Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2) (3 page)

Until I learned more, Ernest Prescott was safe from the likes of me.

A
ll right
, fine, I wasn’t completely dense, or new to the game. I fully expected to show up at Ernest’s house in a few days and find lampshades made from human skin, severed heads in the freezer, piles of corpses buried in the back yard, and basic cable television. But my adventures as Nate Cantrell had taught me the wisdom of not jumping to conclusions. Maybe the Great Whomever was getting creative again and Ernest was innocent, just like Nate had been.

For now, I’d keep my conclusions under control and my eyes sharp for clues.

It was almost dark when I left the theater.

Sam the cabbie answered on the first ring. “I’m at my friend’s house. I will be there in ten minutes, not to worry.”

Though I loved how sincere and willing he seemed, I hated interrupting the poor guy on his time off. True to his word, he was outside the theater in almost exactly ten minutes. The mark of a professional.

When I sat down in the back seat, he looked in the rearview mirror and said, “You going back to your hotel?”

I pursed my lips in thought. “Well…”

Sam turned around and smiled at me from between the headrests. “You want to see the monuments? Go to Georgetown? All the clubs?”

“Nothing so strenuous,” I said. “Tell me something—are you allowed to drive around Virginia? You know, anywhere?”

Sam laughed. “That’s all I do on the weekend, back and forth to the city, with so many people drinking.”

I gave him an address in Centreville I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.

“No problem,” he said.

Along the way, we talked about the years he’d spent in France, his coming to the United States, and about his son, who was in the Marines. I’d been right—Sam was from Nigeria. It had me wondering what would happen if I ever left the country in a ride. So far, every ride had been within one of the fifty states. There was still so much about my condition I didn’t understand. Maybe I’d cross over international waters and get kicked out?

When we got to Sandra’s house the sky was dark. I asked Sam to wait over in the roundabout beneath some trees and keep the meter running.

“Take your time,” he said pleasantly. “I have my music.”

I thanked him and strolled to the front door like a good little stalker, wondering what the hell I was doing there—the last place I should be. Why not ring the doorbell? I rang the doorbell. A minute later, when nobody turned on the light and opened the door, I rang the bell again. An
insistent
stalker.

If Sandra answered, I’d say I was lost, hope I hadn’t disturbed anyone, do you know where such-and-such street is? Is this even Centreville, or did I mess that up too? Whatever it took to keep the conversation going. If Peter answered, I wouldn’t hit him. I wouldn’t yell stuff about haunting him and burning little holes in his brain like I’d done before. I’d be polite, sophisticated, a credit to my upbringing.

But nobody answered.

I tiptoed to see through the glass over the door, but it was too dark inside. Leaning back, I saw the curtains were closed. They were the same ones from last time. If Sandra and Peter had sold the house, the new owners would change the curtains, wouldn’t they?

The street was mostly dark but for the lampposts in front of the houses, only half of which had working bulbs. The one in front of Sandra’s house had been lit last time, but now it was out. Almost like a sign.

A car drove past and parked over near Sam’s cab. It wasn’t facing my way, and no more cars came behind it.

The chances were slim Sandra and Peter had left a key under the doormat. Sure enough, when I looked, there wasn’t one. I checked the little ledge above the door, but there wasn’t one there, either.

I’d almost convinced myself this was crazy and I needed to go when I noticed the flowerpot. It was sitting on the top step leading to the front door. In addition to dried twigs from last year’s flowers, there was a black rock about the size of a baseball sunk partially into the soil.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said, and plucked it out. Remarkably light for a rock that size, and it rattled when I shook it.

I opened the rubber seal in the bottom and took out a brass key. Peter’s handiwork, I figured, endangering the family by hiding a house key in the third likeliest place a burglar would look. Lucky for him I didn’t want to steal anything.

I slipped inside and shut the door.

There hadn’t been an alarm last time I was there, and I didn’t see a console on the wall. Even after my shenanigans at that coffee shop and my note left in his busted-up briefcase, Peter still hadn’t thought to put in an alarm.

Peering around the familiar townhouse, another line crossed in a long list of transgressions, I noticed everything seemed in order. The same family pictures were on the wall, so Sandra and Peter clearly hadn’t moved. There were a few changes since last time—a new dining table and a painting with horses running on a beach. If they were buying new tables and artwork they had to be happy, didn’t they?

I thought about taking the picture with me when I left, or moving the furniture around like someone had been there. Maybe
then
they’d get an alarm—a good idea for a family with kids, living in a neighborhood with burned-out streetlamps. In that sense, my breaking-in wouldn’t be so bad, now would it?

I left the painting alone and proceeded cautiously through the house like a ghost, hating myself for being there but unable to move on. Though I thought I’d come to terms with my feelings for Sandra, I was still the guy who couldn’t forget anything, and those old obsessive feelings from college were as sharp as the day I’d first felt them.

“Poems are made by fools like me,” I said.

I knew they had two kids, though I’d only met one of them: Danielle, who I thought of as my namesake, though I suppose it could have been a family name. Cute kid, looked exactly like her mother.

When I got to Danielle’s room and peeked inside, I saw she had her own computer. I questioned the choice, what with online predators. Hopefully Sandra had installed all the proper software.

Sandra and Peter’s bedroom looked the same as last time. The covers on the bed were neat on Peter’s side, messy on Sandra’s, and something about that made me smile—a human touch from my favorite human.

There was a book on Peter’s nightstand.

Still unsure of what I was looking for, I went over and picked it up. Some kind of self-improvement book, written by a man with great hair who knew the power of positive thinking. A look at the back showed that in addition to curing gambling, infidelity, and overeating, the power of positive thinking would guide the reader down the path of a drug-free life.

More self-improvement books crowded the lower part of the nightstand, along with others I found particularly shocking: Peter was reading about angels. Not fiction, either, or not sold as such. This was testimonial stuff from people who’d had near death experiences, or people who’d gone through adversity and claimed an angel had flapped down and helped them.

I laughed. Peter the atheist was reading about angels. Did he think
I
was an angel?

Though I needed to get out of there as soon as possible, I ran back to the kitchen, grabbed a pen from a short ceramic jar on the counter, then hurried back to the room. I opened the only book with a bookmark and wrote in the empty space at the end of his current chapter:

Dear Pecker Colon,

Very proud of your progress, keep up the good work.

Pecker Colon was my nickname for Peter in college. Mean and silly, sure, but it’d reinforce the idea I’d been here and not some rogue book defacer.

I closed my eyes and thought carefully about my next words. I really was proud of him, and I felt guilty for the way I’d treated him in college, and again when I’d shown up and freaked him out so much he’d turned to Tony Robbins and Dr. Phil for help.

I wrote:

Just curious, but why does Danielle have a computer? At her age? Why not get rid of it? I mean you’re her dad, I get it, but the world’s a dangerous place. Did you know your lamppost is out? Anyway, the spirit world calls to me. Take care of Sandra.

I signed the note,
Dan the Man
.

My behavior last time had left me with this nagging worry he’d freak out, get deeper into drugs, and ruin Sandra’s life. Clearly that wasn’t the case. The house looked great and he was trying to improve himself. Happy tidings everywhere.

When I got to the living room, on an impulse, I went over and picked up their home phone, dialed an old number, and held it to my ear. When a lady picked up, I apologized for having gotten the wrong number.

“I pushed seven when I meant to push eight,” I said.

She said that was perfectly fine, it could happen to anyone, and told me to have a good evening. She sounded happy and healthy.

I hung up, feeling immensely satisfied, and strolled through the front door as if I had every right to do so. After putting the key back where I’d found it, I proceeded to where Sam had parked. Then stopped.

The cab was gone.

I turned around to see if he’d moved down the road and saw the two bodyguards from the book signing standing in the gloom about five feet away.

“Hey, Ernest,” Brian said.

“Surprise,” Sean said, and zapped me in the chest with fifty thousand volts of searing, sizzling, agony.

I fell straight backwards and hit my head on the pavement, which was like falling into a tub of cotton candy compared to that thing he’d hit me with.

Sean stood over me and said, “Boss lady wants to see you, and you know how she gets.”

He turned me over and I felt a sting in my butt. Then, together, they lifted me off the ground, dragged me over to a car, and tossed me into the back.

When the drug kicked in, I skipped right over drowsy into infinite, deathlike oblivion.

I
woke
up in the backseat of a car.

A moving car.

Their
moving car.

I was groggy, could barely move … No, my right hand moved fine, but my left hand was asleep. I rolled over, shaking it to get the blood flowing again.

“You awake, Prescott?” Brian said from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” I said and sat up, feeling faintly nauseous.

“Just stay quiet and enjoy the ride,” Sean said. He sounded angry. “While you were sleeping, we picked up your shit from the hotel. Why’d you switch rooms? Thought you could hide from us?”

Brian said, “Man, leave him alone. You okay, Ernest?”

“What about Sam?” I said.

“Who?” Sean said.

“The cabbie.”

“Told him to scram. Don’t worry about him.”

Time passed, and my wits slowly returned to me. We weren’t in the city. We were on 95, heading north toward New York.

“No airplanes?” I said.

Brian chuckled. “You sure pissed Lana off. Never seen her so mad. I mean, she’s crazy, you know? But damn. Told us to drive you. Said she wanted you back at the house.”

“This is illegal,” I said. “Kidnapping. That doesn’t bother you?”

I saw Brian look sideways at Sean, who returned the look, his expression worried.

“Maybe we gave him too much of that shit,” Sean said. “Prescott, you okay, man? You need some water or something?”

“Just lie back and relax,” Brian told me. Then to Sean: “What’s this
we
shit? You fuck up his brains, that’s
your
ass.”

“I gave him the right amount!”

“You better have,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying. Bitch is crazy…”

An hour and a half later, I shifted in the backseat and Brian said, “How you feeling?”

“I think I need to tinkle.”

“
Tinkle?
” he said accusingly to Sean. “Why the fuck he talking like that?”

“Why you asking me?” Sean said, sounding panicked.

“Hey,” I said, “just take the next exit or something. I won’t run. I just need to, uh … take a leak. Ok? And maybe something to eat.”

“No problem,” Brian said. “Feeling hungry myself.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Sean said.

“I’m fine.”

We stopped at a big travel plaza somewhere in Delaware. Brian helped me out, seeming concerned, while Sean pretended everything was fine and I wasn’t brain damaged or whatever they were worried about.

My first hesitant steps were weak and wobbly, and I had to reach out a hand to a nearby car for fear of falling over.

What the hell was in that needle?

“You need to lean on me?” Brian said.

“I think I’m fine,” I said, and continued toward the entrance.

Brian hovered close with a worried expression, as if afraid I’d faint. At no point did I feel I was there against my will, just that I was deemed helpless, an invalid. Still on their team, it seemed. Just going through a rough patch.

Sean wanted to get our orders to go, but Brian overruled him and we found a table by ourselves over near a pizza place. The food was great. And even though I knew it was crappy rest stop pizza, right then it seemed like the best I’d ever had.

A kid walked by with a soft serve cone, and now I wanted ice cream.

“Can we get ice cream?” I said.

Brian was shaking his head, staring hard at Sean. Despite that, I got my ice cream—a huge swirly chocolate and vanilla cone, dipped in chocolate that turned hard if you waited. But I didn’t wait long enough, so the first part was too soft. I ate it quickly and got an ice cream headache, but I didn’t care. I asked if we could get another.

Sean got up and stalked out of the building muttering curses under his breath.

“Sure, man,” Brian said, as if talking to his dying grandmother. “You want more ice cream? No problem. They sure look good—I may get one too. But just so you know, you keep acting crazy like that, I don’t think Sean’s gonna be working for Lana much longer.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Doesn’t bother me, so long as you back me up. Wasn’t me who zapped you or gave you that shot.”

And just like that, I had an ally.

“I got your back,” I said.

A look of faint relief washed over Brian’s dark features, and he smiled evilly. “Don’t like that prick anyways. Always gotta be a smartass. Know what I mean?”

I nodded, was about to say
totally
, but settled for, “Yes I do.”

“Gimme a second,” he said.

He walked over near the wall, took out a cell phone, and made a call. He talked for about a minute, hung up, and came back.

“Time to go,” he said.

F
ive minutes into the drive
, I couldn’t keep my eyes open … and then Brian was shaking me awake, saying, “Hey, Ernest, we’re here. You need to get up.”

Now my
right
arm was asleep. My head hurt from striking it on the ground, and now I wished I hadn’t eaten so much. When I got out of the car, I threw up all the ice cream and pizza from the traveler’s plaza.

“Jesus…” Sean said, jumping out of the way. “I thought he was better!”

When I raised my head, I saw we were on a circular stone-cut driveway in front of a big mansion, somewhere in the countryside. Depending on how long I’d been out, it could have been New Jersey or possibly New York. Ernest lived in New York, but my mental map had him in a more densely populated area.

After I wiped my mouth off, the palatial front doors opened and two figures walked out: Lana Sandway, dressed in simple jeans and a tight T-shirt, and a man, wearing shorts and a tank top with some kind of logo on it. As they approached, I saw he had short sandy-blond hair, and his well-muscled left arm was tattooed with spiky red and black razors.

The muscle guy spoke first. “Yo, Ernest, what’s shaking, man?”

“My stomach,” I said.

He made like he was going to punch me in the gut and follow up with a right hook, which caused me to flinch. Then he grabbed my still-tingling hand in a bone-crushing handshake.

To Lana he said, “Damn … His hand’s cold as ice. Limp as a dead fish.”

“Limp,” she said drily, staring hard at me from that triangle-shaped mantis face of hers. I could almost hear the clicking of mandibles.

“Heard how you took care of that crazy guy with the knife,” the muscle guy said proudly, like I’d joined the same club as him. “You should train with me, I’ll whip you in shape. Too much time alone staring at a computer.”

“How you doing, Jacob?” Sean said.

The muscle guy smiled at him, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Got a match coming up in Vegas. Lot of training.”

“Oh yeah?” Sean said. “Who you fighting?”

Jacob opened his mouth to answer, but Lana stayed him with a touch.

“Now, boys,” she said. “First we work, then we play. Sean, be a dear and give us your report.”

Sean smiled thinly and said, “What, out here?”

“Where better?” she said.

Sean nodded, rolling with it, and said, “Ok. Well, the next day I waited for him in the lobby, eight o’clock. Like you said, remember? Only he didn’t come down. A little later, I knocked on his door and he didn’t answer.” He shrugged. “So I figured he wanted to be left alone, you know?”

“You figured that?” Lana said.

Sean nodded. “Yeah. I called Brian to tell him, and then ol’ Ernest here slipped out on me. Like on purpose, I think, otherwise I woulda seen him.” He looked at me. “Sorry, man…” He turned back to her. “Later on, Brian says he’s walking around in public for no reason. Then we see him going to museums and stuff. It was weird.”

Lana nodded. “I know all that. Get to the part where you shot my Ernest with a fucking
taser
and then
drugged
him!”

And just like that, everything got really quiet. Jacob was still wearing the same smile he’d had since Sean started talking.

“Right,” Sean said, licking his lips. “The next day, we figured out he switched rooms. You told us to follow him, so we did. He went to the movies. When you called and said to grab him, we figured we’d do it after. Only there were too many people around, so we waited. Then he hops in a cab, heads to the suburbs, and goes in some house.”

Lana looked at Brian.

“That one threw me,” he said, chuckling. “Almost like a whole different Ernest. Went in like he owned the place.”

“You have the address?” she said.

“Yes ma’am.”

Sean said, “So like I was saying … he was acting crazy … and we were in the suburbs … and we needed to grab him without him yelling or whatever…”

To Brian, Lana gave a barely perceptible nod.

“…and I didn’t want to … but you said you wanted him home
now
, and…”

Brian took a silenced pistol from under his jacket and shot Sean in the head, dropping him where he stood. Like it was the easiest thing in the world, just another thing he had to do today. And here Brian had seemed like such a nice guy. But as shocking as all that was, the only thing I could think was,
I led them to Sandra. I led them right to her.

Then, whether from being hit from fifty thousand volts or some lingering effect of the drug they’d used, I fell over and passed out.