by David Risen
He turned his palms up.
“Anyone ever tell you that you sound like one of those nut-jobs who watched too many episodes of the X Files and are now hiding from the government?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think the government is nearly as resourceful – they, at least, must work within the confines of the law.”
She pulled into an empty parking space, cut the engine, and stripped off her jacket.
“What am I supposed to call you?”
She reached across the dash and opened the glove box where she removed a set of keys.
“Whatever you like.”
“Friendships begin with first names.”
She gave him a look of concern, and then she reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a black wig.
“Are you serious?”
She adjusted the rearview mirror, and carefully began tucking her hair beneath it.
“If they were watching your house, and I’m certain they were, they know that I’m driving a gray Lexus and that I have blond hair. This parking deck has 24-hour digital surveillance, which means that we must assume that the cameras are connected to a computer, which is connected to the internet. They must not see a blond and a man leave in the new car.”
“What did you do to them?”
She reached in her console and pulled out a Burger King napkin, and then she wiped the light pink lipstick she wore from her mouth and replaced it with burgundy.
“They suffer no one to have even a rudimentary knowledge of them, and I know far more than that.”
She finished applying her lipstick, and then she reached across the dash again and pressed the trunk release button.
“If you don’t mind, please gather your things, and you’ll find a black, leather jacket in the trunk. Could you please bring it to me?”
Rider stared at her for a moment, and not knowing what else to do, he opened the door, climbed out of the car, rounded it, and opened the trunk.
He removed his gym bag and then took the jacket she requested, and slammed the trunk.
She met him at the rear of the car. She pressed the button on the keychain that she took from the glove box, and the locks clicked on the maroon Ford Excursion beside them.
“Get in,” she said.
Rider looked behind him and then back at her. “I’m not going another step until you at least give me a first name.”
She gave him a look of frustration. “Very well. Your personal safety is not my responsibility. I decided to help you because I involved you in all this, but if you want to go anyway, that’s your prerogative.”
He shook his head. “How do I know that you’re not responsible for that thing under my chair?”
She huffed. “Uncouth character that I am?”
He turned up his right palm. “You’re a total fruit-loop.”
She frowned and sighed with frustration. “Suit yourself, but I have to go.”
She started around the Excursion to the driver’s side. Rider looked behind himself again and then back at his paranoid partner. What he told her earlier in the day about not wanting to know what happened to Lauren wasn’t true. If he could help her, he would, and this woman was the only person he knew who might lead him to her.
He swallowed his misgivings and got in the car.
This was a mistake.
Rider was certain that he was going to be sorry.
They hit I-85 and traveled for more than an hour before she exited off in Braselton, Georgia, and Rider rode the entire way in silence.
Finally, he looked at her without the least bit of amusement on his face and said, “So what’s the plan?”
She didn’t take her eyes off the road. She sat silently for a long moment, which made Rider wonder if she was giving him the silent treatment. And then she glanced at him.
“I suppose we should get you a room.”
“And what then?”
She peeked at him. “You said you found some interesting information on Sister Claire Jacobs?”
Rider gave her a Mona Lisa smile and looked out the passenger window.
She frowned. “Are you still playing that silly game where you withhold information from me in an effort to gain totally useless information on me that the sisters would find extremely important?”
Rider scowled at her. “Hey, I’m not lookin to jam you up, here.”
She nodded. “Yes, but if the sisters capture you, they’ll pull it out of you. The less you know about me, the more protected you are.”
“So what am I supposed to call you?” he snapped.
“Ruth, Sister Hunter, or if you like none of those, feel free to make something up.”
Rider sneered. “How about Scarlett?”
She gave the windshield a perplexed look. “Why?”
“With that wig on, you look a little bit like Scarlett Johansson in Avengers.”
She smiled slightly. “Thank you.”
Rider shrugged. He considered his options for a moment, and then decided to share.
He shifted himself in the passenger’s seat and stared at the side of her face.
“Sister Jacobs has a Ph.D. in Theology, another Ph.D. in Psychology, and she speaks at least four different languages. In her time as a nun, she’s been all over the world – Britain, France, Germany, Africa, South America, The United States, Mexico.... All of that and she’s only 25.”
Her eyes lit up. “Are you sure?”
Rider squinted at her. “What does that mean to you?”
She considered her response for a moment – replacing her look of intrigue with a pensive expression.
“I suppose it is possible that she could have accomplished all of that.”
Rider shrugged.
“Have you learned anything else?”
“Aren’t Nuns supposed to take a vow of poverty?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never actually been a nun. That sounds accurate.”
Rider stared at the side of her face a moment longer and then looked out the windshield.
“I’m pretty sure that they do,” he said.
“Why do you ask?”
Rider looked at her again. “Apparently, she owns more than a thousand acres of land in Tennessee.”
Her eyebrows spiked. “What kind of land?”
Rider shook his head. “I intended to go back to the library and look it up on Google maps. It’s a place called Skitts Mountain. What do you think that’s about?”
Her eyebrows spiked as she considered it. “We should have a closer look.”
She turned on her right blinker and pulled into a dingy-looking Motel on the outskirts of Braselton. It was a fifties-style single story strip motel with wooden shingles and mint-trim. The parking lot was full of holes and half of it was gravel. The sign on the side of the road announced, “Raven’s Rest Motel.”
Rider gave her another look of disbelief. “Do you really think staying here is a good idea?”
She put the SUV in park, turned off the engine, looked at him, and smiled soullessly.
“They’ll never look here, and establishments such as this one accepts cash.”
“Do they at least have Wi-Fi? I need to do more research.”
The smile fell off her face. “You brought a laptop?”
He shook his head. “No, I brought my Android.”
“Don’t use it.”
Rider rolled his eyes. “Why would they be so interested in finding me?”
She cocked her head. “Because you’re with me, and I don’t know how much information you may have inadvertently given them. For all I know, between you and your wife, they may know exactly who I am, and that is very dangerous.”
“Fine, but I’m at least going to order a pizza.”
“You have cash?”
He grinned. “Lauren’s Debit card.”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I suppose I’ll have to stay with you and babysit.”
Rider turned his palms up.
�
��So we’re just gonna sit here?”
“No. Tomorrow morning, I’ll rise early and return to Bridgeton. I’ll get more money, and come up with some way of moving the Lexus. When I return, you and I will go to the nearest library, and find out more about this property.”
He nodded. “What am I supposed to do for booze and food in the mean time?”
She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps they have a mini-bar.”
She opened her car door. “Wait here and try not to do anything foolish.”
She climbed down out of the Excursion and started for the office.
Rider reached in his jacket pocket and fished out his phone. He was about to power it down when he noticed a message on the display.
1 New Text Message
Rider touched the read icon – opening his instant messenger.
“Tomorrow 11 AM Bridgeton McDonald’s. B there or B square.”
Fear surged in Rider’s chest. He touched the reply icon and typed, “Who is this?”
And pressed send.
In a moment, his phone buzzed.
“U Know.”
The motel room was far worse than it looked from the parking lot.
The interior walls were made of dark wooden paneling, scuffed, and scratched from years of abuse. The only air conditioning was a window unit in the bathroom. The bedspread was a Family Dollar special. A 1990s era Panasonic Television sat on top of the dresser connected to a DVD player, and the room smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
“Did you actually have to pay for this?” he said.
His nameless friend pushed her way into the room behind him, closed the door, and sat one of her suitcases down flat on the dresser by the antique TV. Then she regarded him with a look of disdain.
“Yeah, 15 dollars an hour.”
Rider’s mouth fell open. “Really?”
She pulled a sheet of blue poster board from the front pocket of her suitcase, paced over to the left wall, and stuck it in place with gum.
“No. Not really.”
Rider grinned humorlessly. “You think you’re being sarcastic, but I’m afraid to touch anything in here with my bare hands. This room screams gonasyphaherpeles.”
She paced back over to her suitcase and unzipped it. Rider stepped over to the poster board and stared at it, and then he turned around and grinned.
“Is this another one of your nutso counter-surveillance things?”
She turned around.
A bright flash blinded him. He rubbed his eyes, and then peered back at her through blue spots.
“What the hell?”
She smiled like a dental assistant. “That’s for the fake ID you’re using tomorrow.”
Rider tried to shake it off. “Where’s the warning?”
“Does the Driver’s License Bureau warn you?”
Rider turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, and that’s when it hit him. He peered back at her through the blue spots in his eyes.
“Did you get two rooms?”
She seemed to be in the process of dragging out a silver case laptop, and booting it up.
“And risk you slipping off in the middle of the night to buy liquor with your wife’s bank card?”
Rider hung his head. “Well, there’s only one bed. Where am I going to sleep?”
“In the bed,” she said – connecting her camera to the USB port.
He huffed. “Where are you sleeping?”
“On the other side.”
Rider flashed another mischievous grin. “Are you makin a pass at me?”
She turned and rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Rider massaged his temples. “This is so weird.”
She nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you took a shower.”
Rider snapped his head up and glared. “I just took a shower two hours ago.”
“Yes, but I saw how dirty you were before. Another one couldn’t hurt.”
Rider hung his head again. “I’m afraid to even sleep in this STD petri dish let alone take a shower here.”
She stopped what she was doing with the laptop, bent down to the suitcase on the floor, unzipped the front flap, and produced a bottle of Ivory body wash, A spray bottle of Clorox Cleanup, a sponge, and a pair of blue rubber gloves.
He looked up at the ceiling. “That still doesn’t solve the sperm-spangled bedsheets.”
She held up a finger, and unzipped the suitcase. Then she produced a neatly folded sheet of plastic.
Rider’s eyes bulged. “You’ve been doin this kinda thing for a while, huh?”
She didn’t respond. She stood and returned to her work on the computer.
Rider stared at her for a moment.
Finally, she turned and gave him a tired look. “Go take your shower, and if you’re good, I have a surprise for you when you get out.”
When Rider got out of the shower, he found his new temporary license on the fake walnut nightstand.
His eyes danced back and forth over the very authentic-looking document, but the name she gave him was awful.
His mysterious companion sat on the edge of the bed. While he showered, she took it upon herself to remove the motel linen, covered the mattress in plastic, and replaced the linen with her own – forming a barricade down the middle of the bed with pillows.
Rider turned the fake temporary license around so she could see it.
“William Wilson, really?”
Her eyes narrowed with confusion.
“William Wilson as in Bill W. as in Alcoholics Anonymous Bill?” he expounded.
She grinned. “Fitting, isn’t it?”
“What am I calling you?” he snapped.
She proudly held up her own fake document.
Rider’s eyes danced over it, and then he shook his head.
“Scarlett Winslet, huh? Why do you get two celebrity names, and I get the name of an old drunk?”
She opened the drawer of the nightstand pulled out a fifth of Mr. Boston and handed it to him.
“Stop whining.”
Rider felt all the tension between his shoulders evaporate.
“Thank God!”
He screwed the gold cap off and took a hefty swig making a wry face. It burned like lit butane all the way down his throat, but he suddenly felt much better about his situation.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to shower and get some rest. I’m off to an early start in the morning.”
Rider nodded.
While she showered, he fished his bottle of Xanax out of his pocket and popped two, and then he washed it down with several more swallows of Vodka. He faded out on the bed before she came back out.
Rider opened his eyes when he heard the door shut behind his strange, new bedfellow.
He lay in bed a moment staring at the drawn, avocado curtains until he heard the Ford Excursion fire up and back out, and then he climbed out of bed, and stepped over to the circular table by the window. He took his jacket from the back of the chair, and fished his phone from the inside pocket of his coat.
He powered it on, and then he touched the Text Message Icon. He selected the last conversation.
“I don’t have a ride,” he typed.
He sat his phone back down on the table, and then he stepped over to the dresser where he sat his gym bag, and removed a clean pair of socks from within. He put his socks on and then pulled on his cowboy-style boots.
He lay back on the bed. Then he flipped on the tiny television with the scratched-up gray remote attached to the fake walnut nightstand with a black cable. Before he could find anything, his phone buzzed on the table. He stood and retrieved it from the scratched-up surface of the table.
“Yellow Cab @ 10:30 on me. B ready.”
A sinking feeling pulled at him. Now he began to wonder if everything his anonymous friend told him about the Nuns was spot on.
He never told the person on the other end of the text where he was.
He reached in the blue gym bag on t
he table, took out his pocketknife, and stuffed it in his back pocket.
As promised, a yellow cab pulled into the parking lot outside his room at 10:30 and obnoxiously honked the horn.
Rider pulled on his jacket, grabbed his key, and rode back to Bridgeton. The drive was smooth as most of the snow and ice from the night before last melted.
When he stepped through the door at the Bridgeton McDonald’s, a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair who looked a bit like a high school cheerleader approached him with a tray.
“Hello Rider,” she said with a musical voice.
Rider looked her up and down. She was only five feet tall and trim, and he imagined that many high school boys lusted after her not very long ago.
“Who are you?”
She passed him the tray.
“I went ahead and ordered your favorite since you’re probably not using your own money right now.”
Rider looked at the tray and found large fries, a Double Quarter, and a Coke.
“Let’s sit down,” she said motioning toward his normal booth by the window on the left side of the restaurant.
Rider followed her to the booth, and settled into his seat – the same place he sat yesterday for his meeting with his anonymous friend.
The girl sat across from him, and took her salad from the tray, removed the clear, plastic lid and coated it in thick, Ranch dressing.
“Who are you?” Rider repeated.
“I’m surprised that you don’t know with all of your poking around,” she said without looking at him. “You know more about me than anyone in the world.”
Rider smirked. “Claire Jacobs?”
She smiled. “I prefer Sister Teresa Joan or Mother Superior.”
“Aren’t you a little young?”
She gave him a Mona Lisa smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”
He leaned forward. “Where is Lauren?”
She opened the wrapper containing her black fork. “Alive and well. We simply transplanted her into a happier life in a place where she’s much less likely to get herself in trouble.”
Rider gave her a cynical look. “I don’t suppose you have any proof of that.”
