Edge of the Heat 5 (10 page)

Before they even left the neighborhood he pulled over and put his head in his hands. She could see him through the windshield of the car ahead of her. She pulled past him and waited at the stop sign to see what he would do. He shook his head as if to clear it, and drove on.

Sara picked up her throw-away cell phone and dialed Manny’s number.

“Lo?!” Irritated.

“Manny, this is Bethany. Meet me at the Pink Palace Coffee Shop on Maryland Drive. Turn right at the next street, go one mile straight and turn right on Maryland. I’ve got your money.”

Sara clicked off and held her breath. Would he do what she said? Scopolamine was a crazy drug, making people highly suggestible, but the dosage was tricky. Too low of a dose and it just cleared up your congestion. Too high of a dose and it killed you. The perfect dose ensured that not only would your subject do everything you told them to do, it also would make it impossible for them to remember who you were or what had happened. It short circuited the brain in a way that made it impossible for the person to form memories. It was almost a perfect spy drug.

Ahead of her, his little car got in the right-turn lane.
Good
. A spear of adrenaline shot through her chest, up into her throat, sharpening her mind and her vision. She neither loved nor hated the killing, it was simply part of who she was and what she was raised to do.
This is why you can’t be normal
, a far off voice whispered to her, barely registering.
Normal people don’t kill other people. Even if they deserve it
. She shrugged it off, ignored it. She never wanted to be normal anyway.
Until you met Jerry
, that voice whispered again, louder. That pang of emotion she’d felt before came again. This time she could almost tell what it was.
Longing? Wanting?
She gave the voice and the emotions one final shove. It didn’t matter what she wanted or longed for or how many little voices said things should be different. They weren't different. They couldn’t be different. Not for her. She’d never be normal. It wasn’t possible.

She concentrated on the car and the job in front of her. Manny passed the Pink Palace.
Damn!
But he pulled over a 100 feet later. He’d found a parking spot. Perfect. Sara found one too, slipped a scarf over her hair, put on a new pair of sunglasses and some fire-engine red lipstick, and stepped out to find him.

As she opened the door to the coffee shop she watched him. He was sitting at a table, alone, staring, zoning. The drug was working its will on him. She assessed him and decided he needed just a bit more to get him through the next part of the plan. She stepped to the counter and ordered two coffees. At the sugar and cream counter, she palmed a tiny packet of scopolamine and emptied it into one of the coffees.

She breezed towards him, dropping her keys behind his chair. “Go outside.” She said in a low voice.

She picked up her keys and walked outside, waiting for him by the door. When he got there, she gave him a coffee. “Drink this.”

He looked at her, eyes vacant, and raised the cup to his lips. He drank it without stopping, wincing a little as it burned his tongue.

“Stop drinking,” she said, watching their surroundings. Everything seemed clear.

He stopped drinking, holding the cup to his mouth and breathing heavily. His eyes seemed to stare through her at something behind her. His face twisted with something like fright.

“Listen to me very carefully. Hold your cup at your waist. Walk down that alley and wait for me at the sidewalk on the other side.” She pointed at the alley and watched him. He lowered his cup to his waist but kept staring through her. “Go, now!” she whispered, hardness in her voice. She wanted to give him a little shove but stayed her killer’s hands with effort.

He started walking. She walked past him to her car and sat inside until he was halfway across, then she walked around the other part of the block, to meet him at the sidewalk. “Go in the motel and ask them for a room for a week. Pay for it, then come back outside. Stand in front of your room.”

“OK. Money gas.” he said.

She knew he had money, so she ignored him. People on scopolamine were bound to say anything, and most of it wouldn’t make sense.

“Go get a room for a week. Pay for it. Come outside and stand in front of it,” she hissed at him.

He did as she told him, looking stoned out of his mind. But that was good. That was playing right into her hands.

While he did as she asked, she walked, just a regular person with places to go and things to do. Traffic on the street was light. No one looked around or minded her business. At the end of the block she crossed the street and came back towards the motel, watching for him. She would have liked to have told him to go inside the room, then answer when she knocked on it, but scopolamine was tricky. It didn’t allow for too many commands. You could cajole someone into doing something with one or two steps, but no more. After that they would just stand around and forget what you told them. He stumbled outside the motel office door, almost falling to the ground. She waited to see if he would fall or stand. He stood, then seemed to forget what he was supposed to do. She kept walking, watching him from the corner of her eye. He held the coffee in one hand, and a small packet in the other. His key. He looked at the coffee, then looked at the key, but didn’t move. She calculated her risk quickly. If he stood there, just outside the door, much longer, he was going to attract attention, either from another customer or from the clerk at the desk.

She sprinted across the street to him, and grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the glass door. She took a look at the packet of key cards in his hand. “Go to room 8, put your key in and open the door” she told him.

He started walking. She looked around and didn’t see anyone coming towards them or watching them. She already knew this motel didn’t have security cameras. She followed behind him and when he stopped at his room and put the key in, she was ready. She surged forward, pushed the door open, and shoved him inside. Manny was hers.

J
erry dragged himself out of bed at 5 a.m. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, but sleeping in till 8 or 9 just didn’t seem right, when Sara could be hurting somewhere. He looked around the too-quiet room and rubbed his hands with his face, trying to wake up.

Yesterday afternoon and last night had been disappointment after disappointment. The car rental companies wouldn’t tell him anything, reporter or no. He’d felt too anxious to try going back to Sara’s apartment building, and the cab companies he’d been waiting on hadn’t called him back yet. He’d also gone up to Eller’s Hill but no one he talked to had seen anything. Who knew investigation could be such hard and fruitless work?

The only thing that partially panned out for him was a trip to Sara’s work to talk to her co-worker, Steve, another physical therapist. The first thing he found out was that Detective Gagne hadn’t been there to talk to the co-worker yet, and that made him both anxious and angry.

The second thing he found out was that Sara had patients scheduled all week, and in fact for months to come. Steve had been double busy trying to cancel them all. Steve felt convinced that something had happened to Sara. “She wouldn’t just take off, just abandon me and her patients,” he had said. Jerry thought of two things at that statement: his mother, and the words written in blood on Sara’s wall:
Conniving Abandoning Bitch.
Then his face had flushed with guilt.

Jerry had asked Steve about any family or friends Sara had in the area. Steve said he’d never met any friends or family, or really anyone related to Sara. They had worked together for a year, but Sara never had anyone come to the office, no one ever called her, no one ever picked her up or brought her anything. Steve said he’d always thought she was just a private person.

Jerry replayed that comment over in his mind. She was private alright.
What was she hiding?
He went into the bathroom, got into the shower and tried to wake himself up. While in the shower he made up his mind. He was going back to Sara’s building today, and he was going to call the two cab companies he was waiting to hear back from.

In his bedroom, his cell phone rang.

Jerry finished his shower, scrubbed off and got dressed, checked the kitchen for food, and ran out of the house with a frozen breakfast sandwich just barely warmed up. He’d eat when he was dead. No wait, that was supposed to be he’d sleep when he was dead.  Well then he’d eat when Sara was found.

He checked his phone on the way out to the car. Three missed calls from Craig and a missed call from Bayside Taxis, plus one message. Three missed calls from Craig? That’s a little weird, especially since it was 3 in the morning in Hawaii. He backed out of his driveway and tried to check the time of the calls at the same time but almost hit a small tree, so he put the phone in his lap and concentrated on driving. The drive to the Mariana Day apartment buildings only took him 6 minutes on the freeway, his phone forgotten in his lap.

As he pulled into a stall, his intention was to sit and listen to his message and maybe call somebody back, but before he even turned off his engine he saw a man with crazily-spiked, brown, bed-head hair walking up the walk to the building. Quickly, he threw his door open, yelled “hey!” and ran to catch up with the man. His phone, forgotten on the seat, began to ring.

As Jerry ran, the man’s eyes frantically scanned the grounds as if he were looking for a place to hide. Jerry opened his hands in front of him. “I just want to ask you a question about my friend who disappeared.”

Jerry pulled to a stop a few feet from the man and racked his brain for the guy’s name. “Hey, thanks. My friend lives across from you and she’s still missing.”
Wysong, that was it. Chester Wysong
.

Chester nodded. “You came that night. You were in a tuxedo. You were in the stairwell when that detective asked me what I saw.”

Jerry smiled. This guy’s powers of observation and recall were great. “Yeah, I was. I came from a wedding, that’s why I was wearing a tuxedo. Sara was my friend.” Is
my friend, damnit
. Jerry wasn’t sure where to go from here. What to ask. But he didn’t need to worry. Chester seemed glad for someone to talk to. And the next thing he said chilled Jerry’s bones.

“That guy came back yesterday and the day before. The cop-looking guy.”

Jerry’s brain seemed to freeze and all his thoughts and movements suddenly came in slow motion. He forced out a word. “What?”

“You know, the guy with the American flag tattooed on his arm? He was here again yesterday and the day before.”

With effort, Jerry unstuck his lips. “Did you call Gagne?”

“I did. I told him.”

Jerry looked around suddenly.
What if the guy was here, right now?

Chester looked around too, his voice lowering almost to a whisper. “Nah, he didn’t come till the afternoon the last two days. But maybe we should go up to my apartment.” 

Jerry nodded, glad to go, but his eyes still crawled over every bush and hiding spot.

Up on the second floor, Jerry waited while Chester unlocked his door. Chester slid the door open a foot and peeked into his apartment. After what seemed like an age, Chester finally opened his door all the way. He palmed something in mid-air that Jerry couldn’t see.

“Hair,” Chester said, as they walked into his apartment. I tape it across the doorway when I leave so I know if anyone’s been inside.” His grin said he knew it was an awfully smart and sophisticated thing to do.

The apartment opened up into a small, rectangular kitchen. Chester carefully wound the long hair inside a small bowl on the counter, and taped the two pieces of tape to the outside of the bowl.

Jerry looked around in shock. The entire apartment, including each kitchen counter, was stacked floor to ceiling in newspapers, boxes, and household items. Jerry had heard of hoarders - people who save everything they ever touch or come in contact with- but he’d never met one. Chester appeared to be a very neat hoarder.

“I know, I know, you’re thinking I’m a nut-job. Well I’m not. I like to think of myself as a collector. If you look around, you’ll notice there’s no food being saved. I’m not saving my own poop. The house is clean. The garbage goes out every day. I just like to collect real stuff.”

He walked quickly over to a large stack of newspapers that bookended the small, brown couch. Jerry thought for a second that he should have just made the couch out of newspapers.

Excitement shone on Chester’s face. “Look.” He made a sweeping gesture towards the biggest stack of newspaper. The one that somehow, looked like an intact column in the room. It was impossibly neat, compressed, and ran all the way to the ceiling. “This is exactly one year’s worth of Westwood Harbor Gazettes.”

Jerry was impressed in spite of himself. It was almost a work of art. He gave a low whistle. “Wow, man.”

Chester’s eyes glittered savagely at the compliment. Jerry almost took a step back. Suddenly he was a little afraid of this obviously slightly-crazy man. He wished for his gun. The gun that Craig had convinced him to wear and gotten him a concealed carry permit so he could protect Emma if Norman Foster hunted her down while they were working. The gun always felt good and solid in the small of his back. A secret weapon with ultimate stopping power.

Jerry ran his tongue out over his lips. “You were going to tell me about that guy?” he said.

“Oh yeah!” Chester wound his way past newspapers to the blessedly clear dining room table. “Sit.” He held out a hand towards the chair nearest the door. Jerry stepped towards it. “Coffee?”

“No thanks. I had some. Besides, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Chester nodded and sat down in the chair opposite the one he offered Jerry. Jerry slid into his.

Chester leaned forward and spoke in a low conspirator’s whisper. “He’s a hit man.”

Jerry’s body jerked involuntarily at the words hit man. His innermost fears burst out of the box he contained them in and exploded all over his brain.