She glanced up. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, “Just because I’m typing doesn’t mean I’m working.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Writing.” Click, click, click.
“What? Why?”
She shrugged. “I had a pretty vivid dream last night. Just putting it down before I forget.”
“A dream?” I grinned.
“Not that kind.” She shook her head.
“You’re boring.”
“You’re lazy,” she retorted. Click, click, click.
“No.” I sat up. “I’m hungry. Let’s go.”
She paused. “Where?”
“I don’t know. The Quarter?”
Her eyebrow raised.
“I’m hungry. I want some seafood or something.”
“Haven’t you been bragging about how awesome everything in Providence is?”
“Sure, but I want crawfish.”
“Tired of cod?”
“Can we go now? You can insult me on the way.”
“It’s June. I don’t think you’ll find a lot of crawfish.” She glanced up before returning to her keyboard. “You haven’t been gone that long. Should remember that.”
Climbing to my feet, I groaned.
“Let’s go!”
After a little convincing, I got my way. We drove around the French Quarter, but Heather was in a mood. Everything I suggested, she rejected. Finally, before we knew it, we were in the warehouse district. I never spent much time there. There really wasn't much to do.
I’m sure in decades past, it thrived. I remember my Aunt Dee, my mom’s older sister, saying there was a place called The Warehouse. Apparently, lots of big named musicians performed there. She loved telling the story of seeing The Doors during one of Jim Morrison’s final shows. She swore he winked at her.
After thirty minutes of arguing, Heather finally agreed to eat at a hole-in-the-wall off Napoleon called Dave’s. We walked inside. My nose was filled with the delicious aroma of fried goodness. Unfortunately, there was no crawfish. I hated when Heather was right. I got a shrimp po-boy.
“It’s gotta be here somewhere.”
Zane’s voice interrupted my reminiscence. Looking up, I realized the building where Dave’s had been was gone. It its place, fire-charred rubble. I frowned.
We finally came to a stoplight at Napoleon Avenue. The median was lined with aged, sturdy oak trees. Misplaced palm trees’ fronds reached for the cloudy, gray sky.
Had Zane continued on Tchoupitoulas, we would have eventually found ourselves in front of Children’s Hospital. That was the same hospital where Alicia was rushed in an ambulance as a child because her appendix ruptured. She had to spend a week there after undergoing an emergency surgery. Although it was a frightening moment, it was also an important one. Alicia credits her time there as the reason she first decided she wanted to become a doctor.
Had Zane chosen to turn right, we would have headed back toward I-10. Instead, he took a left. I may not have spent much time here as a child, but I was still familiar with it. And in all my years, I had never once taken a left at this light.
The reason was simple. The road ended at a warehouse overlooking the river. It was an industrial area that had been thriving at one time. It was also closed off to the public, with a chain-link fence, a guard booth, and a security gate blocking the entrance. Zane drove up to the gate. For several moments, we sat in silence.
“Okay.” I could no longer stand it. “What are we doing?”
“You want to get your friend, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t understand—”
“Just, for once, be quiet.”
Now, I will admit I’ve been called stubborn. Also, obnoxious. And sometimes, scatterbrained. I like to think of myself more as determined and free thinking. Or maybe even strong-willed. I like calling the shots. That was one of the main reasons I went into business for myself. That and Magnum, PI. But that’s another story.
Jon got on my nerves, but—and I would never admit this to him—he was my rock. No matter what, I could always, always count on Jon. That was what made his outbursts bearable. And was making me begin to question my feelings for him. But this guy?
I had no idea who Zane was. I had no idea why Zane was here. I couldn’t get a read on him. At all. I was at a complete loss. He wasn’t bad to look at; his features were hard, like someone who had lived a rough life, but some like the rugged type. It was his personality that bothered me.
Something felt wrong. I’ve always relied on my instinct about people. I usually get an early-warning alert of sorts when something is amiss. This internal alarm system had served me well during four years in Providence. It had kept me safe since moving to Boston. That, and the good sense to have good friends.
Zane was harsh, but he didn’t seem dangerous. I got the feeling he had spent time behind bars, but that didn’t worry me. Mr. Bruno, who lived two apartments down from me ever since I moved to Boston, had gone to jail years earlier. I’m pretty sure it was for aggravated assault. If I remembered correctly, he had gotten into a fight during a Saint Patrick’s Day parade. But I digress.
I felt there was some reason Zane was sticking around he wasn’t admitting. Maybe it had something to do with Dr. Weisman. Maybe it had something to do with Natalie. It was possible he knew her and wasn’t telling me. I couldn’t recall if they had any interactions at Funky 504. I couldn’t remember much from that night until after Cash was shot. That was sobering.
My gut told me there was more to the story than Zane was offering. Unfortunately, I couldn’t focus on that right now. If his tracker app was correct, Natalie was somewhere nearby. Or at least her cell phone is.
“No, no, don’t go there.” I shook my head to silence the myriad of horrifying thoughts that crossed my mind as we neared the abandoned warehouse.
“How the hell do you expect me to get across?” Zane barked, scratching his jaw. “Fly?”
“What?” I blinked.
“Don’t go there,” he repeated, cracking his knuckles. He continued to stare at the empty guard booth connected to the security gate.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Well, you sure as hell better listen.” He leaned back against the seat. I waited. He continued to stare out into space. After what felt like ten minutes, I could no longer take the silence.
“What exactly am I listening for?”
“Just shut up,” he grumbled, his thick brow furrowing. “I’m trying to think.”
I frowned. “You just told me to listen.”
Without another word, he threw open the driver’s side door, stepping out. I heard a clicking sound. Craning my neck, I realized he had opened the trunk. I don’t know why, of everything he had done within the past twelve hours, but that bothered me the most. I rushed out of the car. I hurried around back.
With the road noise from passing motorists now louder, I placed my hand on the trunk’s hood. I slammed it down before he could reach inside. His eyes shot up to meet mine. They were not filled with rage, but definitely betrayed a glimmer of aggravation. When he pressed the large ‘B’ in the center of the trunk, it began to open again. Before it could, I closed it. Now his eyes revealed rage.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He reached to press the button again. “Move.”
I kept my hand firmly on the trunk, meeting his intimidating gaze with mild indifference. “No.”
“You’re testing my patience.”
“How does it feel?”
“Do you want to find your friend or not?”
“That seems to be your excuse for everything,” I shifted my weight to keep from losing my balance on the uneven, crack
ed pavement.
“Do you want to find your friend or not?”
“Are you kidding me?” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “What do you plan to do if I’m right and she was kidnapped? Ask them to give her back? Pretty please?”
He lifted his shirt, revealing the gun in his waistband. “I’m not worried.”
My eyebrow cocked. “Seriously?”
He stepped closer. “Move, or I’ll move you.”
“Or you could explain why you’re rummaging through her trunk.”
“Do you want to find your friend or not?”
We stood there in a heated battle of the wills. My hand remained pressed against the car’s trunk. His frown remained plastered on his lips. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the strength or weight needed to stop a two hundred fifty pound man from yanking the trunk’s lid up.
“Hey!”
He began to rummage through the small enclosure. It was almost as chaotic as Natalie’s bedroom. I had assumed the car belonged to her stepmother, but it appeared both Dr. Weisman and his late wife used the vehicle. Mixed in amongst bags of un-used designer clothes, most of which had price tags still attached, was random medical equipment, textbooks, and paperwork.
It looked like a tornado struck Neiman Marcus and a medical supply store, depositing the contents of both into that trunk. I couldn’t imagine what Zane had planned. He removed a long-handled, scissor-like instrument from a black, leather bag. He stepped toward me. I inched back. “What are you gonna do with that?”
Stepping closer, he smiled.
26
I don’t know what I was expecting. Zane took the long-handled scissors over to the security gate. Without any regard for private property or prying eyes, he snipped several colorful wires emerging from the gate’s mechanical arm.
I really don’t know anything about electronics. As long as whatever it is does whatever it does, I don’t care. That approach had served me well in life. As the saying goes, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
I stood outside the driver’s side door of a technically stolen car. I watched a possible convict commit another probable felony. I found myself wondering how in the world I always managed to put myself in the worst situations. If that were my super power, it super sucked.
I glanced at the security booth. Empty. I tried to remember what day of the week it was. I always lost track whenever I was home. It was Saturday. That would explain why there were few cars and no one manning the gate.
Zane shoved the scissors into his back pocket. I stared in amazement as he lifted the gate's arm. He turned, walked back, pulled out the scissors and threw them on the back seat, and climbed into the car.
He leaned across the open window.
I stared at him.
“You want to find your friend or not?”
I swallowed. My throat was tight and dry. The uneasiness I had felt since I realized Natalie was missing remained. Still. I’m so close.
I hurried around the car. I jumped inside. Zane sped through the unmanned security station. He took a sharp left. We drove past several blocks of stacked, cargo containers. Most were sealed. From what I could tell, the opened ones were empty.
Zane drove in silence. I should have felt a sense of comfort at having reinforcements. I didn’t. The nagging, uneasy feeling remained. Something felt strange, off. I was hesitant. It made no sense. I had spent the last few years helping random strangers. Why wouldn’t I be eager to save one of my very best friends?
Zane glanced at his phone. I followed his gaze to the tracker. A blue dot pulsated near our location. I realized there were several, large stacks of wooden pallets blocking our path. My heart leapt into my throat. I leaned back against the seat, my back and shoulders tightening.
“Stop!” I screamed.
Zane looked up. His features morphed from confusion to surprise to determination within the span of a second. He gripped the steering wheel. He slammed on the brakes, jerking the wheel to the right to avoid the pallets. Like a scene from a movie, the car began to spin. Unlike a scene from a movie, I did not maintain action-hero composure.
Anyone within twenty miles could have heard my “horror-movie scream,” as Jon had once deemed it. As the car fishtailed, the driver’s side slammed into a column of stacked pallets. Splintered wood rained upon the car’s hood as we continued to spin.
I felt like every nerve in my body was ablaze, every muscle so tight it would snap. My eyes shut. I felt the seatbelt cutting into my chest and shoulder. Although the entire incident was over in moments, it felt like an eternity. My mind blanked as the car came to a stop in the opposite direction. My heart beat in my ears. I couldn’t even hear myself panting to catch my breath.
Zane stared straight ahead. His face betrayed no emotions. As I began to breathe again, my nostrils were filled with the bitter scent of burned rubber. I took a deep breath and released it slowly. When my eyes began to focus, I saw a figure walk toward the car.
The sun, breaking through the gray, dreary clouds, directed its rays into my eyes. I blinked. Slowly, the figure came into focus as it neared the vehicle. I squinted.
It was Natalie.
Relief washed over me. I threw off my seatbelt. I reached for the door handle. A strong hand wrapped around my left wrist.
“What?” I hissed, the word as shaky as my nerves.
“What are you doing?” Zane asked.
I pointed at Natalie. “Um, hello? That’s my friend. Remember? The one whose car you just wrecked.”
As I pulled away, his grip tightened.
“What gives?”
He stared past me, his eyes focused on Natalie. The way he stared at her made me uncomfortable. The uneasy feeling returned. Maybe there was a reason he was here. I reached for the door again. Zane refused to release my arm.
“Let me go!”
He didn’t meet my incredulous glare.
“Let me go!” I repeated.
Out of the corner of my eye, something moved. Zane saw it, too. It was only a moment, but it was enough of a distraction that he released my arm. I threw open the door. I hurried out. I had never been happier to get out of a car.
I jogged toward Natalie, who had stopped a couple of yards from the car. I threw my arms around her. She was sweaty and smelled like beer and pot. I took a step back. She frowned. Her attention was not on our reunion.
“That my car?”
I followed her gaze. Although it wasn’t wrecked, Zane’s slick maneuvers did not leave the vehicle unscathed. The driver’s side headlight was shattered, the fender caved in. Even at a distance, my eyes detected numerous chips, scratches, and gouges in the otherwise pristine paint where the pallets’ splinters had assaulted it.
I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Her frown remained. “I didn’t do that, did I?”
“What? No.”
She continued to stare at the car. With indifference, she shrugged.
“Natalie,” I exclaimed, grabbing her arms. She glanced at me again, the frown returning. “What happened? Are you okay? I was so worried.”
“Why?”
I blinked. “You-You, like, disappeared. I lost you at that bar. Last night? When I went outside, Cash got shot. I couldn’t find you and then—”
She shook me off. “Whoa. What? Cash was shot?”
“Yeah.”
“Who shot him?”
“I don’t know. By the time I got out there, you were gone. He was on the ground.”
I saw an emotion escape Natalie I had never before witnessed: pure rage. She slammed past me hard, spinning me around. I watched her walk over to the open cargo container parallel to her father’s mangled car. She began cursing, I believe cursing, in a different language. An occasional English expletive escaped amongst t
he foreign ones. I thought she was yelling at the empty box. Then, suddenly, I watched as two men stepped out from the shadows.
One of the men was tall with long, dark hair. He appeared to be in his mid-to-late twenties. He was very thin and had thick, black stubble on his chin. The other man was considerably shorter. They seemed close in age. His blond hair was so short, he almost appeared bald. Both approached Natalie like two students being scolded by an angry teacher.
“Kurat!” she kept repeating. She began to pace. “I told you to leave him alone!”
“Sorry,” the taller one mumbled, the word catching on his tongue.
“You don’t even know what that means.”
They began a back and forth in what I could only assume was Estonian. I strained to pick up words. It was pointless. The uneasy feeling continued to grow the longer I stood there. One thing was clear.
Natalie was not being held against her will.
Whoever these men were, she knew them. And she knew them well. I glanced around. Squinting, I realized there was something inside the container the men had exited. Although it was too dark to make out, I was fairly sure there were boxes stacked inside.
“Is he all right?”
I realized Natalie was talking to me.
“Uh, I don’t know.” My gaze shifted between her and the container. “I mean, he’s in the hospital.”
More foreign expletives. The longer I stood there, the more confused I became. The woman before me bore little resemblance to the girl I had hung out with the past few evenings. She bore even less resemblance to my childhood best friend.
“I came back here for a break.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to hang out. I didn’t expect you two to follow me. Taavi doesn’t know when to back off.”
Swallowing hard, the shorter man replied in his native tongue. I don’t know what he said, but even his timid tone did nothing to calm her explosive demeanor. For a moment, I thought she might hit him. I took one step back.
Simple Misconception Page 22
