Zero Escape

by Kendall Talbot

  Once she’d exhausted every possible hiding spot, she sat on the bare mattress. Her shoulders sagged with the overwhelming feeling that she’d missed something. A single tear tickled her cheek, and she flicked it away.

  A sense of failure gripped her. The mountain of pressure made her feel like she might implode, and she gripped the edge of the mattress, digging her fingernails into the foam until they hurt. With each tick of the kitchen clock, she sank deeper and deeper into despair.

  A broken sob reached her throat, but she fought it. She’d had enough of crying. That time was over. Now was the time for fighting.

  Fighting back the tears.

  Fighting for answers.

  What would Peter do?

  She pictured him standing in the doorway, hands on hips, that shrewd look of confidence on his face. They’d been in many situations that’d had her in a mild panic. But he was eternally calm and had an answer for everything. His favorite saying was “A wise old owl always knows.”

  Peter’s walking cane caught her eye.

  She sat bolt upright. The cane!

  The cane had always been in plain sight, and she’d walked past it nearly every day of her life. Yet it didn’t fit into their transient lifestyle puzzle.

  Her mind bristled as she walked to it. Peter didn’t need a walking cane, and she’d never seen him use it, yet it was the one thing that’d accompanied them all around the country. Convinced she was onto something, Charlene carried it to the kitchen and placed it on the table.

  The length of the cane was a dark wood . . . oak or something. At the base was a rubber stopper that had barely any marks because he’d never used it. Each time they packed up their things, Peter would pile his clothing and toiletries into his ancient suitcase, and his other hand would carry this cane. She couldn’t believe she’d never pushed Peter about his attachment to it before. Every time she’d asked, he’d simply skirted her question with one of his own. He was good at that. Answering a question with a question. It was the perfect way to give no answer at all. It was also another angle of deceit that she’d never recognized before.

  At the top of the cane was a silver owl. A wise old owl always knows.

  “What does the owl know, Dad?”

  She ran her fingers over the figurine. It was intricately carved, the bird’s head and wing feathers completed in incredible detail. The owl’s eyes were two red stones, and for a fleeting moment, she contemplated that they might be rubies. But she quickly cast aside that thought. Another one of Peter’s mantras was that jewels were a waste of precious money. As far as she knew, he’d never owned any jewelry.

  She herself had only a simple pair of silver hoop earrings and a small silver cross on a chain. Her one ring was a gold filigree pattern of a parade of four dolphins. She’d begged Peter to buy it for her twenty-first birthday. She can still remember the look on his face when he’d given it to her. Despite all his vocal distaste for the wasted money, he’d been as excited by her reaction to the jewelry as she had been.

  The ring hadn’t left her finger since that day.

  A wise old owl always knows.

  “What were you trying to tell me, Dad?”

  The owl’s taloned feet clutched a branch that formed the connection to the wooden part of the cane. Charlene ran her fingernail beneath the seam connecting the two and felt a little latch. She raised it to her eyes, examining it in the light. A prickle of excitement teased her thoughts.

  The owl’s eyes glistened. Taunting her with suggestion.

  Sitting upright, she positioned both her thumbs on the owl’s ruby eyes and pressed. The owl jolted apart, its body separating from its legs. Charlene gasped as she eased the bird back on a tiny hinge that’d been concealed by the silver tree limb.

  Her breath stopped as she peered into a secret compartment.

  Inside was just one thing . . . a key.

  Chapter Six

  Charlene sat back with the brass key nestled on her palm. This was no ordinary key. It was a fancy skeleton key detailed with a miniature crown at the top. It was about the size of her little finger. But it had no markings to indicate what it opened. Not even numbers or letters. It was obviously important, though. It was not for a desk drawer or gym locker. This key locked something that was made for keeps. Like a safe-deposit box.

  The fact that Peter hated banks no longer seemed relevant. She already had proof he was a liar.

  After staring at the key for five minutes, she set it down and made a cup of tea. As the kettle boiled, she searched her memory for anything Peter had said that might hint at what the key was for. But it was futile. He’d done a damned good job of keeping it a secret.

  She’d always thought they’d had no secrets between them.

  A chill raced up her spine as she questioned how many other secrets he’d kept.

  Peter went to great lengths to conceal the key, so its purpose was important. And that made it important to her. She contemplated telling Chapel, but the instant she considered it, she put a full stop to that thought. This was her secret now, and she was determined to unravel its mystery without Chapel’s help.

  Jiggling the bag of peppermint tea in the boiling water, she returned to the table with the mug. As she stared at the pretty key, she realized she had another problem. Would a bank let her access the locked box? She had no idea. On top of that, she didn’t even know if the key would open something in New Orleans? If it didn’t, then she had no hope of figuring out where to start.

  Casting the troubling thoughts aside, she decided that first thing tomorrow morning, she’d start with the banks around town.

  ****

  Charlene was up, showered, had eaten breakfast, and had done one more search of the apartment—all before the sun had even split the horizon. Once she was certain that she hadn’t missed anything, she went to plan B.

  She headed out the door with the precious key wrapped in a tissue in her bag. The banks were the most obvious place to start. Yet even as she walked toward the center of town, she was uncertain how to make her inquiries. After all, she had no proof of her identity. Then again, neither had Peter . . . at least none that she was aware of.

  She walked to the closest telephone booth first and contacted Chapel. He answered on the first ring, and feigning a migraine, she told him she wouldn’t be in today. He was so sympathetic that she felt horrible for lying. He even made an offer to drop by later to ensure she was okay. After she declined, they promised to touch base again in the morning.

  Charlene’s next call was to her job. Her attendance had been sporadic since Peter was killed. In light of everything that’d happened, she didn’t think she’d be back, and she did something she’d never done before: she resigned via a phone call.

  She’d handed in her notice dozens of times in her life, but always in person. Doing it over the phone just didn’t seem right. Yet the tone in her boss’s voice gave her the impression he was glad she’d quit. He deserved to be, with all the time off she’d been having, she was probably the most unreliable employee he’d ever had.

  With the calls made, Charlene walked to her first stop, Liberty Bank. It was barely a fifteen-minute stroll from her home, but she made it in seven and then had to wait for the doors to open. She could probably count on her fingers the number of times she’d entered a bank. One of the joys of dealing only in cash meant she was in control of her own money, which was exactly how she liked it, although she’d never had a significant amount that would warrant opening a bank account anyway. If her memory served her, the most money she’d ever had at any one time was when she was saving for a pair of Vans shoes that she just had to have. They were new, and Peter had tried to convince her to wait until they were out of season, but she didn’t. It’d taken her five weeks of overtime to save enough extra money to buy the shoes. But once she had them, she’d worn them nearly every day for over two years.

  Armed with Peter’s death certificate and with forced tears brimming her eyes, she approached the
first available counter. The man behind the dark mahogany desk had a bushy moustache that he’d probably worn for three decades. His hair, combed over his head in greasy clumps, added to his disheveled appearance. As she neared him, she simultaneously read his name badge and forced back the anticipation bristling her thoughts.

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  “Hi. Do you have safe-deposit boxes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Charlene fished into her bag, unzipped the secret pocket, and plucked out her precious asset. “Do you recognize this key?”

  The man leaned forward to examine it, and a frown rippled his forehead. “No, ma’am, it’s not one of ours. You could try Capital One across the street.”

  Charlene flicked a tear from her cheek. “Okay, thanks.”

  Hour after hour, she repeated the process. Tears produced. Key displayed. Thanked the bank official and moved on. She had no idea how many banks there were in New Orleans, but Charlene managed the challenge like she did with every difficult situation . . . by breaking it down into manageable portions. After purchasing a map of New Orleans and a highlighter, she set about walking the streets and marking off each one as she went. Common sense told her that Peter would have chosen a bank within walking distance, so she started with the streets nearest her apartment.

  It would be easier to narrow down the banks if she had a way of searching the Internet, but she didn’t. She hadn’t touched a computer since she’d finished school, and she’d never owned a phone, let alone one that connected to the Internet. It was all legwork, and it was a very long day. By the time the sun set, she was both exhausted and no closer to answers.

  As much as she wanted to spend every day solving the key puzzle, she was also aware that Chapel would soon be chasing her for more information, so she decided to split her days between time with him and hours trolling the streets of NOLA.

  In the end, it took nine days to visit every street on the map and all the banks, building societies, and credit unions. She lost count at fifty. She was at the first bank before the staff even arrived, and at the last of the day, they were shuttling her out the door at closing time. Yet every person she spoke to was more than helpful. She ate on the run, and she walked in blazing sun and pouring rain. Each night she went home, disappointed yet optimistic that she’d have an answer the next day. Until she ran out of banks.

  In the end, all she had were sore feet and a love for the people of New Orleans.

  It was another week before she had a stroke of luck. It turns out that private safe-deposit box companies were a thing.

  Some people didn’t trust banks, Peter being one of them. She’d never seen him go into one. And she especially couldn’t imagine him placing anything precious in their control. So it only made sense that he’d sought out an alternative. Charlene couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered this possibility sooner. Even so, if she hadn’t seen a company advertising safe-deposit boxes on television, she would never have thought of it.

  For the first time in days, she went to bed with a flicker of hope easing her into sleep.

  Charlene had a skip in her step as she headed toward the center of town. Revelers from the previous night still peppered the streets, and some were passed out cold on the pavement. Despite her and Peter’s limited funds and transient lifestyle, there were only a handful of times Charlene hadn’t had a solid roof over her head at night. But even on those occasions, she’d still felt safe.

  She caught a streetcar to the Garden District and didn’t even stop for coffee as she headed toward the building housing the company called The Vault. The building stood alone, the walls washed in blue paint and iron bars covered the windows. She arrived at 8:20 and was surprised to see a security guard already standing outside the entrance, his feet shoulder width apart, his hands fisted at his sides, and a scowl on his face that was certain to create some serious wrinkles later in life.

  Being a drifter meant Charlene was always meeting new people. She liked to think she’d mastered the art of the first greeting. Charlene could be bold or shy. Friendly or serious. Curious or aloof. She’d learned how to read people. And she could read body language. Peter taught her about assessing situations before she entered a doorway, like where the exits were, and looking for mirrors. She was an expert at judging how many people were in a room. And her many self-defense lessons taught her how to handle herself. In class, she’d thrown many unsuspecting men over her shoulder.

  The guard was at least six foot six and built like a fridge, and he sported a flattop haircut that would make any soldier proud. His no-nonsense scowl didn’t falter as she approached, and she simply gave him a curt nod and pushed through the gold-trimmed doors.

  A middle-aged woman with flawless ebony skin was positioned behind the counter. Her hair was braided into an intricate pattern that threaded into angular rows and culminated in a large bun on the top of her head, giving the illusion that she was a good four inches taller than she was.

  When she looked up and smiled, her lovely straight teeth were as white as chalk, and she looked like she wouldn’t hesitate to wrap anyone up in a big bear hug.

  “How can I help you, sugar?”

  Charlene slid the key over the counter. “Can you tell me if this is one of your keys?”

  She’d been faking tears for days, but the second the woman nodded, confirming she did indeed recognize the key, tears of relief stung her eyes.

  “Oh, come now, honey; it can’t be that bad.” The woman handed over a tissue.

  Charlene’s shoulders sagged, and she sucked in a shaky breath. “My father passed away a few weeks ago. He was, he was . . . umm . . . murdered actually. Perhaps you heard of it. He was stabbed by a woman in Café Degas.”

  Her eyes bulged. “Oh my, yes. I saw that on the television, and I said to my kids that I knew him. I’d met him just before it happened. Oh, you poor dear. Come now, take a seat over here.” The woman came out from behind the counter, and Charlene followed her to a table at the side of the marble-lined room.

  “I’m sorry.” She tabbed a tissue to her cheeks.

  “No need to say sorry. Let me get you some water.” Her polished mules tracked her escape across the marble tiles.

  Charlene removed an envelope from her bag. It contained Peter’s death certificate. She’d read it when Chapel had first handed it to her. The cause of death was exsanguination.

  She had to ask Chapel what it meant. Loss of blood. She’d tried desperately to stop that blood flow. Pressing her palm to the wound. Feeling the warmth ooze through her fingers. Pulling the tablecloth off and holding it to his chest. Blood seeping through the white linen. All the while, she was screaming for help. It seemed like a wretched dream. Now it was reduced to one clinical word: exsanguination.

  “There you go, sugar.”

  The woman’s voice was as smooth as warm honey, gently luring Charlene back from the nightmare. “I’m sorry.”

  She flicked her hand. “Don’t be. You’ve been through such a trauma. Now tell me how Louisa-Ann can help.”

  Charlene had noticed how the locals here sometimes spoke of themselves in the third person. That was another thing she was good at . . . recognizing idiosyncrasies unique to certain locations. She offered a lopsided smirk. “I’m hoping you can help me. I was going through my father’s belongings, and I found this key. Would it be possible for me to access the contents of the box?”

  “Of course, sugar.”

  Charlene did a double take.

  “What?” Louisa-Ann frowned.

  “Well, I didn’t think it would be so easy.”

  “That’s what we do here at The Vault. Make it easy.”

  “So, you don’t need to see his death certificate or identification.”

  “Oh, hell no.” She flicked her hand, and Charlene noticed the rows of gold rings lining her fingers.

  “But how can that be safe?”

  “Ahh, that’s the simplicity of it. We keep the contents very secure behin
d our thirty-eight-ton, multiple-combination, keyed-steel door. What our customers do with their key is their business. All they need to do is pay their bills, and we’ll look after their precious items forever.”

  Charlene forced back the burning question of how much the box had cost.

  “So, all you need is a key and the locker number.”

  Charlene’s heart lurched. “What if I don’t have the number?”

  Louisa-Anne chuckled. “Then I hope you aren’t in a hurry.” She directed Charlene to stand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  She led Charlene through two sets of cast-iron gates to a giant steel door and indicated to the left-hand side of the small entry area. “Can you wait there, please?”

  As Charlene shuffled aside, Louisa-Anne stepped up to a large steel door and punched a series of numbers into a concealed keypad. She turned the large wheel, and after the bolts thudded into place, she stepped back and tugged on the door. A loud sucking noise announced its release, and the door gradually yawned open.

  “Here we go, sugar. Seven hundred and twelve safe-deposit boxes. Take your pick.”

  Charlene’s jaw dropped as she scanned the room. “Can’t you look up the records? Tell me which one?”

  She giggled, and the sound echoed about the space. “Now that would be a breach of confidentiality.”

  The boxes lined all four walls of the room. Smaller boxes were at the top, and they became progressively larger toward the bottom. “I should’ve packed lunch,” Charlene said.

  Louisa-Ann’s laughter had her enormous breasts wobbling. “I’m sure you’ll find it in no time.”

  Charlene didn’t share the same optimism as she approached a random box with her key. Number 441. The key only went in a quarter of the way.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”