by Susan Dunlap
No matter how much her legs ached, and each breath tore at the lining of her lungs, she could not fall behind, not and make Ellen stop. It was more than just obligation that kept her moving at maximum. She still felt an inner warmth distinct from the sweat of exertion, and a wonderful amazement that Ellen would wait for her, chance her freedom, her life for her.
The sirens had stopped. She hadn’t seen a police car in an hour. It was night now and there were no more children cycling in the streets in front of their houses, no more bike commuters dragging home from work. She hadn’t even heard dogs barking in ages. She was outside town now. Houses along this rutted two-lane road were small, set far back and wide apart, interspersed with the occasional mobile home on blocks. There was no safety here. If a patrolman came up behind her he’d be calling for back-up before she realized he was there.
And despite the jolts of terror, her eyes kept easing shut. The roadbed rose. She leaned forward, almost standing on each pedal, but she was barely moving. She chanced a glance up from the pavement. Ellen was growing smaller in the distance.
“I will not…let her down!” She stood and pressed her full weight each time. Her head was far forward. The rise was turning into a hill, a Himalaya. She had to…she had to…she had to…She was over the top, coasting, panting, scanning the downslope. No Ellen. She pedaled faster than ever, racing downhill, trying to keep ahead of the spin of the gears. The air iced her face, her shoulders. She kept checking ahead but the road was empty.
“Hey! Liza. Stop.” Ellen was standing beside a low stone wall.
It took Liza a hundred feet to grind to a halt and then she had to lean on the handlebars as she put foot numbly in front of foot as she walked.
There was no road behind Ellen, not even a gravel driveway. Ellen’s bike was against the stone wall and she was cradling Felton. Liza rubbed his head. “Ellen, why did you stop? There’s not even a truck here for us to steal.”
“That’s okay; we should leave a couple vehicles untouched anyway. There’s an old stone outbuilding behind the house. We can hide inside.”
“I don’t see any house,”
“About fifty yards back along the road.”
“How do you know about the stone hut or whatever?”
“I’ve ridden this road.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Liza, do you want to call the Diners’ Club? Trust me. We’ve got to sleep. Do you have a better plan?”
“Lead on.” She was afraid Ellen would make her climb back on her bike and follow over the rocky ground. But Ellen was walking her bike, and doing it no more steadily than she was. The underbrush led to denser woods. The outbuilding was behind a rise. No police cruiser was going to spot it.
And Ellen hadn’t seen it pedaling by, either. Liza could have confronted her about that, but she was way too tired.
The eight-by-ten leaf-and-moss-covered building probably had been built as an above-ground equivalent of a root cellar. The deep earthy smell of decomposition filled the place. Felton waddled in, flopped down and within seconds was snoring softly. Liza propped her bike against the wall and collapsed back next to him on a bed of vines, underbrush and things she chose not to consider.
If she let her eyes close she’d be asleep before her next breath. She propped herself on her elbow and continued to look at Ellen. She wanted to savor this moment when it was just the two of them—friends—against the world. Maybe together they really could have taken the shipment, evened the score, gotten the money. She loved the idea of them with a ton of cash, catching a sleeper car from Brussels to Siena, looking down at the world from a mountain outside Kathmandu. Her face was still wet from sweat or maybe it was tears, she didn’t know. She didn’t have words to marvel within herself at the wonder of friendship. She took Ellen’s hand before she could go to sleep. “Ellen, I can never repay you for all you’ve done, for all I’ve done to you…I don’t know what to say.”
“Say goodnight, Liza.”
Liza squeezed her hand and Ellen squeezed back. She stayed still, savoring the feeling in her hand because she knew this moment, this communion of friendship would never come again. She waited till Ellen’s breath was almost regular, and said, “This is Wes’s place, isn’t it?”
“Mmm…Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here before dawn. He’ll never know.”
Forcing herself to stay awake may have been the hardest thing she’d ever done. But she had to take care of Ellen. She dug her nails in her palms and waited till Ellen’s breathing became longer, smoother, then pushed herself up slowly, quietly and made her way out of the hovel and back to the road to find Wes.
It seemed like midnight, like an eternity beyond midnight. But her watch said only ten thirty. She brushed the leaves and dirt off her windbreaker and started up the road, trudging stiffly, straining for the first sound of an approaching car, clambering into the brush until each passed. She wasn’t thinking; just moving. It wasn’t till she had Wes’s house in sight that she hesitated. She reminded herself that she was a woman who didn’t hesitate, and that, with a few glaring exceptions, reading men was her strong suit. But Ellen knew the guy; maybe Ellen was right about getting out of here before he discovered them. If this guy was an arrogant poor loser who stalked off because he couldn’t stand being beaten by a woman, turning Ellen in to the cops would be the Superbowl of victories for him.
A winter’s worth of wood was piled next to the house, much too close. The house was log, one of those prefab deals with big windows on each side of the door and a porch that ran the length of it. Light formed muted creamy squares behind the shades in both windows. A staccato male voice inside was muted, too. A guest? Radio? Police radio?
If there was an open window—But she’d make too much noise in the dark. Better to trust her skill.
She was at the porch step, but she couldn’t move. Fear was choking her, the fear she’d been out-riding for hours. She was risking everything with this guy. If she was wrong—He could grab his cell and call 911 before she opened her mouth. She and Ellen would be the lead story on the news here—murder, kidnap, plane hijacking. How could she possibly convince even the most decent guy—
She was knocking on the door.
Nothing happened. Fear vanished; she didn’t feel at all. In the stillness she pictured Wes, the dry stick, the brittle loser.
The door opened.
“Wes?”
“Yes.”
She realized she was wrong. “Omigod.”
She stared.
She’d blurted out the absolutely worst thing but she couldn’t make her mouth work and her mind was blank with horror.
Wes looked stunned. Then he let out a huge guffaw. “I’ve had people stare at my stump and turn away. A lot of them pretend I’ve still got both legs. Some try not to look at all. But no one’s ever greeted me with Oh my God. It’s a safe guess that you’re not in door-to-door sales.”
Her gaze was aimed straight ahead but all she could see was the right leg of his sweatpants, hanging loose with no foot at the bottom. She forced herself to note the rest of him. Tall, thin—too thin—sinewy shoulders and arms. Big, wide hands. Curly light-brown hair that was beginning to recede, craggy face—too thin—high cheekbones, high-arched nose, wide mouth that looked like it was left over from better days. Now, with him laughing, that thin face was impish. So this was what Ellen had seen in him. He was a sexy man and blunt in a way that made her want to trust him. And made her loath to do so.
“Would you like to come in?”
“I’ll just stand and gawk.”
He slid his foot back and shifted the two canes, and she hurried in. Both windows were lighted, she realized, because the place was essentially one big room. The big stone fireplace at the south end called out for great leather chairs and a hooked rug, but Wes had furnished with straight-back armchairs, a sofa, and wall-to-wall carpet. Easy access, sure footing. A practical man.
“Drink?” The quizzical smile was still on his face
. A radio played music now. There was no television; he wouldn’t have seen her picture. But…?
She nodded and watched him stride to the sink in great vaulting steps. He was like a crane looking for the right spot to light. Where was his phone? Not on him; his sweats had no pockets.
“Sit. You look like you’ve been to every door on the road, all the way from Eugene. Sit on the left side of the sofa.”
She sat. The couch was firm but comfortable, a nap couch. She didn’t dare lean back. She couldn’t get a make on him. The leg thing; her awful comment; her mind was a whirlpool. Oh, God, she really could not think. Time was running out.
“Look next to you.”
She picked up on the irritation in his voice. Quickly she checked the couch.
“Other side.”
“Oh!” A miniature train had pulled into the “station” on the end table. Its freight was her drink and a bowl of mixed nuts. It must have made train sounds coming but they didn’t penetrate. With her eyes she followed the tracks back to the wall by the fireplace and around to the kitchen.
“I had a few spills before I built the Household Local Line.” He was in a straight chair on the other side of the end table, leaning back as if he had her in his custody and could wait forever for her explanation.
She couldn’t read him; she was too tired. Playing for time, she gobbled nuts, washed them down with the drink. The glass was empty when she put it down but still no verbal move occurred to her.
“Another drink?”
She sat forward and listened as the words came out of her mouth. “My name is Liza Silvestri. My husband was murdered yesterday in Los Angeles. The police think I killed him. I need your help.”
The phone was on Wes’s far side. He made no move. He was watching her, assessing. The fireplace was dark and a draft blew in from the chimney and curled under the neck of her windbreaker. Behind her a clock ticked. She could shift the balance, tell him about Ellen, but she would not. That much she could do for Ellen: find out if he was trustworthy before exposing her. Finally he said, “Did you?”
“Kill him?”
He nodded professorially as if he’d asked for elucidation of an oral exam answer.
“No, I didn’t kill him. Of course, I didn’t. They shot him in the back. They burst in, and shot him.” Her eyes welled. “I was right there. I felt him die.”
Wes nodded again. His skin was tan and there was a white margin around his hair line as if his creator drew the deep S-curves to mark where to put hair. She couldn’t read him.
“Why didn’t they kill you?”
“They didn’t see me.”
“They couldn’t spot you in a loft room?”
Liza started. “You know?”
He laughed. “This is the biggest manhunt or womanhunt we’ve had probably ever. You’re responsible for making two or three broadcasting careers. They even cut into Sixty Minutes.”
She was shaking all over. “What did they say?”
“That you shot him in a love nest.”
Her breath caught. She could barely force out words. “And you don’t believe them? You believe me?”
“No and maybe.”
“No?”
“This is a helluva manhunt for a love triangle.”
“And the maybe?”
Wes grinned and leaned toward her. “Come on, asking me to swear allegiance on the basis of what you’ve given me is a big leap of faith.”
“So why aren’t you calling the police?”
“It’s worth the risk.”
“Why?”
“Because, Liza, I want to see Ellen.”
Forty-Six
“WERE GETTING LOW ON fuel, sir,” the helicopter pilot said for the second time. And now Zeron was on the horn.
“Frank, you’re putting us all to shame up there. But, look, you can’t see worth shit, can you?”
Bentec squinted harder, but he was doing well to tell the color of a car, much less the make, much less spot a cyclist under the trees.
“Frank, look, it’s raining down here, too. These women have been on the run over twenty-four hours. They’re not going anywhere. They’re hunkered down somewhere waiting for the weather to let up. Only makes sense. Them and their pig.”
Bentec fingered the mike but didn’t speak. He’d been right about Oregon: all doors opened for the Assistant to the Commissioner of the Los Angeles Police Department. It would be the same with the railroad. Once he got the container number, railway officials would find him the train, give him the schedule, and make sure he had ample time to get aboard before it left Portland. Liza Silvestri had the container numbers; why else would she have high-tailed it up here? He had to find her.
“Sir, the fuel gauge is on empty! We’ve got to land.”
Bentec clicked the mike on. “Have the Feds arrived?”
“Not yet. They’re saying morning now.”
“Then we have time for another shot before they get here?”
“You got it, Frank.”
“Okay, we’re on our way down.” Bentec turned to the sharpshooter. He was the best marksman in the state, the shooter had assured him. There would be ample time for the ’copter to land and Bentec to squeeze a statement out of the suspect before she bled out.
Bentec tapped his arm and shouted over the beat of the rotors, “Be at the airport half an hour before dawn.”
Forty-Seven
ELLEN ROLLED OVER AGAIN and pulled the blankets up to cover her head, but this time her eyes opened halfway. The sheets were so warm, the bed so soft, and even awake, her body was still closer to sleep. Rain thudded on the roof, tinkled against the window panes, gurgled down spouts. A hard rain. A morning to sleep in.
If it was still morning. She could have checked her watch, but that required such effort. Her body felt like cement, her chest a hollow of fear, and she knew if she opened her eyes all the way it would be to face something awful. She eased onto her back feeling the sheets slide over her breasts and realized she was naked. Oh, Jeez, this was bad. And the room…where was she? Was she a prisoner? This wasn’t the sty she’d hauled the bicycle into.
Now she remembered Liza poking her awake, and the twigs and leaves clinging to her hair and something crawling down her collar, and Liza telling her she could sleep inside where it would be safe, telling her no one was home, that Wes’s mother didn’t live here anymore, and telling Liza she was asleep and to leave her the hell alone and…and Liza yanking at her and her figuring if she was ever going to sleep again she’d be better off going along with Liza so she’d leave her alone. And Liza dragging her in through a kitchen door and then insisting she take a shower when it was all she could do to stand up and finally…finally falling into bed. This bed.
No one was home but Wes’s mother didn’t live here anymore? Last night she didn’t question that, but now it made no sense. How would Liza know that if no one was home? This bed, was it Wes’s mother’s bed? But she didn’t live here anymore. Wes’s bed?
But that couldn’t be. This was a dream. She should never have allowed herself to dream of him again. Now her dreams were branching out from familiar memories to a kind of speculation that was going to drive her out of her skin. In a minute she would wake up from this dream of him, like always…But maybe, just this once, she could let herself roll over and get back into the dream, just this one time she could make it go on until Wes walked into the room, over to the bed…She shifted onto her side and pulled the pillow on top of her head, ignoring the creak that could have been a door or anything else.
“Ellen?”
She rolled slowly back, still sure she’d be opening her eyes in Kansas City, bracing herself against the disappointment.
But there he was. Wes. She couldn’t believe it—Wes! Real! Alive! Wes! Her heart was pounding so hard it was shaking her body. She couldn’t talk, just stare. Wes looked older, thinner. Much thinner. But that drawn quality suited his hungry look. His brown eyes seemed larger now, his brows arched with the s
ame questioning need he’d had the first time he asked her to dinner, not sure the race winner would deign to dine with a novice like him. His mouth was opened a smidge as if to ask a question that never came. He was, still, the sexiest man she had ever known. Suddenly she was aware of her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, her groin against the sheet. She felt very naked.
“This is your house now?” she said to say something.
“Yes…after the accident…Mom moved to San Diego.” He was putting in words too, like a chess player moving a pawn.
“How did you know about—Oh, Liza. Where is Liza?”
“Eating. With her pig, eating. I’m going to have to make a run to the store. I live alone. I wasn’t prepared for a pig to drop in.” He flashed the grin she’d pictured in the dark night after night, the grin that created mounds high on his cheeks. She could see that he was holding it out to her, that smile, warily.
This moment—she dreamed of it so long, and then no longer allowed herself to visit even in dreams—she wanted to hold it like an opal, turning it so she could see it from every side, to note how the light caught it and made it sparkle, how it glowed afterward in the dark. She wanted to put it in a velvet case where nothing could scratch it or make it shatter as its predecessors had.
Her arms ached from holding them back, from not reaching out to him, drawing him against her, feeling him soft and warm, hot and eager, steeped from the years of absence, pulling him so close she couldn’t think. Take him now like a gift from the fates, a last meal on this death row trip of Liza’s. Take him, pretend nothing’s changed in four years.
