One of Penelope’s shaking hands reached up and removed the platinum blonde wig and tossed it in the water. The man in the kayak stared at her. She ruffled fingers through her wet brown hair and stared back. Then with one hand she removed the bag from over her shoulder and head and handed it to the man. “Hold that,” she said, remotely surprised when he did exactly what she’d directed him to do, settling it in the middle of his lap. She suddenly realized that the kayak was tied off to the shore.
One-handed she unfastened the buttons of her black shirt and carefully took it off, letting it float away in the current. Under the black shirt was a formerly white tank top, now turned to a grayish tone that no one would notice if she were careful to keep in the shadows on her way back to her car.
Another realization came to Penelope. It had only been about thirty minutes since she’d entered the house on Durfrene Row. It had taken thirty whole minutes to change her entire outlook on life. Creeping didn’t seem so exciting at that very moment in time.
Penelope had heard other stories about thieves almost getting caught that abruptly ended their careers. It happened. But most went back to it until they were nailed. Then they learned a little more from being in the pokey, which for the smarter individuals was nothing more than graduate school for the accomplished crook. She hadn’t put much credence in the stories until tonight. The thought of going back out into the night gave her an odd and uncomfortable lump in the middle of her throat.
“You always wear a wig?” the kayaker asked interestedly. “Not that I care, but I thought the younger generation liked to dye.”
“I don’t care for permanency,” Penelope answered offhandedly.
“Well, you can walk up the levee and crawl over the fence,” the man said just as offhandedly. Then he pointed at several of the kayakers, “Or you can float down the Trinity with us. We’ve got another hour or two to go before we reach the pick-up point. We can drop you off somewhere.” The man lazily scratched his chin. “Or I can call the police on my cell. Obviously something going on up there.” He pointed up at the Houston Street Viaduct.
Penelope kicked in the water once and then kicked again. She briefly considered pushing the older man out of the kayak and stealing it. But she had never been in that type of watercraft before and would probably sit in it backwards, not to mention the other dozen or so people piling into various and sundry kayaks not twenty feet away. Somehow she didn’t think they would allow her to paddle away at her leisure.
“You have an empty seat?” she asked hopefully.
“My name is Harry,” he said with a grin. “I figure you’ll be the thing we’ll talk about for the next six months. And yes, we have a berth for you. Bob over there,” he pointed, and Penelope saw a fiftyish man with hair the color of steel wave at her, “has a double. His wife decided we could cheerfully go fuck ourselves with our canoes. Or whatever met our fancies. I think she got a little sick of being analyzed.”
Penelope stared. “Analyzed?” she repeated.
“Oh, yes. We’re all psychiatrists,” Harry said with another quick grin.
Bob expertly negotiated the double-seated kayak over to them and helped Penelope clamber awkwardly inside. “Psychiatrists,” she said. She had fallen into a group of kayaking psychiatrists. She wasn’t sure what to say.
“Yep,” Harry said happily. “We’re all twisted bastards who like to dig into the deepest recesses of the brains of our patients. You wouldn’t happen to need a good therapist?”
Penelope smiled halfheartedly. She squeezed water out of her tank top and kept the shirt from emphasizing the state of her bralessness. Bob’s eyes were like a cocker spaniel in front of a butcher’s shop and were burning a hole in her back. “So, Harry,” she said instead, “can I have my bag back?”
Harry’s eyes dropped to the dripping-wet cloth bag in his lap. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but he was naturally curious. It didn’t look like any purse he’d seen, and the young woman who’d fallen or jumped from the bridge didn’t seem like the average young woman. He used his paddle to get him closer to Bob’s kayak again and passed it over. “You’re really not hurt, are you?” he asked politely. “Most of us are licensed M.D.’s.”
Penelope thought about it. She was going to be sore all over. Every muscle seemed to have been abused, but nothing felt as though it was wrenched or broken. There was only the watery cut on her wrist. It had stopped bleeding long minutes before and hadn’t been reopened in the fall. “I’m fine. So you’re all shrinks. Must make for an interesting group. Do you argue about Freudian issues as applied to say, local politics ,or do you just stick to dirty little secrets about how much someone pooped when they were two years old?”
“Uh-oh. We have a girl who took one class of psychology. And to answer your question, hell no!” Harry called loudly. “We get shit-faced and compare notes on who got laid last.”
Blinking, Penelope considered she could swim to the shore and face the things that had chased her off the viaduct. Psychiatrists or monsters? She considered and stayed in the kayak. Lesser of two evils. Bob handed her a can of Coors. She looked at it and expertly popped the lid. Beer was going to taste pretty good after tasting the river water.
“So you know how many psychiatrists it takes to change a light bulb?” Bob asked her merrily with no little amount of amusement in his face.
Penelope’s eyes rolled. The ropes had been disengaged, and they were floating on their way. A dozen conversations were taking place at once. They were all itching to ask her more about her fall/jump but maintained their reserves until they could get more alcohol in her. “Do I have to guess?”
“Just one,” Bob said. “But the light bulb has to want to change.” He and all the doctors roared with laughter. Penelope guessed he had told that particular joke more than once before and took another long drink of the Coors. It was far better to think of drunken psychiatrists trying to pin down her secrets than to think about what she’d heard on the bridge. It couldn’t have been his voice. Not Jeremy. Not possible.
But deep inside, in the very recesses of her brain, she knew the answer.
*
Anthony looked over the viaduct and studied the shifting movements of the grimy brown water. Light from above reallocated itself in increments determined by street lights and reflections from passing cars on the opposite viaduct. “She’s in the water,” he said. The last faint lights of the kayaks were beginning to fade away as they passed under the I-35 Bridge.
Merri nodded. “She dove off the middle of the bridge. The thief has more than a little luck on her side.”
Anthony brushed his long black hair away from his face. “Send the shadow people back. Send the seatco as well. We don’t want cumbersome questions from the police.”
“They say the police were looking for her specifically,” Merri said, her voice as chilling as stepping into a deep freezer. “A concerned neighbor?”
“Perhaps,” Anthony answered slowly. “There were enough witnesses.”
“The seatco has her scent,” Merri said, her empty eyes on the river below them. “The waters won’t destroy that.”
“Like all of you, it has an aversion to running water,” Anthony replied unhurriedly, his thoughts active and racing. “But tomorrow night she won’t be in a borrowed kayak. And we have something else.” He produced the folded sheet of paper that the thief had dropped. He unfolded it carefully and studied it. “The combination to the safe,” he said. An unsettling smile crossed his features. “Now where would a thief named Penelope get the combination to my safe?”
*
Will managed to get his car out of traffic in less than an hour. There was something inside him that told him the thief wasn’t dead. She had survived her fall, and in surviving she might have been able to evade her pursuers. But she wouldn’t be able to evade him. It took him three more hours to find her car. It was parked at a meter on Young Street that had long since expired and as a result, had then been ticketed. Clearly, the thie
f had expected her time at the house on Durfrene Row to be much less than it actually had been.
How had Will known it was the thief’s car? Well, there was the black cat hanging from the rearview mirror of the Volkswagen Jetta. There was a bumper sticker that proclaimed “No fear.” Then there was the black clothing piled neatly in the back seat. Finally there was the very interesting fact that the Jetta had two license plates. One on top that was patently stolen from some other car. One on bottom that was the original. The thief was cautious.
Cautious and intelligent and able to make a quick decision. Will couldn’t wait to meet her. He parked his car two spaces down and hunkered down to wait for her return.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, July 5th
White hot (slang, origin unknown, probably American, circa 1930s) - wanted by the police or by gangsters
The psychiatrists obviously enjoyed a good all-night party. Apparently they only were let out of their cages on odd months and consequently, their outings involved much boozing, carousing, drunken storytelling about the worst patient they ever had, and genially flirting with the young woman who had unexpectedly dropped in from the bridge just above them.
Almost too drunk to paddle their respective kayaks and canoes, the shrinks had to stop frequently to urinate, brag, and make often ingenious attempts to pry a story out of Penelope. “So what’s your name?” Harry blurrily insisted. “You can tell us your name, right?”
“Annie Chapman,” Penelope answered quickly. “Ann is fine.” Her hair was dry, and she had combed her shoulder-length hair to a reasonable arrangement. It didn’t look like she had climbed out of the gutter. No, I look like I fell into a filthy river. Yuck.
Harry stared at her suspiciously. “Annie Chapman. That sounds familiar.” They had stopped and built a fire, although the temperature was still in the eighties.
The shrinks kept passing beer around, and Penelope was beginning to wonder if they had a bottomless supply when one of the other psychiatrists called, “Last call! We’re down to our last six beers! Call ‘em if you want ‘em!”
Penelope sat on the uncomfortable crest of a turned-over kayak about twenty feet from the fire. Harry and Bob took turns staying at her side, as if they truly feared that she was suicidal. However, that hadn’t prevented them from imbibing until they were good and sloshed.
“Another beer?” Bob asked, returning with his bounty of three Coors cans under his arms and a bag of Fritos under the other. “Fritos? Make you grow hair on your big toe.”
They were situated in a small clearing that had obviously been used as a stop for kayakers on the Trinity countless times before. Someone had even left a crudely constructed picnic table that was presently holding a substantial pyramid of empty beer cans. Bob stumbled over, holding out one of the cans he had rescued from a watery cooler near the picnic table.
Penelope shook her head at the offer. After having two beers, she already had had enough. “If I drink anymore beer, you’ll have to carry me to your car.” But she did take a handful of Fritos. The evening’s expenditure of energy had worn her to the bone, and she knew she needed the energy boost. She was thinking, When I get back to downtown Dallas, I’ll get my car, head home, and then…
A jarring thought reluctantly forced its way into her head and made its unwanted presence known. No, there’s somewhere else I need to go first. I can’t ignore it any longer. Penelope shut her eyes in dismay. She had a distressing thought in the back of her brain of what was lurking out there, like one of the gloomy, odd red-eyed figures skulking in the deepest shadows waiting for her reappearance. The only reassurance she had at the moment was that few roads ran to this part of the Trinity River, and Harry had besottedly guaranteed her that one had to know precisely where they were in order to find them. And it was also necessary to have a respectable four-wheel drive as the only smart mode of transportation from asphalt to riverside.
When she opened her eyes again, Harry and Bob were staring at her with remarkable perception considering their state of inebriation.
“Something wrong?” Harry asked gently.
Penelope considered him. “Nothing you can help with.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“So would you.”
Harry gave up then and consumed the last beer. Bob got the other two and by the time he crawled into his double kayak Penelope thought that he might inadvertently drown. As it was, he started snoring ten minutes after that, and Penelope took over the paddling with weary acceptance. My knights in shining armor, she thought as she listened to Bob snore loudly.
As the sun emerged, Penelope was sitting in the back of a Ford Expedition with one of the most sober psychiatrists in the group driving. Her name was Georgia, and she had hair the color of a fire engine. Two kayaks were attached on top of the SUV and three other semi-comatose doctors were asleep in the various seats. Georgia stopped at a McDonald’s for coffee and passed one back to Penelope. “So where shall I drop you?” she asked and then covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a half-hearted giggle. “Talk about a Freudian slip.”
Penelope’s heart sunk. Every single one of these people was going to vividly remember her. With the exception of those who had been truly shit-faced, they were going to recall the young woman with what they suspected were suicidal tendencies. When they read in the paper or heard on the news in mere hours about the policeman on the DART train stopped on the Houston Street Viaduct, they were going to put two and two together. Furthermore, at least one of them was going to have enough of a conscience to call the police and tell them about the free-falling girl who had simply plummeted into their laps. Although the people who had actually been aboard the DART train could testify to the fact that Penelope hadn’t touched the police officer, the authorities would want to speak with her. They would be making the same connection as Officer McAdams had made. She met the description of the thief reported breaking and entering on Durfrene Row.
Or McAdams will be telling them himself, she thought irately. Maybe. Penelope frowned suddenly. She didn’t think that those things on the train had any compulsion about taking human lives. Not hers and certainly not the large cop who’d gotten in their way.
And she abruptly felt guilt. McAdams’s death or injury was her fault. Penelope Quick’s actions of the previous night had caused that. No one else’s. She didn’t like that summation. Her father would have been sorely disappointed with her. The bag that had returned to its slung position around her neck and shoulder unexpectedly felt very weighty, and she didn’t want to think about the weight of the large gemstone in her pocket.
“Where?” Georgia asked again.
“Oak Cliff,” Penelope said. “I’ll give you directions.”
“Oak Cliff,” Georgia repeated doubtfully. It was a heavily Hispanic and African American area and Penelope was obviously not that.
“Oak Cliff,” Penelope repeated again firmly. She wouldn’t let Georgia drop her off in front of Jeremy’s apartment building, but she would let her drop her off in the vicinity. Then after she was done there, she would catch a bus back downtown.
*
Jeremy lived on the top floor of a renovated brownstone that fit well in a neighborhood filled with similar houses. He had the entire third floor to himself. The house was a little run down. Its glory days were on the same lines as the house on Durfrene Row, but it was a happier place. Although some of the patio was sagging and some of the paint on the trim was chipped, the bricks were still bright, and the gardens in front and back were well tended by the owner/landlady of the house. When Penelope rounded the corner Mrs. Johnson was carefully trimming a set of marmalade-colored roses in the cool early morning sunlight.
Mrs. Johnson was a heavy-set black woman in her late fifties who stood an inch over six feet tall. She was deeply religious and didn’t miss a single church meeting, encouraging in others the same traits. She was also remarkably lax on the security in her house until Jeremy had moved in. He had fixed her r
ight up, ensuring that any burglars in the area would think twice about creeping her home. Mrs. Johnson thought that Jeremy Collins was a successful information technology consultant who specialized in security and was proud of his success. She was so proud that she kept a close eye on his apartment while he was on business “ventures.”
As soon as Penelope appeared, it was as though an inner alarm activated Mrs. Johnson. She lifted her head and looked around, settling her black eyes on Penelope’s slight figure. “Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Johnson said breathily. “You done look all tuckered out, Miss Penelope.”
Penelope grimaced. Mrs. Johnson thought that Penelope was one of Jeremy’s close friends, which was true, and that she worked in the same business as Jeremy, which was also technically true. “A little trouble with my…car,” she lied. For some reason, Mrs. Johnson uncomfortably reminded Penelope of Jessica Quick, and she hated to lie to the older woman. It was probably because she treated Jeremy like a son and doted on him. “I needed a little help from Jeremy, so he told me to come on down to his place and wait for him.”
“Bless your heart,” Mrs. Johnson proclaimed loudly. She reached over with a gloved hand and patted Penelope’s head as if she were a little child. “You go on up. Mr. Jeremy been gone a mite too long this time. I was beginning to worry about him.”
“A mite,” Penelope agreed. “Can I get his keys from you, Mrs. Johnson?”
“Of course,” the older woman agreed instantly. “And I’ll feed you a little something on top of that. I got grits cooking on my stove.”
“Grits,” Penelope repeated. “That sounds just peachy.”
Mrs. Johnson laughed heartily. “You young ‘uns. Grits are darn good for you. I grew up eating grits, and look where it got me. If I be any taller, then I could talk to God personally.”
Penelope looked up at the much taller woman and smiled tiredly.
*
Tired and ready to fall down on her knees, Penelope stopped her drained body directly in front of Jeremy’s front door. She knew that Mrs. Johnson had been letting herself in and putting the mail on Jeremy’s kitchen table, so there were no tell-tale signs of his continued absence such as piled up newspapers or a bulging mailbox. It looked like a plain old door. One door knob. One peephole. Two deadbolts. Nothing unusual about it at all.
Shadow People Page 7
