Shadow Woman: A Novel

by Linda Howard

  She didn’t dare turn on a light, since there was likely a new desk clerk on duty by now and if he or she looked this way and saw there was a light on in room 107 … well, she didn’t want to take that chance. But with the heavy curtains tightly closed, she took a small risk and turned on the television. Just seeing what program was on helped her to narrow the time to within the hour. Flipping through the channels until she found a twenty-four-hour news station, she stopped. There, in the bottom left-hand corner, was the precise time.

  She needed the precise time. Time was important. With a flick of her thumb, the television went dark again.

  She’d slept five hours, which was amazing, all things considered. Another hour, maybe two, and she could venture out, find an old car, and hot-wire it. No way could she stay here until morning. The desk clerk’s intentions had been good, but what if Cindy had second thoughts? What if she told a friend who told a friend who told the wrong friend?

  She couldn’t trust anyone.

  If she stole a car that was parked overnight, it shouldn’t be missed for several hours. She should find a house, then, or an apartment building. Maybe a motel like this one, where maybe someone had been careless enough to leave his keys in the ignition. It happened all the time. But she wouldn’t do it at this motel, because it would bring too much attention to the place. Cindy would definitely talk if she thought a woman she’d helped had stolen a paying guest’s vehicle.

  By tomorrow morning she could be well into Virginia, maybe even North Carolina. She could dump the car before sunup, and at that distance away from the city a bus would be safe enough. Well, as safe as anything else.

  A plan. Finally.

  And until then? She didn’t think she could sleep anymore. If she tried she’d be worried that she’d sleep too long, and that would keep her awake. Since the pain of remembering seemed to have disappeared, she sat and tried to remember … something, anything. Just some small things, such as where she’d lived, whether she’d worn her hair short or long, if she’d gotten a flu shot every year. She had for the past three years, but what about before that? That two-year gap remained stubbornly blank.

  Less than an hour later, she heard the roar of a powerful motorcycle engine as it pulled into the parking lot. Someone coming in late would probably also sleep late, and the idea of stealing a motorcycle and flying out of town with the wind in her hair was oddly appealing. Did she even know how to ride one? Oh, hell yeah. She couldn’t pull up any particular memories, but she was suddenly certain that she was no stranger to a motorcycle. She’d already decided not to steal a car from this parking lot, but she was curious. She had to look.

  With the lights in the room off, no one should be able to tell that she’d parted the curtains just enough to peer into the parking lot. The motorcycle’s parking lights went off just as she looked out, so she knew precisely where to focus.

  The bike was on the other side of the L-shaped lot, parked beneath the one broken streetlamp in the area. For a moment the man who stepped away from the motorcycle was so lost in darkness she could barely make out his shape, but then he moved through a lit section, and her heart stopped.

  Him. The man from Walgreens.

  X.

  Okay, this was taking coincidence way too far.

  He stayed in shadows as much as was possible, given that the parking lot was so well lit. Was it her imagination, or was he walking straight for her? His gait was smooth, strong, confident, as if he knew right where she was—and he was coming to get her.

  Shit! He was one of them!

  Lizzy moved fast. She slung the strap of the big bag over one shoulder, smoothly pulled out the scissors, and darted into the bathroom. There was enough light coming through the small window for her to at least orient herself. She could go out the window, but there might be a better way. Swiftly she unlocked and opened it, hoisted herself up, and used the tip of the scissors to break one of the frosted glass panes. The sound of breaking glass wasn’t horribly loud, but it was … enough. Maybe. Leaning out the window slightly, she made a soft sound, an exclamation, and then she made a fist and popped it against the window frame.

  And she waited.

  He didn’t make her wait long. It was darker here, behind the hotel, but she knew where he’d appear and her gaze was there when he came ghosting around the back of the building thinking he’d find her there, either halfway out the bathroom window or sitting dazed on the ground after falling on her head. Sucker.

  She eased down, tiptoed toward the door, and left the room as quietly as possible. She ran along the concrete sidewalk that ran the length of the motel. For a split second, she thought about stealing his bike. No, that wouldn’t work. This guy, these people, obviously had some sophisticated way of tracking her down. He’d surely have a way to track his own vehicle, maybe through some satellite GPS system that could disable the bike when he called it in.

  She didn’t have much time before X realized she hadn’t gone out the window and headed back this way, so she had to move. Her direction was chosen by patches of darkness, by paths where she could remain out of sight.

  Lizzy found a shadow along the hotel wall, where she stopped, held her breath, and listened. X might search for her out back for a while, he might investigate the immediate area beyond the broken bathroom window and attempt to track her from there, but he wouldn’t spend a lot of time doing that. In no more than a minute or so, probably sooner, he’d figure out what she’d done and come steaming back this way. And she was on foot, at least for now.

  Just to make things fair, she thought he should be on foot, too.

  Taking a chance that he was alone, that there wasn’t someone close by, watching, Lizzy took off at a run toward X’s motorcycle. Her first thought had been to run away, to head in the opposite direction, but this was too good a chance to pass up. She didn’t have a plan, but she was quickly learning to trust her instincts, to listen to that inner voice that had kept her alive until now. When she reached the motorcycle, happy for the moment that he’d parked it in the darkest spot in the parking lot, she took a couple of seconds to look it over. She had to tamp down her appreciation for the fine machine in order to do what had to be done.

  She dropped to her haunches, took the scissors, and cut the spark plug wires. How did she know those were the spark plug wires? Who knew? She didn’t understand where the knowledge came from, but it really didn’t matter. As soon as it was done, she felt a short-lived rush of relief. Then she stood up and walked away. It was tempting to run, but if anyone was watching, a brisk walk would raise less alarm.

  She didn’t dare go back toward her room, so she kept walking away, onto the narrow strip of pavement between this motel and the next and then toward the main road. She kept an ear cocked for sounds behind her but didn’t hear anything. She let herself enjoy the luxury of a small smile. He was going to be so pissed when he couldn’t start his bike.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t take the time to truly enjoy her act of vandalism. Bits and pieces of knowledge were coming back to her, and while she’d seen cars quickly and easily hot-wired on TV, TV generally sucked at accuracy. She did remember hot-wiring a car, could see her hands doing the work, but her memory was telling her it wasn’t quite that easy. She either had to get under the hood or else she needed a portable drill to remove the ignition. Either method would require tools; her bag felt damn heavy, but unfortunately there weren’t any tools in it, unless you counted the handy-dandy scissors. They wouldn’t get her a car, though, unless she used them to threaten a driver and take his keys.

  She reached the main drag and turned left, breathing a sigh of relief that she’d made it this far without being tackled from behind. She hadn’t heard any footsteps, but she was beginning to not assume anything was beyond X’s capabilities. She risked looking behind her, and almost went limp with relief when she saw no one following her. Deep down, she’d really expected to see him coming toward her, his steps completely silent, a menacing figure of dark
ness.

  Who the hell was he? She was suddenly, irrationally furious that she’d had those great erotic dreams about a man who was trying to kill her. It was as if her subconscious had pulled a really sick joke on her.

  Forget about that. Who he was, and why he was after her, was far more important. This meant their initial meeting in Walgreens hadn’t been accidental, and, if she had to take a wild leap here, not their initial meeting at all. He was someone from those missing two years. On some level she’d recognized him, and that was why she’d abruptly panicked and run. It was the running that had tipped him off that some of her memories were coming back and that she was now, somehow, a threat to him.

  What didn’t fit was the surveillance. Why watch her at all? If he intended to kill her, he’d had other opportunities before this morning.

  Because he wasn’t the boss. Someone else, somewhere, had analyzed the information on her and made the decision. X was part of the wet team.

  Wet team. Her head throbbed, and she stumbled to a stop, her vision blurring … and then the pain faded.

  Lizzy inhaled deeply, braced herself, and deliberately made herself think, “Wet team.”

  No pain. She started walking again.

  It was as if each time her conscious thoughts ventured into an area that had previously been blocked, her brain was getting shocked, as if she’d touched an electrified fence. But once that fence was down, she could go to that section again without getting shocked.

  Okay, hokey analogy, but it worked for her. When she had the time, she’d wonder how she even knew what a wet team was, but right now she had more pressing concerns.

  About a block down the street she saw the neon lights from a bar. She started to cross to the other side to avoid the bright lights that would make her too easy to spot, if anyone was looking there, but then it struck her that there was no better place to find a car with the keys inside. Drunks did serve their purpose, now and then.

  She hurried down the sidewalk, taking occasional glances behind her, but her luck was holding. She even smiled a little, thinking of X back at the motel parking lot, still trying to start his motorcycle. No, by now he should have found the severed spark plug wires, unless he was taking the time to thoroughly search the old motel. She could only hope her luck was that good. She’d allow herself to hope, but she wouldn’t bet the farm on it. She’d continue with her own plan.

  She stopped before she reached the bar and studied the parking lot, looking for men outside taking a smoking break, which would be a situation she wanted to avoid. She didn’t see anyone, so she eased forward. Starting at the back of the parking lot, working her way to the front, gave her more cover for a longer period of time; she’d be exposed at the street for only as long as it took her to check that last line of cars, and maybe not even then if they were all newer models.

  She checked only older cars that weren’t as likely to have active alarm systems, looking in the windows to see if they were unlocked, or maybe even had the keys in the ignition or the cup holders. People did stuff like that all the time. She didn’t have all night, and luck wasn’t with her. Even the drunks took care to lock their car doors in this part of town.

  Disappointed, Lizzy sought the shadows of a Dumpster and leaned against the side of it, ignoring the smell, ignoring the fact that the cheap-ass drugstore tennis shoes were already rubbing a blister on the heel of her right foot, feeling the presence of X as acutely as if he were breathing down her neck. She’d slowed him down, but she had come nowhere near stopping him. She had no idea how, but they clearly had some means of locating her. Now when he caught her he’d just be mad.

  And he would catch her, if she didn’t find wheels now.

  The bar door opened and she sank back deeper into the shadows. She heard soft voices, getting louder as the people came toward her, but she stayed where she was. She was as well hidden here as she’d be anywhere else. A couple walked past her, arm in arm. Maybe—no. She dismissed the idea almost immediately. If she was going to jack a car, she didn’t need to take on two people. They’d come out of the bar, sure, but neither of them was staggering or weaving, or talking too loud. If they’d been drunk she might have been able to overpower them both, but they weren’t. She watched as they got into a dark red crossover vehicle, talking the entire time, and never even glanced in her direction. They pulled out of the parking lot, and she was once more alone.

  That truth hit her like a ton of bricks. She was literally and completely alone. There was no one she could call for help, not without giving her location away and putting anyone who might be willing to give her a hand in serious danger. There in the humid night, crouching by a Dumpster, she felt scared and small and helpless.

  Instantly she rebelled. She’d admit to the scared—she was scared spitless—but she was damned if she was helpless. One way or the other, she’d either get away or go down fighting. And if she fought hard enough, even if she lost the battle, the disturbance might attract enough attention that they didn’t get away with whatever it was they were doing.

  Boy, that was some solace.

  The bar door opened again, and a man half-stumbled his way through the lines of cars. He was singing some country song to himself, not loudly, but enough so that she could tell he’d never make a living at it. At least he was a happy drunk, and he was alone.

  He sang the same two lines over and over as he shuffled unsteadily across the gritty parking lot. He jingled his keys in accompaniment.

  Lizzy swiftly ran through her choices. She could wait until he reached his car so she knew which one was his, knock him down, take the keys, and drive off, but how long would she have before a report was filed? Not long, and more than anything she needed time. Another approach was called for, and this happy guy seemed to fit the bill.

  She stepped out of the shadow of the Dumpster and put a smile on her face as she walked toward him. “Hi.”

  He took a single step back, surprised, and then he smiled, too. “Hi. Where did you come from?”

  Her drunk was under thirty, thin, at least six feet tall, and dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a worn tee shirt that revealed just how skinny he really was. Even though he was a lot taller than she was, she could take him in a fair fight … not that she was known for fighting fair…

  She quickly dismissed that last, odd thought. “I was just hanging out, and I noticed that you really shouldn’t be driving in your very happy condition.”

  He shook the hand that held the keys in her direction. “I can drive just fine.”

  “I’m sure you can, but since it’s not necessary, why don’t you let me drive you home?”

  His face lit up. He had a really sweet smile. “Hey! Are you with one of those volunteer groups that drives people home when they’re tipsy?”

  Tipsy? This guy was so drunk, he was about two seconds from landing on his ass.

  “Yes I am,” she replied, seizing the opportunity he’d just given her.

  “Mothers of … no, wait … Desnit … nesigda … drivers.”

  “You’re exactly right,” she said firmly. “I’m with Mothers of Designated Drivers, and we really should go so I can get back here and help someone else, later tonight.”

  He gave her that sweet smile again. “Okay.” Then he handed her the keys—with a remote, thank goodness—and waited.

  “Good decision,” she said, and hit the unlock button on the remote. Lights flashed on a car close to the end of the line.

  “Hey, that was smart,” he said as she took his arm and led him to his car. He leaned so heavily on her, stumbling, that she began weighing the odds they’d both end up sprawled on the pavement. If he went down, he’d take her with him.

  But they made it. She propped him against the car, a white compact, foreign made but common enough to blend in on the interstate.

  “What’s your name, honey?” she asked as she opened the back door for him. He all but fell inside and lay down on the seat, twisting to fit into the small space.
>
  “Sean,” he said. He added his last name, but mangled it so much it actually sounded like “subwoofer.” The odds were almost a hundred percent against that, but she didn’t care about his last name so she didn’t ask for clarification.

  “Nice car, Sean.” She tossed her bag onto the front passenger-seat floorboard and adjusted the seat and the mirrors. “You keep it so clean.”

  “It’s my sister’s car.” He giggled; a weird sound coming from a semi-grown man. “I’m not supposed to drive it, but her car is a lot nicer than mine, and she’s out of town so she’ll never know.” Then he made an exaggerated shushing sound.

  “I won’t tell, I promise. It’ll be our little secret. Now, you take a nap while I drive you home.”

  “Okay,” he said agreeably, and then he went silent.

  Lizzy pulled out of the parking lot and turned in the opposite direction of the motel. What was X doing? Surely by now he had at least tried to start his motorcycle.

  “Good luck with that,” she muttered.

  “What?” Sean asked from the backseat.

  “Nothing, sweetie, you just take a little nap. We’ll be there in no time.”

  He was so far gone he hadn’t even thought to give her his address. Apparently a volunteer for Mothers of Designated Drivers was supposed to have psychic powers for divining addresses.

  Within minutes, Sean was snoring. He’d probably sleep for hours, if she let him. She could just drive, with him sleeping off his drunk in the backseat. But if she did that, he’d be more sober when he woke up and therefore more difficult to deal with. Not only that, his location would be a direction pointer for the people searching for her.

  X had found her easily enough before. She didn’t want to do anything to help them.

  How were they doing it? She was tempted to toss everything she hadn’t bought at the drugstore that afternoon out the window. Anything she had that she’d owned before could have a tracker on it. The most likely culprit was the cell phone, even though it was in pieces. It was a constant, the one thing she always had with her. She didn’t see how they could have gotten to it; she hadn’t left it anywhere … unless someone had broken into her house while she was sleeping.