That Last Weekend

by Laura Disilverio

  “Let him go to Mexico and get it sorted later,” Ari said in all seriousness. “The cartels are good at sniffing out traitors. Chances are he’ll end up dead anyway, in a particularly ugly fashion, and you can tell yourself justice was done. Maybe I shouldn’t give you—”

  “I need to talk to him. Just give me the address, Ari.” Laurel copied it down as he read it out, surprised to see it was in New Aberdeen. “My dad need never know,” she said.

  “Unless you get caught in the crossfire and he’s called to ID your body,” Ari said morosely.

  “Won’t happen,” Laurel promised. “Thanks, Ari. I owe you one.”

  When he hung up, she put her phone away slowly, thinking through her options. With Ari’s warnings about not scaring Ray in mind, she knew she couldn’t tell Boone and let him interview Ray. He would be furious if he ever found out she had Ray’s address and didn’t share it with him, but that couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t afford to hesitate if Ray was on his way to Mexico in a few hours. She thought about asking Dawn or Ellie or both of them to go with her, but decided she couldn’t put them at risk. Ari knew where she was going; if she didn’t return, he’d call the cavalry. She texted him to say that she was off to meet Hernan and that if he didn’t hear from her in an hour to call the police.

  Feeling she’d done what she could to protect herself, and wishing she had the gun she kept in her bedside table at home with her, Laurel found directions and set out.

  Twenty-Seven

  Pregnancy multiplied the effects of heat and humidity by about a thousand, Geneva thought. Sweat trickled down her face as she plodded across the grass to the shed where she and Ellie had seen the antiques. Mrs. Abbott, tracked down in the industrial-sized laundry room, had suggested distractedly that her husband might be there. Geneva felt a twinge in her abdomen but rubbed it away with the heel of her hand. Less than four weeks. Was she ever ready. Despite the heat and the baby’s weight making her lower back ache, she walked briskly, dried grass crunching underfoot. The thought of being able to buy the cradle made her smile. She could see the cradle’s mellow wood in the corner of her bedroom and imagine herself reaching from her bed to rock it gently if Lila got fussy during the night. When Lila outgrew it, she could use it for a doll, and maybe someday for a baby of her own. Geneva’s smile grew.

  The shed was quiet when she drew near, its sliding doors pulled most of the way closed. Geneva grimaced. If Mr. Abbott wasn’t here, she’d have busted her butt getting down here for nothing. She slid one door a bit wider and stepped into the cool dimness. She sniffed. The space held hints of lemon furniture polish, cigarette smoke, and motor oil. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but then she saw that the shed was empty, all the furniture gone. Of all the lousy luck. She’d been hoping to see the cradle, to stroke its satiny curves. No matter. So the cradle was stacked in an auction house somewhere, awaiting cataloguing, rather than sitting here at Cygne. Mr. Abbott would know what company had it and she could call them to get the auction dates.

  She felt rather than saw movement to her left, and was starting to turn when a hard hand clamped onto her wrist.

  “What are you doing here?” Mr. Abbott growled. His eyebrows beetled over his deep-set eyes and his overalls were dusty and stained. The hand that wasn’t gripping her wrist held a broom.

  Geneva jerked her arm free. “I came to ask about the furniture.” She kept her voice even. “I’m interested in a cradle, the one from the ‘Periwinkle’ room. Maybe you remember it—maple, with wide rockers and scrollwork on the headboard and footboard?”

  “It’s gone.” Mr. Abbott moved away from her and plied the broom vigorously so a cloud of wood shavings and dust enveloped her. “It’s all gone.”

  “I see that.” She coughed. “I want to know where.”

  He stopped sweeping and faced her, blinking rapidly. “You’re working for them, aren’t you?”

  “What? For who? I’m not—”

  “For American Castle Vacations. That Mindy must have called them like she threatened to. God damn it, I thought she was giving me time to get the money together, but she’d already called before … it was none of her business! Nerys and I poured ourselves into this place, and what did we get in return? A pink slip, a thank-you-very-much-we-don’t-need-you-anymore note, and not a goddamn thing else. We deserved more, but they had all the lawyers. If they weren’t going to do the right thing, then I was going to get what they owed me another way.” His voice dripped bitterness. “They sent you, didn’t they? Is that why you’ve all been poking around here? That other one was down here earlier, that lawyer. She works for them, doesn’t she? I told Nerys we shouldn’t have let you all come, but she wouldn’t listen.” He shook his head in disgust. “She thought we could pocket a little extra, off the books, and booked your rooms behind my back. We had words about that, I can tell you. I tried to get you to leave—the cold water, the snake, the car—but you’ve got some brass ones between you. Or you aren’t smart enough to know what’s good for you.”

  He sprang toward her and grabbed her wrist again, dragging her close, twisting her so her back slammed against his chest. Before Geneva could even struggle, he dropped the broom with a clatter and wrapped his other arm across her breasts.

  “I’m not—you’ve got it all wrong.” She tried to sound calm but heard the fear in her voice. His mention of Mindy had scared her, and his barely coherent babbling made her wonder if he was totally sane. Despite his age, he was wiry strong, and she struggled against him in vain. “Help!”

  She screamed the single word before his hand clamped over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheeks.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he muttered against her cheek, his peanut-butter-scented breath making her gag.

  A vicious cramp knotted her abdomen and she tried to double over, but his hold kept her straight. “Ungh,” she groaned against his hand. Her next action came from instinct. She bit down on his hand, grinding her teeth into two of his fingers. The coppery thickness of blood made her stomach heave.

  He jerked his hand away and she got out another half scream before he spun her and belted her across the mouth. Her lip split. The blow knocked her off her feet, and pain tore through her side. “My baby—” she moaned.

  “What to do with you?” he asked, pulling a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket and stuffing it in her mouth.

  The ball of cloth filling her mouth made her panicky and she concentrated on breathing through her nose. The cotton absorbed all her saliva, leaving her mouth dry. Yanking her to her feet, he dragged her toward the rear of the shed and held her with one hand while he searched a rickety metal cabinet.

  “Know it’s here somewhere. That damn Nat better not have—ah, here.” He pulled a roll of duct tape from a bin full of odds and ends, and bit off a length with his teeth.

  Desperate, Geneva swung a knee up toward his groin, but her belly slowed her and altered her balance and she caught him on the thigh. Snarling, he punched her in the temple. Her vision blurred and she went limp, on the verge on unconsciousness. She felt herself melt toward the ground. Abbott took advantage of her wooziness to wrap the duct tape around her wrists several times behind her back. By the time her vision cleared and she was thinking straight again, he’d also taped her ankles together. She lay on her side, her face pressed into the gritty boards. Her head throbbed and her shoulders ached from the strain of the unusual position.

  “There,” he said with satisfaction. “That should hold you for a while. When it’s dark and the police have gone, I’ll figure out what to do with you. You shouldn’t have come here.” His tone placed the blame for her current situation squarely on her shoulders.

  His words echoed Geneva’s thoughts. She shouldn’t have come for the weekend, and she for damn sure shouldn’t have come to the shed. She’d put Lila at risk, and for what? A cradle she coveted. Tears choked her but she fought them back, knowing t
hat if she gave into them and her nose got clogged she wouldn’t be able to breathe. The thought shoved her to the brink of panic. Lifting her head, she tracked Abbott as he shambled away from her, opened the door and let in a slice of sunlight, and then slammed it closed. The chain jangled and the snap of the padlock carried to her. Her head slumped to the floor, but then another contraction ripped through her and she moaned.

  When it passed, she forced herself to assess the situation. She focused on breathing slowly through her nose—in, two, three, out, two three. She was uncomfortable but not in immediate peril. Laurel and Dawn knew where she was—they’d come looking for her eventually. That thought brought a measure of calm. She wasn’t going to lie here, trussed like a sacrificial virgin, waiting to see if they found her before Abbott came back. No virgin ever had this belly. Well, only one. The thought almost made her smile. Almost. Abbott wasn’t going to let her live, not when he’d more or less confessed to killing Mindy. She coached herself as if she were one of her own clients: It’ll be okay in the end; if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. Let’s think this through. Prioritize. First, get off the floor. Second, get rid of the gag. She needed to be able to breathe freely. Third, check out the cabinet where he’d gotten the duct tape. With any luck—and she was due for some luck—there’d be something she could use to saw through the duct tape. Then … her mind blanked. No matter. When she’d accomplished the first three items she’d reassess the situation.

  First things first. Normally lithe and limber, she felt like a shackled whale with her arms behind her back, her ankles taped together, and her distended belly. Rolling onto her front, she mentally apologized to Lila for compressing her space, planted her forehead on the ground to steady herself, and hitched her knees in with small, jerky motions until her thighs were tucked under her hips. Should’ve kept going to Pilates. Her stomach was scrunched between her thighs and the floor and Lila complained with a vicious kick to Geneva’s kidney. Sorry, sweetie. I’m trying to get us out of this. Grit embedded itself in her forehead from the pressure, and the shed’s rough wood flooring scraped her knees raw. She did her best to ignore the pain, telling herself fiercely that it was for Lila. She stopped for a long minute to catch her breath, and then curled her toes under, glad she was wearing thin Keds gym shoes. Rocking back and forth, she tried to get enough momentum to shift her weight backwards and drag her torso up.

  Her first five efforts failed. Each time she thought she had enough momentum, her heavy belly pulled her down. Running out of energy, she put everything she had into a final attempt, flinging her head and shoulders back and straining with her thigh muscles. For Lila, for Lila. She swayed, clenched every muscle, and managed to hold her torso upright. Sweat trickled down her face, and she rested for a moment in the glow of victory, small though it was. Her kneeling posture brought a vision of Mama Gran to mind: back straight, head bowed, praying at the AME church they’d attended throughout Geneva’s childhood, her light weight barely denting the kneeler’s brown velvet. Geneva bowed her head and offered a short, fierce prayer for strength and deliverance.

  As she breathed “Amen,” she rolled from her toes to her heels and pushed up and back with her knees. She started to rise and her torso canted forward. For one horrifying moment she feared she was going to fall flat on her belly. Thrusting her taped hands back so her shoulders popped, she stayed on her feet, hopping back several steps until she thudded against the wall. It shivered, sprinkling dust on her, but she didn’t mind. She was standing. Ignoring a sharp pain in her groin—a pulled muscle, she diagnosed—she took little bunny hops toward the cabinet, careful not to lose her balance.

  Six hops brought her to the metal cabinet and she was able to shoulder open the door that Abbott had left ajar. It wasn’t totally dark in the shed—sunlight poked through gaps where the boards were poorly joined—and she could make out the metal latch on the right-side door meant to hook over the rod on the left-side door and hold them closed. Bending, she opened her mouth as wide as possible, pressed her cheek against the door’s cold metal, and snagged the handkerchief gag against the latch’s hook. She drew her head back and the hook dragged out half the gag before it slipped. She repeated the process, poking at the cloth with her tongue as well, and it finally fell to the floor. Thank God.

  Giddy with relief, she ran her tongue around the inside of her parched mouth, trying to generate some saliva. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of water! Still, she was making progress. Maybe, if she turned around, she could use the metal latch to rip through the tape binding her hands. Confidence surged through her. She could do this. She could save herself and Lila.

  “We Frost women don’t give up,” she told Lila. Saying it aloud gave her courage. As she maneuvered her hands toward the latch, warm liquid gushed between her thighs. Cold stole through her. Her water had broken.

  Twenty-Eight

  Laurel had expected Ray’s hideout to be a squalid building in a dicey part of town, but it turned out to be an upscale condo with a view of the river. Being a DEA informant came with some perks, she thought, parking her car at the drug store across the street and eyeing the property. It consisted of a single three-story building with what looked like four units on each floor, a large pool, a tennis court, and a small parking lot for visitors. Residents must park in an underground garage. Mature trees provided shade, and a trio of Canadian geese nibbled at the grass near the glass door. Locking her car, she headed toward the building, feeling self-conscious. If Ray was such a high-value CI, chances were he was under surveillance. She glanced casually over her shoulder but didn’t see an obvious observer.

  The glass door was locked and a speaker grille had six buttons on either side, identified by unit number. She punched 3D and fidgeted from foot to foot waiting for an answer. If Ray was out, what would—

  “Yeah?”

  It was Ray’s voice, tense and dark with suspicion.

  “It’s Laurel Muir, Evangeline’s friend. We need to talk.”

  There was a pause long enough to make her think he might be disappearing down a rear fire escape, and she was thinking about how she could help Ari make it right with his DEA contact, but then a click sounded and she pushed through the door.

  She took the stairs to her left, inexplicably averse to riding up in the small elevator that stood open straight ahead of her. The curving stairwell smelled of fresh paint. The flights were long and she was slightly winded when she reached the third floor. Ray had the unit in the northwest corner and she noted a discreet camera as she knocked. She obligingly tilted her face up so the camera could get a good picture, and a moment later the door opened.

  “Come in.” Ray’s voice came from behind the door.

  She obeyed, watching him lock it behind her. His hair was caught back in an inch-long ponytail pulled tight enough to stretch his forehead smooth. His skin seemed a shade or two paler than it was when they first met, as if he’d spent the intervening days inside, away from the sun, and a two-day growth of beard fuzzed his chin and jaw. His feet were bare. His dark eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, held a wary look, and there was no hint of the grin he’d sported when he interacted with them as Evangeline’s fiancé. Most unnerving of all, he held a long-barreled silver automatic in his right hand as he flipped two deadbolts with his left. Laurel swallowed hard. He didn’t raise the gun when he turned to face her, but he didn’t put it away, either.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, remaining by the door.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  A snick told her he’d released the gun’s safety. “It matters to me,” he said flatly.

  She couldn’t give up Ari and his DEA contact. “Someone shoved the address under my door at the castle,” she lied. “I don’t know who. I found out who you were through the high school yearbook and talked to some people at the school. Maybe it was one of them. Or someone from Evangeline’s office. We talked to them, too.”

>   Distrust and doubt flickered across his face, but he didn’t put a bullet through her or kick her out, so she counted it as a win.

  Tucking the gun into his waistband, he brushed past her. Heat and the odor of alcohol radiated off him and she wondered if he had a fever. He’s afraid. The conviction came to her suddenly. He was nervous about the trip to Mexico. He knew as well as the DEA and Ari what the cartel did to traitors. She suspected he might only have let her in as a distraction, to give himself something to think about other than what tomorrow would bring. Feeling a spark of sympathy, but then reminding herself that he was a drug dealer, Laurel followed him into a galley-style kitchen. Although well-equipped, it was dark, with black appliances and green granite countertops. A tequila bottle, half empty, sat on the counter. Ray uncapped it, pulled a glass from the open dishwasher, and splashed two inches into it. “Drink?” he asked, raising the bottle. It shook slightly.

  Wanting to establish a rapport with him, Laurel said, “Sure, thanks,” and hoped the dishes in the dishwasher were clean. He pulled out another glass, swiped the rim with his shirt hem, and poured her an equal measure of the pale gold liquid. Leaning against the counter, he took a long swallow from his glass, eyes never leaving her. She lifted her glass reluctantly. Straight liquor had never been her thing, and the one time Evangeline had talked her into trying tequila shots, she’d been sick for two days. She tried a tiny sip. It was smoother than she expected, with a warmth and an almost herbal tang that made her think of saguaro in the Sonora Desert. It made her tongue and throat tingle in a pleasant way. “It’s good.”

  The surprise in her voice brought on a ghost of his grin. “Only the best.” The smile faded almost immediately, and he paced to a window in the living room that looked out on a tangle of shrubs and the muddy river. He stared down for a moment, focused on the roiling water, but then turned his back to the window and said, “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”