Kevin O'Brien Bundle (109 page)

Hannah let out a little laugh, but she started to cry at the same time. She held back her tears. “You’re sweet, but I drink too much already. Anyway, you really need to leave. I’m kicking you out.”

Climbing off the barstool, he gave her a wary smile. “You sure that’s what you want?”

Hannah nodded. She walked Scott to the door, opened it, then impulsively hugged him. “Thank you for being a good friend,” she managed to say. “Call me when you get home. Let—let me know you made it back safe.”

She watched Scott retreat toward the stairwell. He turned to glance back her. She waved, knowing that she would never see him again. She would miss him. She’d even miss the stupid video store.

Hannah ducked back inside. She took a napkin from the counter on the way to her bedroom. She wiped her eyes and nose. Opening the closet, she pulled her suitcase from the top shelf. She tried to be quiet about it. She didn’t want to wake Guy—not until she was finished packing.

For now, he needed his sleep. In a couple of hours, they would be leaving Seattle, probably by bus. Hannah didn’t know yet where they were going. But they had a long journey ahead.

“Those tits are fake,” Wendy said, gazing up at the stripper on stage. “Pure silicone.”

Wendy slipped out of her anchor-logo vest, unfastened a couple of shirt buttons, then leaned back in the corner booth.

Ben started to sit down across from her, but she patted the spot next to her and winked at him. “C’mon a little closer. I won’t bite you. That’s for later. Ha!”

Wendy had driven him to a strip joint with the name “CLUB FOXY” in pink neon script above the door. “NIGHTLY SHOWS,” it said on the illuminated yellow sign by the parking lot. “12 BEAUTIFUL PUSSYS & NO DOGS!”

Wendy seemed to know the doorman, and he’d let them in without the ten-dollar cover charge. Apparently, she also knew the stripper, who at the moment wore only a silver G-string. She wrapped herself around a pole at the end of the stage’s catwalk. Despite her sexy gyrations, she appeared bored. She was a trim blonde with a hard edge, and breasts that seemed a bit too perky.

“If you came in this dump about three years ago,” Wendy said, lighting a cigarette, “you’d have seen her as a brunette, and flat as a pancake. Two peas on a breadboard. She says it’s because she had a baby two years ago that suddenly she’s got a rack. But I know a boob job when I see one—or two, rather. Hell, I’ve had a couple of kids, and it didn’t give me a pair of headlights like that. The kids are in high school now, living with their dad.” She cleared her throat, then said in a loud voice. “So, who do we have to fuck to get a drink around here?”

She had chatted nonstop ever since they’d pulled out of the Seafarer Inn parking lot. Ben had tried to ask her about Ronald Craig, but she’d insisted,
I’m not talking about him until you buy me that drink, handsome.

A thin, blond waitress sauntered up to their booth. She wore a pink tube top and silver shorts. “Hey, Wendy,” she said, with a tired smile. “What are you having tonight?”

“You mean, besides this tall drink of water?” she asked, nudging Ben. “Ha! I’ll take an Absolut, hon.”

“A light beer, please,” Ben said.

The waitress rolled her eyes, then sighed. “I’m supposed to find out who the hell you are, and what’s going on.”

“Well, tell Rick to mind his own goddamn business,” Wendy piped up. “If it’s okay for him to bang Miss Silicone Tits up there, I can certainly step out for a drink with whomever I please.” She turned to Ben. “Is it whomever or whoever? I can never remember.”

“I think you’re right: whomever,” Ben muttered.

“He’s a
journalist,”
Wendy pointed out. “You can tell that to Rick. And tell him not to water down my goddamn drink. Thanks, Charmaine.”

Once the waitress stepped away, Ben turned to Wendy. “So I’m here to make your boyfriend jealous. Is that it?”

“Soon to be ex-boyfriend.”

Ben nodded. “Okay. Well, I just bought you a drink a minute ago, so it’s payback time. What can you tell me about Ronald Craig?”

“Put your arm around me,” Wendy said.

Ben complied. “How long was Mr. Craig a guest at the hotel?”

She snuggled up to him. “A little over a week.”

“In all that time, did you ever see him with anyone?”

“Nope. A lone wolf that one was.”

“Did he get any faxes at the hotel?”

Wendy shook her head. “No phone records, either. I saw him walking in and out of the lobby a couple of times, talking on a cell phone.”

“Did you take any messages for him?” Ben asked.

“Nope.”

“Until today, did anything—unusual happen with him?”

“Until today?” She shook her head again. “Not really.”

“Back at the hotel, before we even got in the car, you said there was a lot of ‘weird stuff’ going on today. What did you mean by that?”

“Well, the maid reported that when she went in to clean his room at eleven o’clock this morning, it looked like somebody had broken into the place. The window was open. Someone had screwed with the lock.”

Ben frowned. “Could she tell if anything was missing?”

“There was a laptop carrying case, and a cord, but no computer and no computer discs. He also had a briefcase, but it had been emptied out.” She suddenly kissed Ben on the cheek. “Heads up. Charmaine’s back.”

The waitress set the drinks down. “Rick said these are on him. And he asks you to
please
come talk to him. He wanted me to be sure to say
please.”

“Well, tell him ‘thanks,’ and I’ll think about it,” Wendy replied.

The waitress nodded, then walked away. Ben took a sip of his beer. On stage, the silicone blonde was lying on the floor with her legs in the air, forming a “V.”

Ben put down his beer. “Sounds like Rick wants to make up.”

“Well, let him suffer a bit longer.” She reached for her drink.

“Did you report the break-in to the police?”

She sighed. “Yeah, but all they did was send over some rookie to make a report. When three of them came back tonight, I figured it was about the break-in. But then one of the cops said this Craig fella was killed in a hit-and-run.”

“Did they tell you anything else?” Ben asked.

“No, but I stood in the doorway for a couple of minutes while they went through the room, so I heard a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like he was a private detective, working out of some agency in—um…”

“Milwaukee?” he said.

“Yeah, that’s right. How did you know?”

“I spent some time listening to the cops, too. Did you get the name of the detective agency, by any chance?”

“Huh.” She frowned. “Great Something. It was written on the tag on his computer case…
Great Lakes Investigations,
that’s it.”

She took another sip from her drink. “Y’know, they must have forgotten about me, because they just started talking like I wasn’t there. One of them said that whoever this Ronald Craig was tailing—or is it
whomever?”

Ben quickly shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I get it. Go on. Whoever he was tailing…”

“Yeah, well, apparently this guy’s pretty damn crafty. The cop said everything this Ronald Craig fella had written down—on his laptop, in his briefcase—it all just vanished, went up in smoke. They said where this hit-and-run happened, Craig’s car was broken into and cleaned out.”

“Did you hear anything else?” Ben asked.

“Nothing worth remembering,” Wendy replied. She sipped her drink, then studied her glass for a moment. “Think I should go talk with him?”

“You mean Rick?” Ben asked. “Sure. I need to scram anyway. You can tell him we had a lovers’ quarrel.”

“Ha! I like that,” Wendy said. “You’re good!”

“Thanks,” Ben said. “You sure you don’t remember anything else the cops might have said? Anything?”

She shook her head.

“Did they mention any names? For example, Hannah Doyle?”

Wendy shook her head again. “Sorry.”

“What about the name Rae Palmer?”

“Nope, never heard of him.”

“Rae’s a woman. R-A-E. She was a friend of mine. She’s been missing for about five weeks now.”

Wendy shrugged. “Wish I could help ya, hon.”

“It’s okay, you already have.” Ben stood up, pulled out his wallet, then set a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Next round is on me, okay? Thanks for your help. Hope you and Rick work things out.”

She raised her glass to toast him. “You’re sweet.”

Ben headed out of the strip club. Outside, the cool night air felt good. There was a pay phone at the edge of the parking lot. He called Hannah’s number. After three rings, he wondered if maybe she’d given him a fake number.

Then her machine came on.
“This is 555-1007,”
Hannah announced on the recording. The voice didn’t sound quite like her.
“No one can come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep.”

“Hannah?” he said, after the tone. “Are you there? Okay, well, listen, whoever this stalker is, he covered all his tracks. He broke into Ronald Craig’s hotel room and his car, cleaning out all evidence of the investigation. I don’t think the cops have anything yet. My guess is it’ll take another day before they can—”

He heard an abrupt click on the line. “Hello?” she said.

“Hannah?”

“Yes. I was just down the hall.”

“I’m glad,” he said, leaning against the pay phone enclosure. “I was worried something had happened to you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You said there’s no evidence of Craig’s investigation—at all?”

“That’s right. I’m guessing it’ll take at least another day for the police to get any information from Ronald Craig’s detective agency. Even then, I’m not sure how much help they’ll be. The agency might not even know anything. Craig could have been freelancing. Anyway, I really need to talk with you. Can I come over there?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I can be there in a few minutes,” Ben said. “I won’t stay long.”

“No, I’m sorry. It—it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow in class, okay? We can talk then. We’ll go out afterward. All right?”

Ben hesitated. “Okay, I guess. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Hannah?”

There was a click on the other end of the line. She’d hung up.

The phone rang, and Hannah felt her insides tighten up like a fist.

For the last several hours, she’d been expecting—and dreading—a call from the police. Perhaps they wouldn’t phone; they’d just show up at her door. Either way, she knew they’d be coming for her eventually. She was living on borrowed time.

The telephone hadn’t rung since Ben’s call around midnight last night. That had been nearly twelve hours ago. At the time, Hannah had thought she’d be long gone by now—on a bus with Guy, on their way to another city.

For every minute she stayed, Hannah knew she was pushing her luck. She risked exposure, arrest, and having her son taken away from her. But the police weren’t her only concern. That maniac was still out there, stalking her, and last night she’d seen what he was capable of.

She stood by the kitchen counter, staring at the phone. Her stomach was in knots.

Joyce was unloading a small bag of groceries. “Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked, a bottle of Children’s Tylenol in her hand.

Hannah shook her head. “I’m screening.”

The answering machine picked up. Hannah anxiously waited for the beep.

“Hello, Hannah? It’s Britt, calling from work. Are you there?”

Despite her relief, Hannah still couldn’t move. She tried to get her breathing right again.

“I’m wondering how much longer you’ll be, because I’m supposed to get together with Webb today. I really don’t mind filling in, but if you won’t be coming in for another hour or so, I just need to call him….”

Finally, she grabbed the phone. “Britt?”

“Oh, hi. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you—”

“No. It’s okay. You’re a doll to fill in for a couple of hours. I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, Hannah. See you soon.”

Hannah hung up the phone. She crept back to Guy’s room, and poked her head in the doorway. The shades were drawn, and in the darkness Hannah couldn’t see the rash on his face and hands. He was asleep. She longed to hug him good-bye, but couldn’t. She kept thinking this might be the last time she’d see her little boy before the authorities came to take him away.

The knots tightened in her stomach, and she wandered back toward the living room.

“You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.” Joyce handed Hannah her coat and purse. “Would you relax? He’ll be fine. I’ve seen all my kids through the chicken pox—and a lot worse. He’s in good hands.”

Hannah hesitated in the doorway. “You’ll call if anything happens?”

“Yes.” Joyce nodded. “Now, get out of here. You’re driving me crazy with all your worrying.”

“Don’t answer the phone unless it’s me. And don’t answer the door, either. I’ll call you in an hour.”

“I’m sure you will,” Joyce said, giving her a gentle shove. “Now scram!”

Hannah turned and hugged her. Then she started off to work.

She wore a black pullover, black jeans, and her hair was swept back in a loose ponytail. She didn’t have on any makeup, and knew she looked terrible. Plus, her back ached. She’d gotten only three hours of sleep last night, curled up on the beanbag chair in the corner of Guy’s room.

It had started around two-thirty in the morning. She’d just finished packing when she heard Guy coughing. She went to him.

“Mom, I feel kind of cruddy,” he whimpered.

Guy had a fever of 100.9, as well as a rash all over his face and hands. Hannah unbuttoned his Spider-Man pajama top, and gasped at the sight of the little red welts on his stomach and chest.

“Sounds like chicken pox,” Joyce told her over the phone at six in the morning. Hannah had known she’d be up. “I have a dental appointment at nine, but I can be over there by eleven if you need me to baby-sit. In the meantime, you’d better call the doctor.”

An hour later, Hannah got Dr. Donnellan at his home. “If it’s chicken pox, I’d rather you not bring him in. Chicken pox is awfully contagious. I’m on my way to the office; I’ll swing by. What’s your address again, Hannah?”

Dr. Donnellan always struck Hannah as one of those guys who was considered a nerd throughout high school and college—and maybe even medical school. But there was something very cute about him, too. Tall and skinny, he had glasses and curly, receding brown hair. Hannah guessed he was in his early thirties. Having him in the apartment, making a good old-fashioned house call, gave Hannah a sense of relief.

Then came the bad news: Guy did indeed have the chicken pox. He’d have to remain in bed for at least ten days. Dr. Donnellan asked Hannah if she’d had chicken pox as a child.

Hannah remembered that she had.

“Um, listen, my aunt wants Guy and me to visit,” she lied, wringing her hands. She and Dr. Donnellan were standing in the hallway. “My aunt has an extra room. She’d be a lot of help with Guy. I was wondering if it would be okay to move him. Her place is just a couple of hours away by bus. I’d keep him warm—”

Dr. Donnellan was shaking his head. “You might as well take a bomb aboard that bus, Hannah. Chicken pox is highly contagious. Exposure to adults is serious. It can lead to he-patitis, encephalitis, and pneumonitis. Exposure to pregnant women often causes birth defects.” He shook his head again. “You don’t want to take Guy on any bus rides. Just keep him in bed. There’s a risk he could develop scarlet fever if you’re not careful. Guy needs to take it easy. No trips or outings, Hannah.”

Nodding, Hannah tried to smile. So much for her great escape.

She phoned Britt and got her to fill in at work for a couple of hours.

When Joyce arrived, Hannah asked if she and Guy could possibly stay at her place. It was a stupid idea—right up there with wanting her doctor’s permission to infect a bus-load of people. But Hannah didn’t feel safe at home. How soon before the police or her stalker or some goon the Woodleys had hired showed up at her door? Hiding out at Joyce’s apartment seemed like the only option. No one would be looking for her and Guy there.

“Guy could sleep on your sofa,” Hannah heard herself babbling. “I’d be fine on the floor. It would just be a couple of days—until I feel okay about everything. I know it sounds silly, but—”

“It sounds nuttier than a fruitcake is how it sounds, hon,” Joyce broke in. “He’s better off in his own bed. You really shouldn’t move him. If anybody sleeps on a sofa, it’s me. I’ll stay here as long as you want.”

Hannah gave Joyce her purse and sent her to the supermarket for some calamine lotion, coloring books, and other last-minute essentials. “I don’t have any cash,” Hannah said, handing her the shopping list. “The ATM card is the silver one in my wallet, and the code is 1963. Just remember the year Kennedy was assassinated. And get yourself some cookies.”

While Joyce was out, Hannah quickly showered and changed her clothes.

In a strange way, work was probably the best thing for her right now. She could carry on as if nothing was wrong—total denial.

As Hannah stepped into the store, the anti-theft alarm went off.

The loud beeping gave her such a start, she almost lost what little composure she had. Scott and Britt looked up from their registers, and several customers stared at her. Hannah hurried past the sensors. “What was that about?” she managed to ask.

“Probably that metal plate in your head again,” Scott replied. Then he went back to waiting on his customer.

Hannah moved behind the counter. Scott glanced back over his shoulder at her. “How’s Guy doing?”

“I think he’ll be okay,” Hannah muttered. “It’s me I’m not so sure about.”

Britt ducked into the break room, then came out again with her sweater and purse. Sometime within the last couple of days, she must have changed her maroon hair color. It was black again, but she’d added two blue streaks on one side. The ring in her eyebrow now had a blue stone that matched the hair dye.

“This was in my cereal,” Britt said, pulling a cellophane packet from her bag. She handed it to Hannah. “They’re Cap’n Crunch decals and stamps. I saved them for Guy. I figured he could play with them in bed.”

Hannah thanked her. Once Britt hurried out of the store, Scott leaned against the back counter. He plucked the cereal prize from Hannah’s hand, then studied it. “Wish
I
had something to play with in bed.” He tossed the packet on the back counter, and sighed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m still a little freaked out over last night. I looked for a story about it in the morning newspaper, but I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t even have a chance to look.” Hannah stashed her purse in the drawer below her register.

“Did that good-looking blond guy from last night ever call you? What’s his name again?”

“Ben,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, he called. Apparently, someone broke into Craig’s hotel room and car. They cleaned out everything. So the police don’t know much about Craig or what he was after here—at least, they didn’t late last night.”

“What do you think?” Scott asked. “How does this Ben character fit in? What’s his angle?”

“I really don’t know,” she murmured. She stepped up to the register to wait on a customer.

Scott took a couple of videos from the return bin and checked them in. He waited until Hannah’s customer left; then he leaned against the back counter again. “I was tossing and turning all night,” he said. “I think I figured it out. You’re in your own kind of witness protection program, aren’t you? You’re running away from something.”

She sighed. “Scott, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Does it have something to do with your husband’s death? You never talk about him. Please tell me you didn’t bump him off.”

“That’s a pretty tactless statement,” Hannah muttered. She turned away and noticed some movies in the return bin. Without even a glance at Scott, she started checking them in. She felt herself trembling inside.

“He’s alive,” Scott said. “Isn’t he?”

Hannah tried to appear interested in her work.

“Did your husband—smack you around?” Scott asked with concern. “I’ve often wondered why you’re so tight-lipped about him. I once asked how you got that scar on your chin, and you quickly changed the subject. Did he give it to you?”

Hannah finished keying in the video codes. She still couldn’t look at him. She swallowed hard. “You’re the one who should have been a detective,” she finally said. “He’s from a very rich and powerful family in a small Midwestern town. There was no way I could have divorced him and kept my son. And there was no way I could have stayed.”

“What makes you so sure the police are looking for you?”

“Since I ran away, I’ve talked to a couple of old friends. They’ve been hounded from time to time by a private detective.”

“You mean, this ‘Craig’ fella’?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. When I left town with Guy, I also took some money from the joint checking account. Anyway, this detective told my friends that I’m wanted for grand larceny and kidnapping.”

“Did any cops actually talk to your pals?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, how do you know the police are really looking for you?” Scott asked. “I mean, maybe this private dick—if you’ll excuse the expression—maybe he was just jerking your friends around. If your husband’s family is so rich and powerful, wouldn’t they want to keep the whole runaway thing under wraps—especially if he was beating you up? That’s probably the reason for the private detective—to avoid involving the cops. Hell, the police might not even know anything about you, Hannah.”

“Maybe,” she granted. Scott’s theory gave her a little bit of hope. Perhaps the authorities weren’t really after her. Still, her name was bound to come up when the police asked the detective agency what Ronald Craig had been investigating in Seattle.

“God,” Hannah whispered. “They’ll think I had something to do with it.”

“Something to do with what?”

“Ronald Craig was here investigating me,” she said, glancing around to make sure no customers were nearby. “He was murdered. All evidence of his investigation was stolen. They’ll blame me.”

“No, no, they can’t,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Hannah, I was with you when it happened. You have a witness—me. Craig came over uninvited. You asked him to leave. We saw him get killed together. They can’t pin his death on you—not as long as I’m around—”

Scott seemed to choke on the last word. The reassuring smile faded away from his face. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I’m toast. I’m a fucking dead man.”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“I know too much,” Scott said, running a hand through his moussed hair. “And I’m the only one who can testify you had nothing to do with killing that guy. This weirdo who’s been following you around, he’ll go after me next. I know it.”

Wincing, Hannah shook her head. “Don’t say that.”

He let out an exasperated laugh. “But it’s true! Hell, who’s always one of the first to go in slasher movies? The funny gay best friend, that’s who! It’s a wonder I’m not dead already.”

Despite everything, Hannah rolled her eyes. “Oh, Scott, I wouldn’t worry. You’re not really that funny.”

“Yeah, but I make up for it by being super-gay.”

She actually laughed, then hugged him. “Thanks for making me smile—at least for a second or two.”

“I’m semi-serious, you know,” he said, patting her back. “What are you going to do?”

“I haven’t a damn clue,” she replied, her head on his shoulder. “I’d planned on leaving town this morning. Then Guy got sick. I can’t move him. Chicken pox is serious stuff. We’re stuck. I’m going crazy, just sitting here.”

She clung to a shred of hope that what Scott said was true. Perhaps the police weren’t looking for her. And maybe, just maybe, Ronald Craig hadn’t yet reported anything about
Hannah Doyle
to the Woodleys.

It was a good scenario, but not very likely. She was second-guessing everything. In the meantime, all she could do was maintain this awful, idle holding pattern for the next ten days until Guy recovered.

She held Scott at arm’s length. “Listen, please don’t tell anyone else about Guy’s father or any of this.”

He smiled. “Hannah, I didn’t come out to a soul until I was twenty-three. And as long as can I remember, I knew I was a great, big homo. So I know how to keep things under my hat. Your secret’s safe with me.”