Prime Time (18 page)

We’re all going about seventy miles an hour. That’s speeding, but that’s the least of my worries. In fact, for the first time in my life, I yearn for a speed trap, but no flashing red lights appear.

I go a little faster. The other cars do, too. I slow down. So do they. The one behind me seems to be pulling even closer now. The ones beside me don’t budge.

I pass a side road—and out of it, another car speeds onto the highway, accelerating in front of me.

I glance in all directions again. Their car windows must be tinted because I can’t see any faces, but there’s no escaping. The cars are pasted to my front, back and both sides, boxing me in and almost carrying me along the highway.

The night speeds by, the towering highway light posts almost a blur as our eerie convoy of vehicles, the only cars on the road, races north in unison. My exit is soon. Maybe my sinister escorts don’t plan to let me take it. So I might have until the next exit to come up with something. If I don’t, I realize with growing dread, it’s
adios,
Charlie.

A few minutes tick by, and I can’t decide whether it feels like forever or an instant. But me and my shadows have just passed a big green-and-white sign that says it’s a mile to Exit 17.

I can’t believe how determined I am. When this is over—cross fingers, cross toes, rabbit’s foot, wish on a star—I’ll probably freak out. But right now, I’m ice.

Do it.
I flip open the console beside me. Keeping my eyes on the road, I feel around with my right hand for what I need.

“Please be in there,” I whisper. My fingers touch menus,
pencils, change, mints—and then there it is. My hand curls around what I hope will be my ticket to freedom, and I place it squarely into my lap.

Never taking my eyes off the road, and driving one-handed now, I slow way down. The other cars do the same.

I make one tiny adjustment, then reach over and roll down my window. As the window hits bottom, I turn and face whomever’s in the passenger seat of the menacing SUV.

“Hey, asshole,” I yell out the window. I’m struggling to keep the car on a straight path, while the cold night air whips my hair and blows my voice back at me. I yell again, as loud as I can. “Hey, you incredible moron. Show your face if you’re such a big man.”

It probably doesn’t matter what I say, I’m just trying to get him to roll down his window. Still, it can’t hurt to be as unpleasant as possible.

It works. The window beside me motors down, and I get a glimpse of some snake-faced weasel, if that’s possible, staring at me in shock. Perfect.

“Take this, asshole,” I yell. And before he can respond, I shoot my disposable flash camera right in his face.

The guy winces, puts his hand over his eyes, as if he’s blinded by the flash. My goal exactly. Thug number two, the one who’s driving the car, starts to yell something about “what the hell.” Mr. Weasel is bellowing, too, something about his eyes hurting.

Just a few seconds more and we’ll know how this all ends.

Thug number one shifts position in the front seat and leans his head out the window toward me, his hair plastering to his head, his hands on the window frame. He’s screaming at me in an indistinguishable roar and he’s pushed himself out so close to me I can see his eyes narrow in anger.

Perfect. Here goes.

I reach into my handy cup holder and grab my huge untouched cup of coffee. With a single fast swoop, I throw one supersize steaming plastic container of superhot java right in the guy’s face. Part of the scalding brown liquid lands exactly on target, drenching his face and hands. The rest sprays and splatters over the windshield, leaving a viscous milky coating across the glass.

I hold my breath. It’s now or never.

It’s now. I hear a roar of pain and a shriek of brakes. I see the car on my left swerve toward the center median, and what makes my heart leap with joy, I see the empty space that’s just opened up.

With a triumphant stomp on my accelerator, I swerve to the left, plowing my trusty Jeep in front of the SUV and through to the open road, devouring the pavement and leaving my pursuers behind. Even though I’m honking the horn nonstop, I know I hear metal on metal behind me.
Serves you right, you creeps.

I give a quick glance in the rearview, just long enough to see the car entangled in the metal median rail, and what makes me even happier, I see the car that was behind me has crashed into him. I don’t see the third or fourth cars at all anymore, and figure they must have pulled over to help their partners in crime when they realized that this time, their little create-a-crash plan didn’t work. And then, finally, the best sight I’ve ever seen—the fast-approaching green sign that says Exit 17.

I make a hard turn to the right. And I am—outta here.

T

The sound of a cracking branch snaps my eyes open. Glancing at my doors to make sure the locks are down, I pray for whatever made the sound to go away. I slowly move one hand to the ignition and the other to the horn. I wait.

Another crackle. Footsteps. And then a voice.

“Charlie?” it says. “Is that you?”

There’s no barking dog, no bulky sweater, no soft jazz, no citrusy soap—just Josh. I open the Jeep door and collapse into his arms.

Josh uncoils his arm from my shoulders and gets up from the couch, tucking the downy plaid quilt that had covered us both back into place around me.

“Just checking the fire,” he explains. “Keep talking.”

I take a last sip from my mug of Darjeeling, holding the string to keep the soggy tea bag out of the way. “So then,” I continue, “I just threw the coffee at him, praying it was still hot enough to make a difference. And as it turned out, I guess the driver slowed down a little, so lots of the coffee landed on his windshield. It was the only thing I could think of to do.”

Josh replaces the fireplace screen as the fragrant wood snaps and pops. “Charlie,” he says, “that’s astonishing. I keep thinking about you, all alone in your car, chased by God knows whom, and then realizing that what happened to Brad and Mack Briggs was about to happen to you.” He rakes a hand through his already tousled hair. “And that move with the coffee, I’m not sure anyone else in the world would have come up with that.”

I know the warmth that spreads over me is not only from the quilt and the fire. Josh had instantly taken me in, been sympathetic and comforting, as if there had never been any misunderstanding, never been that stupid argument in the diner.

“If you hadn’t suspected Mack and Brad had been forced off the road,” he continues, sitting down beside me, “you’d never have escaped. You had time to prepare, to think, to plan. Time they never had.” He sighs, and I remember he knew Brad.

“Well, that’s the next problem.” I lean back against the arm of the couch. “Your name was on that e-mail, too. If they—whoever ‘they’ is—know I know about the insider-trading scheme, they figure you know, too. And it wouldn’t be hard to find you.”

A log breaks in half, crashing through the grate in a shower of sparks.

“Yeah, well…” Josh’s voice trails off. “Makes me wonder whether I should do something, but I’m not sure what. Call the police, I suppose.” He crosses his arms over his gray Bexter T-shirt. “But I’m not sure what I’d tell them.”

“I’m not sure, either,” I reply. “But remember, we might have a picture of someone. If my little camera worked.”

Josh shifts position on the couch. Our legs are parallel under the quilted comforter, tantalizingly close. “Nothing we can do tonight, anyway.” He points to the brass clock on the mantel. It says 4:10. “I mean, this morning.” Josh gives a huge yawn, runs his hands over his face. “Wow, sorry,” he says, blinking. “I know you need to see Brad’s files, but—”

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” I smile at him. “I barge in here, hysterical with some tale of midnight pursuit, toting a stolen Bible and asking for files. And keeping you up to all hours.” Now it’s my turn to yawn. “The files will hold till tomorrow,” I say through my fingers. “Then we’ll figure out what to do.”

“There is one thing that doesn’t quite make sense,” Josh says slowly. “How did he know where you were? Did anyone know you were coming here?”

“Just Franklin,” I answer. I lace my hands behind my head, scooting down farther on the couch. The fire gives a hiss, and I turn to watch it sizzle into embers.

Josh, hair rumpled, glasses askew, doesn’t reply. We lie on the couch, legs now touching, his patchwork quilt covering us, connecting us. I feel my last nagging tendril of doubt about him uncoil and slither away. Silent, on edge and exhausted, we stare through the dying fire and into our uncertain future.

I open my eyes slowly, groggy, still getting my bearings. On the couch.
Josh’s
house. The fire is cold, and peeks of morning sun glimmer through the bay windows. I’m curled into Josh’s chest, burrowed into his shoulder, though I’m not sure how I got there. I pull the comforter higher, pretending to sleep, protecting the moment. Maybe I can make this last a little longer. I should be frantic with fear. Shouldn’t I? But at this moment, I feel safe.

Someone—Josh—brushes my hair back from my forehead. “Charlie?” he whispers. “You awake?”

No more pretending. I open my eyes again, smile an exhausted smile. “Mmm,” I manage to murmur. “Barely.” As if I’ve been there countless times, I burrow back down into my place on his shoulder, his worn gray T-shirt muffling my voice. “You?”

I feel a soft kiss on the top of my head, then another and another. Josh’s arms tighten around me, and I’m not even thinking as I turn my face up to his.

The brown corrugated cardboard carton, tape hanging off the edges and top flaps open, takes up almost all the room on Josh’s kitchen table. I pause for a moment in the arched entryway, wearing a pair of Josh’s drawstring sweatpants and an oversize shirt, watching Josh flip through the files. Without taking his eyes off the paperwork, he reaches over and picks up a steaming mug of coffee perched precariously near the table’s edge. He takes a sip, then sits back, still staring at the box.

How can he look this attractive after only a few hours of sleep? Sleep-crushed hair, wrinkled flannel shirt, sweatpants and thick wool socks—how can exactly what’s
making me look so haphazardly disheveled make him look so devastatingly sexy?

“Good morning,” I say. “Or should I say ‘good morning again’?” We’d finally staggered off the couch around five, bleary-eyed and creaky. Longing for sleep, longing for each other, we’d collapsed, clinging, onto Josh’s cozily blanketed bed. I run my tongue along my lips, testing, remembering. My mouth still feels tender, almost bruised, from our kisses. What happens now?

Josh looks up and his smile erases my fears. “Yes, I’ll admit I’m having just a bit of trouble getting my eyes to focus,” he says. He comes across the room, adjusts the collar of the flannel shirt I’m wearing. His. “Some story-crazed reporter crashed in here last night demanding files,” he says, kissing me gently. “And I haven’t been the same since.”

For a moment, we’re both quiet. “What can I tempt you with now,
madame?
” he finally asks. He gestures to the mugs on the table. “Caffeine first? Then files?”

“Caffeine is one of the basic food groups,” I answer, touching him lightly on the back, unwilling to lose our connection. “Thanks.”

As Josh pours my coffee, I look into the box. At first glance, the files look exactly like ours. I look closer. These files aren’t alphabetical.

Josh points to a small pitcher and a sugar bowl on the counter. While I stir in some milk, Josh sits back down, pulling his chair back up to the table.

“So what do you think?” I ask, taking my first sip. “Yum. Good coffee.”

“Just one of my many culinary skills,” Josh says. “Coffee making, sandwich stacking, ice-cream scooping.
And here, peanut-butter toast. As for the files, I don’t know. These look like financial and corporate information for a dozen or so companies. Thirteen, actually. I counted.”

I pull a chair up to the table. Our knees are almost touching underneath. I struggle to keep my mind on our search for answers. And my hands off Josh.

I take another sip, and a crunch of toast, organizing my thoughts. “Okay,” I say. “We think every Bible chapter corresponds to a company name. We’re assuming the companies are the ones in this box. That could be wrong, of course.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“Right.” I run my hand over the tops of the files. “So, remembering what Caro Crofts and I figured out—if Aztratech was number one, I mean, chapter one, the code system worked.”

“I just opened these this morning,” Josh interrupts. “Whatever order they’re in hasn’t been changed. And—Aztratech is number one.”

I get up and come behind Josh’s chair. I lean down, relieved he can’t see what must be the swoony expression on my face. Though my body is on another mission altogether, I make my voice all business. “Really?” I say, squinting at the file’s labels. “That’s great.”

I stare at the file box, confirming. “That means we could be on the right track. So all we have to do now,” I continue, “is get—”

“The other e-mails,” Josh interrupts. “Find the chapter number, count into the files to see what company name matches that number—”

“And then see if the numbers of the verses listed are anywhere near the stock price,” I finish, nodding in agree
ment. “It’s pretty ingenious, isn’t it? Communicating stock prices by fake spam? Who’d ever catch on?”

“I’ll get today’s newspaper from the porch,” Josh says. “We can match chapters and companies, then try to check the prices in the stock tables.” Josh gets up and heads out of the kitchen. I hear him take a step or two, then stop.

I look up from the files, concerned. “Is something wrong?” I ask.

Josh folds his arms in front of him, and the way he looks at me makes me happy that I’m sitting down—otherwise, I’m not quite sure I could count on my equilibrium.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, still smiling. “Everything’s right, in fact. A beautiful woman in my kitchen, drinking coffee and looking pretty hot in my old plaid shirt. You’re quite a picture, Charlie McNally.”

He heads out to get the paper, the warmth of his compliment enveloping me like expensive perfume. I check my reflection in the shiny surface of the toaster, attempting to make sure my hair hasn’t gone haywire, when a radical thought presents itself out of nowhere. What if he likes me, just the way I am? Even just sitting in his kitchen, hair funky and face makeup-free, reading glasses on my head? The possibility stops me in my tracks—and then I hear Josh’s footsteps and the crackle of a newspaper.

“Let’s do it,” he says. With a swift motion he unfolds the business section, refolds it to the stock listings, then places it on the kitchen table. “Aztratech, we know. Let’s start with Chapter Two.”

I select the file, hair forgotten.

“Rogers Chalmers,” I announce. Then my shoulders sag. “Rats. What’s the stock symbol for that?”

Josh scratches his head, thinking. “Well, says here,
Verse 42 through 44. Look for something that begins with
RO,
or maybe
RC.
” Josh reaches for the paper.

“I’ll find it.” I grab the paper, and Josh follows my finger down the row of agate-typed symbols. We both pounce on RCHA. Stock price today—thirty-four.

“So check it,” I instruct Josh eagerly. “Does the e-mail from then say ‘good time to sell’?”

Josh finds the e-mail and gives me a thumbs-up. “Yup,” he says. “It does.”

“What’s next?” I ask. I can’t wait to look up another one. “Is there a Chapter Three?”

“Chapter Three…” Josh sorts through the files “…is Electrometrics.
E-L-E…
”

“Got it,” I say, already searching the list under
E.
“ELEC yesterday closed at seventy-two and three-eighths. What’s the e-mail say?”

“It’s dated last week,” Josh replies. “And it says, Verse 60 to 62. And it also says, ‘a good time to buy.’”

“Wow,” I say, staring at Josh. “We’re right, aren’t we?”

Josh has a little twist of a smile on his face. “Well, doesn’t seem likely it’s a coincidence, I’ll give you that.”

My mind is racing with the certainty that we’re on to something. Someone—or a group of someones—is running a nationwide big-bucks insider-trading scheme. And Josh and I have cracked the code they’re using. With Franklin’s help, of course. And Caro’s. Seems as if we’ve got it nailed now.

We check Chapter Four—Fisher Industries. The prices match the verse numbers.

Chapter Five. Again, the prices match.

Josh looks up from the file box. “I have a question,” he says. “How would the people involved in this deal
know which spams to answer? I mean, people get hundreds a day.”

“See the heading? ‘A re-figh deal 4-U.’” I point to one of the spams. “See? They’re all the same. All misspelled, and with that hip-hop
4-U.
And remember, then they all say either ‘a good time to buy’ or ‘a good time to sell.’”

“So you’re thinking—whoever received the e-mails with that heading would know to search Google for the next line of whatever random snippet the fake spam contained. And then, they have to send that back as a reply. Like some sort of a coded message? Because only people involved would know to do that?”

“That’s my guess,” I answer.

“So it’s almost like a password system,” Josh replies. “Answer two e-mails properly, and whoever’s running the show would know you’re legit.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figure. Most people would ignore it, and hit Delete. Remember, I sent back answers on impulse, on a whim, because I thought the e-mails were so strange. The third time is when I got the Bible verse thing. I didn’t understand it, but of course the ‘Bible verse’ is just what the traders would be waiting for.”

Josh looks at me with worry in his eyes. “I keep thinking about what happened to you last night. The stakes could be so high. And you could be in so much danger.”

I come up beside him. “You, too,” I say, gently putting one hand on his arm. “And I got you into this, I know,” I add quietly. “I was following the trail of a story, and you just happened to be part of the trail.”

Josh puts one arm around me and we gaze into the October morning.

“So, looks like we’re both on the trail now,” he says.