Nowhere to Run (9 page)

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Authors: Nancy Bush

Tags: #General, #Fiction

BOOK: Nowhere to Run
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Protection? That wasn’t going to help her now.
Now
, she needed to think about truth.
Why?
she asked herself, seated in the uncomfortable café chair. There was a table of three teenaged girls between her and the window to the street. The girls were looking through the glass and talking about someone named Joshua, who may or may not have been right outside. One of them blew the paper off her straw at one friend who seemed the most obsessed with this guy. They were laughing and teasing and just hanging out. The kind of thing Liv might have done as a teenager if the bright, sassy six-year-old she’d once been hadn’t found her mother’s body hanging from the kitchen rafters.
To Liv’s left was a table with a middle-aged man in John Lennon glasses and spiked hair, a style way outside of his era. Instead of looking hip, he seemed a little pathetic. He was drinking a Widmer beer and absorbed in the sports page from the day’s paper. The Portland Timbers, the city’s soccer team, had won two nights before in an exhibition game of some kind.
Liv could feel pressure building inside herself. Looking past the girls and through the window, she could see a lighting store across the cobblestone crosswalk, chandeliers ablaze in the windows. A coffee shop sat next to it: Bean There, Done That. She knew that coffee shop. It had booths with brown leather seats and a dimmer ambiance. She’d already ordered a cup of soup and a can of Diet Coke, however, and when the waitress brought her order, she had her money ready.
A tempo was beating inside her ear:
Get out, get out, get out.
She couldn’t stay. Couldn’t. Taking a sip of the Coke, she carried the can to the recycle bin, dumped it, then left the rest of the food untouched. She was out of the café, across the street and inside the coffee shop before she had another conscious thought. She took the booth one in from the door, as the couple who’d been seated there were just leaving. Then she realized she would have to stand in line to order. She needed a cup of coffee in front of her so people would know the booth was occupied. She debated leaving her backpack on the table to save her seat, but couldn’t risk it.
Chafing, she found her place in line, and saw her booth immediately taken by a young couple who slid inside it on one side, laughing together. Damn. Now what?
The boy got up and stood in line behind her.
She felt herself start to sweat. A row of glass pendant lights in red shades lined the top of the counter, sweeping a slash of color over her. Garnet red. Blood red.
Her pulse beat in her head. Boom,
boom.
Boom,
boom.
I’m going to faint,
she thought, just as the customer in front of her paid for his order and moved aside, allowing her to step toward the barista.
“Coffee,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Latte? Mocha?” the girl asked brightly.
“Black coffee. Large.”
“I guess I don’t need your name then,” she said cheerily, plucking a to-go cup from a stack and turning to the machine behind her to serve the coffee immediately.
Liv felt the boy’s eyes on her neck like daggers. She dared not turn around. Facing forward felt like a supreme effort. As soon as the barista took her money and handed her the brimming cup, the boy shouldered past her and said, “A latte, and a double mocha.”
“Names?” the girl said, a Sharpie poised over the paper cup.
“Alana and Mike.” He turned and grinned back at his companion in the booth. “She’s the latte.”
Liv moved away. To the station that held the lids and cream and nonfat milk. She poured a quick shot of cream into her cup and then reached for a plastic lid. It was all a ploy to pass time until there was a seat. Her hands felt disembodied but at least they’d stopped violently shaking.
Two men and a woman filed into the line at the counter, but her gaze swept past them as she looked for somewhere to sit. Finally a table opened up. Not a booth, but a table. She hurried over, pulled back the chair and seated herself so she could look out the door and front window.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
The male voice brought her up short. She did mind. Very much so. But she couldn’t afford to cause anyone to remember her. Her heart resumed its heavy beating.
“No, go ahead,” she heard herself say, sounding breathless. No wonder. She felt strangled for air. Suffocating.
Her new companion was probably around forty, she determined, and looked like he worked out. He was losing his hair and seemed to be sensitive about it because he kept swiping a hand over the front wisps, smoothing them back in place.
She didn’t want him at her table. She didn’t want his eyes on her. Kind eyes? Or knowing eyes? What those eyes
weren’t
were indifferent.
Does he know who I am?
Is he after me?
She tried to act normally, if she could remember what normal was with all the physical reactions wildly coursing through her body: rocketing pulse, shaking legs, fevered brain, hysteria climbing up her throat.
Stop. Stop. Calm yourself.
At Hathaway House she’d learned to control her bouts of panic, and she’d believed, wrongly, it appeared, that she’d put them to bed for good. The pictures of Aaron and Kurt and Paul and Jessica’s bodies sprawled over the floor were right behind her eyes.
A sound on the street caught Liv’s attention and she glanced past the man to the window and the sunny street beyond. A man’s shadow traveled by. She watched fearfully, but it was only in her imagination; gone in an instant. There were, however, people outside stopping to witness the results of a fender bender across the way, from the side of the street she’d just crossed. Two people, a man from one car, a woman from the other, were stepping stiffly toward each other to exchange insurance information.
Her mouth was dry. The shadow . . . was she being watched? It felt like she was being watched. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
“You’re wearing a jacket,” the man observed.
He
was watching her. They all were. Everyone in the coffeehouse.
“I run cold,” she murmured. She was sweating inside, though. She hoped it didn’t show on her face.
The line had grown longer; the barista unable to keep up with the demand, so a sullen-looking, male coworker with dark, suspicious eyes joined her. Liv tamped down the tide of fear threatening to wash over her and picked up her coffee, drinking a slug of liquid as if it were water to a lost desert traveler.
Her companion’s eyes were on her face. “I’m fine,” she said.
“You don’t look fine. You don’t have any color, at all.”
“Did you hear about the killing at Zuma Software?” a voice called from somewhere in line.
Liv whipped around. It was a woman’s voice. She was standing at the counter, digging through a coin purse for change, making small talk. The sullen helper was waiting for her to count out the coins, a peeved expression on his face. The two men in line in front of her had already been served.
“It’s breaking news,” another woman answered her, now several people behind her. “Broke in while I was watching TV. The owner, Kurt Upjohn, is in critical condition. Somebody else, too.”
“There were two women,” the first lady said, turning around to gaze at the second. “One got shot, but one wasn’t there. They think maybe she did it.”
Liv nearly gasped.
Who? Who thinks that?
“She killed all her coworkers? Mowed ’em down?” the second woman sounded disbelieving.
“They’re looking for her. That’s all I know.”
The man across from Liv was staring at her as if he knew—
knew
—who she was. Liv warred with herself as several more people went through the line. She wanted to bolt out the door. She needed to escape. They were looking for her. Of course, they were looking for her.
But she didn’t want to be caught. Couldn’t be caught.
Carefully, she took several more swallows of her coffee, then she scraped back her chair, picked up her backpack and stood.
“Leaving so soon?” the man asked her, his lips smiling, his eyes cold. Or was that her imagination?
She didn’t answer, just sidestepped around the tables toward the door that seemed miles away even though it was only twenty feet. She reached the handle, and it burst inward, and she was nearly mowed down by two policemen in uniform.
Her vision blurred. She couldn’t turn around. She heard them address the barista:
We’re looking for someone....
Panic licked through her again. She stepped out. On the street it was hot. The sidewalk sent up a wave of heat. A dark gray Jeep was parked directly in front of her. A man was circling the front of it, unlocking the doors, sliding into the driver’s seat, balancing a cup of coffee.
She walked toward the passenger door and flung it open just as he slammed the driver’s door shut and was in the act of putting his drink into a cup holder. “Hey,” he said, gazing at her in surprise.
She slid inside and closed the door behind her, clutching her backpack, her heart jumping crazily inside her chest. “I need you to take me somewhere.”
“Yeah?” he asked cautiously, looking for all the world like he was about to throw her out.
With deceptive calm, she withdrew her .38 from the backpack and leveled it at him. “I’m a pretty good shot. I’m sorry. I really am. You just need to drive me away from here.”
He was good-looking. Black hair, blue-gray eyes, a strong jaw and maybe the hint of a dimple as he clamped his teeth together and stared at her gun. Thirtyish. In dusty jeans and a faded gray T-shirt with a list of words crossed out across its front.
“You are kidding me,” he said slowly.
“You think so?” she asked, a lump building in her throat. “I might not be able to kill you. But I could hurt you. I could do that, I’m pretty sure. If you won’t help me, I could hurt you.” She glanced at the coffee cup and read his name: AUGGIE.
She felt tears building in the corners of her eyes.
He stared at her another long moment, as if assessing the truth of her statement. Then he sat back in his seat, switched on the ignition and silently guided the nose of the Jeep into traffic.
Chapter 6
She kept the gun leveled at him. It wasn’t loaded, but he didn’t know that. She had ammo stowed in her backpack, for all the good it would do her. Not that she wanted to actually hold a loaded gun on someone. For all her words she didn’t think she could hurt him or anyone else. But again, he didn’t know that.
They were driving east, away from Laurelton toward Portland. She felt like she was in some improvisational acting scene where each player just keyed off the situation and made up their own story.
She was crazy. Flat-out nuts. This definitely decided it. This was a crazy thing to do. And yet she wasn’t sorry. They rode in silence. The man—Auggie—seemed intent on the road but Liv could just imagine the thoughts rattling around in his head.
It felt like an eternity, and was probably only a matter of minutes, when he drawled, “Did you have a place in mind?”
“Just drive.”
“I have a quarter of a tank. I can drive for a while, then I’m going to need gas.”
She looked at the gauge, saw he was telling the truth and wanted to rail at him. How could he be so irresponsible? She wanted to scream and cry and pull out her hair, but that made her think of the unfortunate ones at Hathaway House who sank into that kind of behavior and were moved to other facilities. She’d always felt more grounded than they were, more capable, more sane, but maybe she was as wacko as they were.
This
was crazy.
But right now, she was putting miles between her and her apartment, and for the first time since she’d seen the bodies at Zuma, she felt almost safe. Still, she couldn’t prevent the shudders that wracked her body. Auggie shot her a sideways glance, aware, so she lifted the .38 a bit, just to remind him.
“Would you seriously shoot me when I’m driving?”
She glared at him, resenting his insolence. “Where do you live?”
“Uh . . . not far from here. Toward Portland.”
“Are you lying?”
“ No.”
“You took a while to answer my question.”
“I was just thinking about the exit I need to take. It’s coming up.”
They were driving on Sunset Highway and getting close to the junction at 217. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go there.”
She wanted just to keep driving and driving and driving, but that wasn’t prudent, either. She wondered, for a moment, if she could ditch him and just take his car. But what would she do with him?
He passed 217 and turned off at Sylvan, winding the car up the hill. Liv gave a glance around his vehicle, thinking hard, noting the dark clothes he’d thrown into the back and the toolbox. A length of twine was wrapped around the Jeep’s back hatch, holding it down, as if maybe it popped open unexpectedly from time to time.
They drove in silence for about twenty minutes, taking several side streets until they reached his place, a small bungalow that needed some serious repairs if the cracked sidewalk and sagging gutters were any indication. There was a breezeway between the house and one-car garage. The door to the garage was open and he pulled inside, put the Jeep in park, and switched off the engine.
“Now what?” he asked, pulling the key from the ignition.
“Stay in the car. Hands up. I’ll come around.” She opened her door, the gun still trained on him, then walked around the front of the Jeep and stood outside the driver’s door, her muzzle aimed at him through the window. “Let yourself out,” she said.
Carefully, he opened the door, his hands raised in front of him. She took the keys from his hand.
“Get the twine from the back of your car.”
“The twine?”
She nodded.
“You’re not going to tie me up,” he stated flatly, challengingly.
“Yes. I am.”
“It won’t work. What are you running from? They’ll find you.”
“ No.”
“Don’t take offense. But I don’t think you’re good at this.”
Liv barked out a harsh laugh. “I’m only as good as I need to be.”
He thought that over, then walked around to the back of the Jeep and pulled up the hatch as far as the twine would allow. He untied the twine, gathered it together and put it into Liv’s outstretched hand.
She said, “I’m going to put this gun into my jacket pocket now, but I’ll shoot you through it if you do anything while we walk across the breezeway to the back door.”
He made a movement of acquiescence and then headed out the garage’s man-door, across the breezeway and up two concrete steps. At the door, he said, “I’m going to need the key.”
Carefully, she put the full set in his upturned palm.
“I usually close the garage door,” he told her.
“I’ll do it later.”
There were no neighbors directly across from him. In fact this stretch of road was winding and covered with fir trees, with a wide stretch of sun-scorched lawn beside the cracked cement driveway. If she had to stay out of sight a while, it was not a terrible hideout.
He threaded a key in the lock. Twisting the door open, he stepped inside, but Liv was right on his heels, just in case he planned to slam the door in her face and lock her out.
They were in a kitchen with a small wooden table and two chairs. “Sit down,” she ordered, holding the length of twine.
He eyed the twine and said disbelievingly, “You plan to tie me to a chair?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not going to do anything. I don’t really care what you’ve done. Let’s just sit down and talk about it.”
She gestured with the muzzle. “Sit down. Put the keys on the table.”
He eased himself into one of the chairs, set the keys on the table, then slid them away from himself toward her. She picked them up and put them in her pocket.
“This must be a first offense,” he said.
“It’s not,” she lied. “Put your arms behind you.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Just do it,” she snapped.
“So, you’re a hardened criminal? Is that what you’re saying?” He put his arms around the back of the chair, though it was clearly hard for him to comply.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
With his arms behind him, she threaded the twine through the lathed spokes of the chair’s back and around his wrists, tying them tightly, testing the twine’s strength.
“This is gonna get damned uncomfortable real fast,” he muttered.
“Be quiet. Please.”
“First offense,” he said. “You’re way too polite.”
“Shut up.”
She’d set the .38 on the table out of his reach while she tied him up, but if he made a move for it, she was pretty certain she could beat him to it. He might be able to take her down with brute strength, but there was the chance she could get a shot or two off were it loaded, and since he believed it was, he let her truss him to the chair with no resistance though the dark, mutinous look on his face didn’t bode well if he should chance to get free. With that thought in mind, she tested his bonds a second, then a third time until she was satisfied that he was contained.
Finally, she checked his pockets and found a cell phone, which he clearly wanted to protest about but kept his mouth a taut, grim line. She saw that it was turned off, but when she tried to switch it on, nothing happened.
“Out of juice,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Where’s the charger?” she asked.
“Not here. Why? You wanna use my phone? Where’s yours?”
“I don’t own one.” He looked at her as if she were an exotic species, which annoyed her. “Not everyone has to have a cell phone,” she said with a touch of asperity.
He shook his head and changed the subject. “What’s your plan?” She could discern a faintly mocking tone to his voice and decided he wasn’t taking this seriously enough.
“If you try anything, I will shoot you.”
“I’m having serious trouble believing you.”
The image of Aaron Dirkus’s body and the blood—all the blood—crossed the screen of her mind again, and she had to look away, tears welling. She drew a quivering breath and swallowed hard, several times. “I will,” she said with more conviction and her desperation must have penetrated because his expression grew more serious.
Needing to get outside his range of vision, she walked behind him, obsessively testing the twine yet again. When she was convinced it would hold him but wouldn’t cut off his circulation, she backed away until she felt the kitchen counter behind her. Leaning against it, her legs seemed to lose all strength and she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, the .38 hanging loosely from her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks and she stared into space, reviewing the scene at Zuma though she’d told herself she wouldn’t.
“What’s your name?” he asked. She could only see the back of his head.
Blinking hard, she cleared her throat. “Livvie,” she said, invoking the name of her younger self.
“Well, Livvie, I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hungry. I hope you’re not planning to starve me.”
It took her long moments to pull herself together, but finally she got to her feet and wandered to his refrigerator. Inside were some sliced deli ham, a loaf of bread, mayonnaise, mustard and some dicey-looking iceberg lettuce. She put together a sandwich, leaving off the lettuce, put it on a plate, found a steak knife in a drawer—he hardly had any utensils or kitchenware of any kind, she noticed—and cut the sandwich in half.
Sliding the plate in front of him, she asked, “What do you drink?”
“Beer. Coke. Water. Occasionally a semi-nice glass of wine.”
She went to the sink and poured him a glass of water, placing that in front of him, too. They stared at each other and she picked up the sandwich and held it to his mouth.
“Actually, I’d like a drink of water first.”
“Take a bite.” When he pressed his lips together in rebellion, she added, “Please.”
“You’re a very polite kidnapper,” he pointed out again.
“You were right. It’s my first time,” she admitted.
“Wow. I’m shocked.” Then, “The police after you?”
“Probably. By now, anyway.”
“What did you do?”
“Take a bite,” she said again, and he bit into the sandwich with white teeth, his gray-blue gaze never leaving her face. When he was finished chewing, she held the water glass to his lips and he took a long swallow. After that, they sat in silence while she fed him the rest of the sandwich.
After he’d swallowed the last bite, he said, “What about you? Hungry? I don’t have a huge selection, but I think there’s enough for another sandwich.”
“I’m going to go close the garage door.”
She was happy to get out of his presence for a moment. Her head was crammed with thoughts. She needed to see the news. She needed to know what was going on.
God, what have I done?
The realization that she was a kidnapper sent a shockwave through her body. What had she been thinking? Now, it didn’t matter what the situation at Zuma was all about, she was a criminal of the worst kind.
Shutting the garage behind her, she looked around quickly and found the source of the twine in a roll in the extremely empty garage. There were no rakes or tools or lawn chairs or whatever else people kept in garages. There was nothing but the Jeep, the twine and a pile of black tarp.
Reaching upward, she grabbed the handle for the garage door, looking out to the road just as an older-model Buick cruised by with an elderly man at the wheel. He didn’t even bother to glance over, but panic filled her anyway as she slammed down the door. She grabbed up the roll of twine.
Returning to the kitchen, she set the twine on the counter, then stood in front of Auggie and asked, “Is this really your house?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It doesn’t feel like anyone lives here.”
He assessed her silently for a few moments, then said, “I just moved here and I don’t have a lot of stuff.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Canada,” he said.
“Canada,” she repeated with an edge to her voice. “You don’t sound Canadian.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve been oot and aboot all day, eh? That good enough for you?”
She almost laughed. Hysterical laughter, for certain, but the irked look on his face was almost comical. Almost. “Not really.”
“I didn’t say I was Canadian. I’ve just been living in British Columbia a while, that’s all. I’m a fishing guide.”
“Really?”
“Really. What are you, besides a fugitive?”
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, then asked, “You have a television?”
“Basic cable. In my bedroom.”

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