by Mike Nappa
No, not tonight.
I swear it.
28
Trudi
It was 5:18 Sunday morning when Trudi pulled Samuel’s car into the parking lot of the DoubleTree Inn in Birmingham. She cursed her feeble mind for not thinking to block the parking spot when she left. Now there was a Dodge Avenger in the place where Samuel would expect to find his GT. Well, nothing to be done about it now. She’d have to make sure she was the one who went out to get “real” coffee at breakfast. That would give her an excuse for having moved his car.
She parked a few spaces down from the back entrance and was frustrated to discover that some of the hotel patrons were already up and tossing luggage into their cars, smoking cigarettes by the back door, and generally going about their business in conspicuous ways. After being up through the night, all Trudi wanted to do at this point was simply sneak back into the hotel room on the third floor and try to force a few hours of sleep before having to be up and on call to Samuel’s demands for the day. After all, he would expect that she’d slept through the night in the bed next to his. He would expect business as usual.
Trudi sighed.
She changed back into her pajamas inside the car this time, hoping for at least a little privacy. She was pretty sure that one man smoking by the back door caught sight of what she was doing, but at least that guy was polite enough not to gawk. Next she rolled up her jeans and sweater, gun and GPS device stowed safely inside, and stuffed them back under the passenger seat along with her slip-on shoes. She’d have to retrieve those later. Maybe when she went out for coffee. Now there was nothing to be done for it but satiny pajama-clad exhibitionism.
She climbed out of the GT and made her way to the back entrance. She wished her satin outfit didn’t give such a clear view of her braless-ness every time she took a step, but again, that was out of her control at this moment. She’d just have to endure the stares.
When she had trouble fishing her hotel key card out of her waistband, the smoking man smiled tolerantly and leaned toward the door.
“Let me get that for you,” he said, swiping his own keycard in the reader at the back door. Trudi heard the lock click open and felt suddenly grateful for small kindnesses. Maybe there was at least one decent man on this planet. Of course, he was probably going to die a horrible death from lung cancer someday, but for now she’d take what she could get.
“Thanks,” she muttered as she walked on by.
Trudi took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, so at least that was over fast. Then she was on the third floor again, thankfully with an empty hallway. She reached for her keycard and thought of the sex-starved man in room 321. She wondered how long he had waited up for her to come knocking on his door. She hoped all night, a long, frustrating night.
She slid the keycard in the reader on her hotel room and then gently opened the door, squeezing quickly inside in hopes of keeping the bright lights in the hallway from disturbing Samuel’s sleep. She needn’t have worried.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the room, she saw Samuel sitting in a chair by the window. He was shirtless but wore a pair of pants as if to indicate that he’d found her missing and done just enough searching to discover she was indeed gone from here. In his lap was his Glock 36 handgun. He looked weary.
Trudi stopped inside the doorway and waited. Silence is always a powerful tool, she told herself. She set her hotel keycard on the TV set. After a moment, Samuel straightened up in his chair and sighed.
“You get your gun?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going back to bed.”
He set the Glock on the dresser as he stood, then walked down the narrow aisleway between the beds and slid between the sheets.
Trudi thought for a moment about telling him what she’d learned from her little foray back into Atlanta. She thought about telling him the meaning of the “math problem” on Truck’s map, and of their upcoming appointment tonight at 7:00 p.m. But his back was to her now, and she understood that he too had probably been up most of the night, worrying about her. She felt a twinge of guilt about that.
Mostly, though, she felt tired all the way down to her bones. That empty bed next to Samuel had never looked so inviting. She squinted her eyes and made an executive decision. They could both wait just a little longer to talk about things. They needed a few hours’ sleep to restore good humor and proper manners. She let her shoulders relax and headed toward her mattress.
Trudi climbed under the covers and was off into dreamland barely seconds after her head hit the pillow.
When she awoke, it was already after 10:00 a.m., and the bed next to hers was empty. On the dresser was a tall cup of takeout coffee and a Styrofoam container that, from the leftover smell in the room, she assumed had scrambled eggs and some kind of now-cold breakfast meat inside.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Samuel was in his usual spot at the desk, engrossed in some random fact on his laptop. The man did have a good work ethic, she’d give him that. She let her eyes roam and saw the jeans and sweater she’d left in the car now unfolded and hanging over the back of a chair. In the seat of the chair, she saw her Beretta Tomcat, still in its holster, the GPS she’d received last night, and a fresh box of ammunition.
Good call, Sam, she thought. A gun without ammunition isn’t much of a gun. Should have thought of that myself.
She stretched and leaned back onto her pillow. It felt good to take a moment and breathe, especially after the excitement at her office last night.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she said to the back of Samuel’s head. “And the ammo.”
Her ex-husband waved a dismissive hand. “No problem,” he said to the computer. He tapped the keys quickly once more, then swiveled his chair to face her. “Have fun last night?” he said behind a tolerant grin.
“You know it, cowboy.” She returned the grin. “Girls just wanna have fun, right?”
He nodded, always a gentleman. He seemed ready to let the betrayal slide this time, and he changed the subject.
“So, when I couldn’t sleep last night, I did some thinking about our good Dr. Smith. Finally it hit me: What if his name hasn’t always been Smith? What if we’re spending all our time tracking down the sketchy history of a Smith, when maybe his name was once Smithhouser or Smithereens or some other variation?”
“Good thinking.”
“Anyway, I called one of my buddies in the State Department and came up with a few possible alternatives. One of the guys on the list appears to have been in Fallujah around the same time that we’ve put Dr. Smith and Truck in that area. I think it’s worth pursuing. What do you think?”
Trudi smiled inside. She had to admit that she missed this, missed the daily give-and-take of having Samuel as her partner in an investigation. He was a good thinker, and someone with natural initiative. Then her mind wandered to his faults, reminding her of his, um, other entanglements in the Middle Eastern world. She felt suddenly tired again. And just a little bitter.
“I met a friend of yours last night,” she said to the ceiling.
“What?”
She could hear the injury in Samuel’s voice, the little boy who wanted some acknowledgment of doing good work while she was gone. It had to pain him that she’d completely ignored his latest findings, that she’d dismissed his revelations as if they were unimportant. She almost felt bad about it, until she pictured some stunning young Arab woman with the man she’d called her husband. Then it didn’t feel bad at all, not even a little bit.
“Friend of yours. Met him outside my office last night. Said to tell you ‘hey.’”
Samuel sighed and leaned back in his chair. Trudi ignored him and instead headed to the bathroom, leaving him stewing in frustration. She did her business and then, out of spite, decided to go ahead and take a leisurely shower while she was in there. When she got out, she paused to stare at the cross necklace she always wore. The silver glinted in the fogg
y mirror, reminding her that she was more than just a bitter ex-wife, despite the way she felt at the moment.
More, she told herself. This life is not all I have. There is always more to come, both today and tomorrow. She sighed.
In the other room, she heard the TV set. It sounded like ESPN announcers pontificating on why this team or that was in dire straits, and how that player or this one was the greatest athlete ever to put on a uniform.
She pulled on her jeans and noticed then that although Samuel had found her handgun, he hadn’t checked her pockets. In one she had a $20 bill. In the other was a mobile phone. She decided not to bring attention to those facts, at least not now. She continued dressing, adding a tight jersey tank top to her ensemble, then partially buttoning a plaid, long-sleeve “boyfriend” shirt over it all.
He turned off the TV set when she came out of the bathroom, said nothing while she secured the Beretta and holster inside the back waistband of her jeans. He just watched her, following her eyes with his. When she sat down to put on shoes and socks, he finally spoke.
“Going somewhere?”
“Got an appointment to keep,” she said. She cocked her head and tried to sound playful. “You can come if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”
He sighed. “I get it,” he said, “you’re still mad about me keeping you from getting a gun. Well, you took care of that problem without my help. So what do you want from me now, an apology?”
“Sure. An apology would be nice.”
He stood and bowed his head slightly. “Ms. Coffey,” he said, “I was a jerk. A domineering male donkey. Please accept my humble apologies.”
Sometimes he was too cute. Trudi hated that. She hated that she could love and hate this man in the same moment. Now it was her turn to sigh.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re forgiven.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, do you want to tell me what happened last night or do I have to do another dance for that song to be sung?”
She laughed in spite of herself. Samuel was not a good dancer. Enthusiastic, yes. Good? No.
“I met somebody who knows you. He showed up at my office in the wee hours of the morning.”
“What’s his name?”
Only then did it strike Trudi that she’d never gotten a name out of the mute man. Didn’t seem necessary at the time, I guess, she told herself. But now it would’ve been useful to have that information.
“He didn’t say.”
“What did he look like?”
“Large. Dark skin. Muscular. Wore an army Special Forces ring and carried a lot of guns.”
Samuel’s forehead wrinkled. “This guy, did he have a thick scar across his neck?” Trudi nodded. “Congratulations,” he said, “you are one of the chosen few who has met The Mute.”
“The Mute? What an awful nickname. Seems mean, even for you army types.”
Samuel shrugged. “Not a nickname, at least as far as I’ve heard. That’s just his name. I hear Truck gave it to him, and he kept it.” He looked at Trudi with a little concern. “Are you okay? The Mute has, well, a reputation.”
“Stone-cold killer?” she said.
“Yeah. Among other things.”
“I’m fine. Your Mute was a perfect gentleman.” With me, at least. Can’t say the same for his treatment of Samir.
“So what did he want? The map?”
“Yes. But he also told me what the math problem on the map is.”
Trudi handed the GPS device to Samuel and showed him the coordinates saved on it.
“Man,” he said. “We must be morons.”
She shrugged. It seemed hard to argue that conclusion given the evidence. “It’s a farm, down in southern Alabama. Apparently there’s a main house, a barn, and then an underground structure built beneath the barn. We’ll find Truck’s emeralds down there.”
“What’s this other spot on the map?” he asked.
“Our rendezvous point. I told The Mute we’d meet him there at seven tonight, take him to the emeralds, and be done with this whole business.”
She waited for Samuel to object, for him to complain that he was responsible for the emeralds, not The Mute. She expected him to argue about it, but instead he said, “Good plan. My guess is The Mute knows that area like my cousin Freddie knows how to cook up bacon.”
Trudi snorted at the reference. She’d met Freddie. He ran a gourmet barbecue joint in Texas, and judging by his weight, it was safe to say he often sampled his own cooking.
Samuel looked more closely at the GPS map. “Why don’t we just go straight to Truck’s farm and—oh, never mind. The Conecuh Fire. Did The Mute say anything about that?”
“Well, he didn’t say anything.”
“You know what I mean. Guy can’t speak, but he still gets his message across.”
“He said roads were blocked up to the farm, but that we could hike in from the rendezvous spot.”
Samuel tapped on the GPS screen. “It’s about two hundred miles from here to Peachtree, which looks to be about twenty miles from Truck’s farm. So maybe a three-hour drive? Maybe three and a half since we’re going into backcountry after we get past Peachtree.”
“Okay,” she said. She looked at the clock. It was now a few minutes after 11:00 a.m. She took a sip of cold coffee and peeked inside the Styrofoam container. She found cold eggs and sausage inside. She wrinkled her nose and dropped the whole container in the trash. “So we’ve got time to eat lunch before we head out?”
Samuel looked at his watch. “Sure,” he said. “You want me to go out and get something for you?”
There was a slight hesitation, then Trudi shook her head.
“No, we can go out together. We might as well check out of the hotel too.”
He nodded.
They spent a few minutes packing up their things, and Trudi found herself feeling disappointed that she’d never had a chance to wear the red dinner dress and diamonds her ex-husband had bought for her. He caught her staring at the dress before packing it away.
“Another time.” He shrugged. “It’ll still look great . . . whenever.”
“Another time, then,” she said. She sighed and folded the dress into the suitcase.
They were down at the front counter by 11:30 a.m.
Trudi almost laughed when she saw the guy from room 321 also at the front counter, arguing over a charge for some pay-per-view movie that had “accidentally” come on his TV set at 3:30 a.m. He looked up long enough to recognize Trudi and shoot her an annoyed look. Then he saw Samuel Hill. His eyes widened, and he seemed suddenly impatient to leave the premises, even without settling the issue on his bill. Samuel saw the exchange and gave Trudi a questioning look.
In response, Trudi pulled a $20 bill from her pocket and placed it in her ex-husband’s hand. She nodded toward the other man.
“Samuel,” she said, “be a dear and return this to that man over there. I, um, borrowed it from him last night.”
Her ex-husband looked at the money, at Trudi, and over at the man now desperate to settle his bill. The corners of his eyes narrowed.
“Be glad to,” he said.
Samuel turned toward the man. He flipped open his brown bomber jacket, just wide enough for the guy to see the Glock pistol now holstered inside there. He took a step in the direction of his intent, but he was too late. The other guy was already running out the door.
Sam turned back to Trudi.
“I think I’ll keep this,” he said, raising the $20 bill.
Trudi laughed out loud.
“Honey,” she said, “you definitely earned it.”
29
Annabel
For better or worse, tonight begins the real adventure.
I feel cold. And never more alone than right now.
For better or worse . . .
It’s not a cold that comes from outside in. The cold sits inside me. I think it may stay there, even when—even if—I ever return to sunshine.
Tonight be
gins the real adventure.
I keep thinking of Edgar Allan Poe’s horror story, “The Pit and the Pendulum,” the way it begins: “I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me.” That’s the way I feel right now.
Sick—sick unto death.
Bound and senseless.
For better or worse, tonight begins the real adventure.
It’s the last line of Marelda Gregor’s personal account. Now that I’ve translated the entire slim volume, I wish I’d left it stuffed under that bunk bed mattress. I wish I’d never found it at all. Better to live stupid than to live awful. But Truck always told me he wouldn’t allow no stupids in his house.
“It hurts me, Truck. Hurts me inside.”
Of course, no one hears. Not even that dog. He’s sleeping by the door, legs twitching.
I can’t cry, not no more. No reason for it. Marelda Gregor is gone. She’s been long gone. I know it, otherwise why would Truck have this journal? Why would Truck have me?
“Was you gonna tell me, Truck? Was you ever gonna tell me?”
My uncle was always good with confidences. Why would I assume he didn’t keep any secrets from me?
It strikes me now that I’ve seen Marelda Gregor’s plain black notebook before. Years ago, when I was ’bout seven or so. I forgot that. I forgot it even existed. But it must’ve been her book. Nothing else makes sense now.
I was bored, waiting for Rendel to finish cooking dinner. I wandered ’round the house and ended up in Truck’s study. Sitting here now, wrapped up in sleeping bags, I can almost see the moment in my head, see it clear and clean like it was a picture in a photo album.
Uncle Truck is at his desk, head down, concentrating hard on something. He’s got a pencil in his left hand, and his right hand is pressing down on a page in a book that sets on his desk, pressing it open so’s he can see it more clearly.
“What’s goin’, Truck?” I’m saying. “Will you read to me?”
He looks up but don’t smile.
“No time now, Annie-girl. How about after dinner?”
