle turns around before entering the reception area, waving at me, I don’t let on. Just smile a stupid smile and wave back in the goofiest way possible: signing off with a two-fingered mock salute.
Why didn’t I come right out and tell Annabelle there are holes in her story? Same reason I’ve been thinking almost entirely in questions the last thirty seconds. I’m only ninety-nine percent sure she’s bullshitting me. The last thing you want to do when a girl confesses a horrifying rape ordeal to you and asks for your help is to tell her that her story’s horseshit. That one percent matters.
