Trial and Terror (13 page)

“Why?”

“The county doesn’t have the manpower or technical savvy to cross-reference birth certificates and death certificates, and the records aren’t computerized. That would make too much sense. If someone wanted to assume a new identity, all he’d have to do is find someone around the same age who died. Anyone with access to newspaper archives—birth announcements, obituaries—could do this.”

Summer cricked her neck. “Then what?”

Chantelle checked her lipstick in the mirror. “You planning on assuming a new identity?”

“I already have. You see, I’m really a man. Could some guy acquire a new birth certificate?”

“And social security card, passport, driver’s license. Hell, not only could he inherit your credit history, he could actually take over your identity.” Chantelle gunned the engine. “Information can be a very scary thing.”

The van shook. Summer’s elbows tingled. She backed up and waved.

Chantelle drove away.

Summer unlocked her bike. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a deep-blue van squeal into the parking lot. She thought it was a TV news crew, until it came straight at her. She was about to dive out of the way when, broadside, the van skidded to a stop.

She grabbed her pump. Her heart jackhammered. She noticed that her knuckles were white under her bike gloves.

The door slid open.

Marsalis gestured inside to dazzling lights and sparkling high-tech—computer monitors, scanners, video screens, music mixer—and sang, “Fly me to the moon.”

Chapter 16

Marsalis completed his
a cappella
half-chorus and stepped out of the van.

Summer brandished the pump.

He stopped and held up his hands. “Please, sir, don’t hurt me,” he said in a little girl’s voice.

Summer gripped the pump tighter. “What do you want?”

“If you get in, I’ll take you to Sonia.”

“I’m not getting into that car with you.”

He shuffled closer. “Not even if I can show you proof of her whereabouts?”

Summer backed away, putting her bike between her and him. “I’m warning you. Stay away from me.”

Marsalis dismissed her with a wave of his hand and returned to the van. He opened the passenger-side door and grabbed a legal-sized envelope. Holding the corner with two fingers, he rocked it back and forth. “Come and get it.”

“No.”

Marsalis sighed. “You’re no fun.” He flicked the envelope to Summer and climbed inside the van.

Keeping one eye on Marsalis, Summer slid the contents onto the asphalt: an article from the
Haze County Register
, from more than two decades before; yellowed paper held together with crinkly tape.

When Summer read the news brief, her eyes saucered: A four-year-old girl drowned yesterday in—the name of the lake was blacked out—marking the first tourist-industry related death in the town’s history.

Shortly after lunch, Summer Neuwirth was playing unattended by the edge of the lake. By the time Sonia Neuwirth noticed that her four-year-old daughter was missing, it was too late.

It took divers several hours to locate the body. But police were confident that they had been searching the right place after they scooped the child’s doll out of the water.

One police officer investigating the case, who insisted on anonymity, said Mrs. Neuwirth may have been inebriated when her child disappeared. “It’s a shame, really. The woman was celebrating her anniversary with her husband and this happens,” he said.

A spokesman for the District Attorney’s office said it was doubtful that charges would be filed.

Summer re-read the account twice. She was startled by a car horn.

“Bummer, huh?” Marsalis called.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Picture this: Sonia, Wib, and their only child. Sonia and Wib are celebrating their anniversary, but they have an argument. Wib stalks off. You know how Sonia drove him mad.”

“No.”

“Sonia is upset. This is not what she had planned at all for her anniversary. So she drinks, like she always does when she’s depressed. Maybe she passes out. Her daughter wanders off, plays near the water. The police found the doll first, so I assume she’d lost it in the water. When she tried to liberate it, she fell in. Drowned. Can you imagine what it must have felt like when the water began to choke her, the delicious terror she must have experienced?”

Summer’s stomach burned. “I’d know if I were adopted.”

“Who said you were adopted?”

“What’s all this about?”

Marsalis coughed. “Why don’t you ask Sonia?”

“I would if I could.”

“Then get in. I’ll take you to her.”

Summer looked at Marsalis, then the newspaper clipping, then at Marsalis again. “Why don’t you just tell me where she is?”

“Either pay my price or the deal is off.”

“How do I know this newspaper article is real? How do I know you didn’t doctor it?”

“You don’t.”

“I’m not getting into that van with you, Marsalis.”

“Suit yourself.” He reached over and pulled the passenger-side door shut, then revved the engine.

Summer watched him drive to the exit, put his turn signal on, and wait for traffic to thin. She skimmed the article one more time. She visualized Sonia and Wib and this little girl who shared her name at this lake. What if Marsalis hadn’t concocted this just to rattle her? The rims of her ears burned. Before she realized what she was doing, she began waving and shouting.

Marsalis backed the van into the parking lot.

Summer loaded her bike and climbed aboard. She sat with her fists clenched, waiting for Marsalis to make a move.

“Buckle up,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

They drove in silence for a while, Summer watching the countryside change from desert to lush, up into the mountains where they hit cloud cover. Outside, it began to rain, first reluctantly, then in sheets.

When Summer bent down to pull up her socks, she noticed a gun lodged under Marsalis’s seat.

She kept her tone conversational. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I always know where to find you,” he said. “But I’m often disappointed. You expend a great deal of energy trying not to reveal yourself to me, Summer. When you are home, you find creative ways not to show me your beauty. You hide under fabrics and blankets.”

“You hide behind a cloak of mystery and terror yourself. Why are you stalking me?”

“Even before you met me, I knew you. Like a mother is always with her child, even when separated by years or events, I knew I would always be with you, until the day you die.”

“That sounds ethereal for a man who earns his living in the rational world of computing.”

“Some phenomena are hard to explain. Like the fact that I have never caught you masturbating at home. Did the rape scare you from having sex, even alone?”

“Shut up, Marsalis.”

He gave her a wheezy snicker. “Actually, judging by your behavior, you are more infomaniac than nymphomaniac. Does it bother you that Sonia ran away from you?”

Summer tensed. “Maybe she had a good reason.”

“Would you find any reason satisfactory?”

Summer answered honestly. “No.”

“Sonia was very disappointed in you.”

“That’s not true. Sonia was sick. She didn’t have complete control of her faculties after Wib died.”

“Did you provide her with the best care possible?”

“I did my best.”

“Your best?” Marsalis looked at her with incredulous eyes as he drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “Where were you when she underwent her first chemotherapy session and needed a ride from the hospital?”

“I had a trial.”

“When she returned home, she would call your name for hours, sobbing out of control. But no one was there to listen. Only after she disappeared did you miss her.”

“Pull over. I’m getting out.”

“Ever since Sonia disappeared, there’s been a hole in your life. But don’t you realize that you dug a hole for Sonia that was even deeper?”

Summer struggled with the door, but only Marsalis could unlock it.

“You drove her away,” he continued. “She couldn’t bear to live out her final days on earth with you. She preferred to spend them with someone else.”

The seat belt dug into her shoulder when Summer leaned over. She had to strain to reach the gun under Marsalis’s seat. With a final lunge, she was able to snatch it. She poked him in the ear with the barrel.

“Stop the car,” she ordered.

Marsalis wiggled his tongue at her, and then floored it. The speedometer read 75, 90, 100. Marsalis slalomed through traffic. Over the groan of the engine he hissed, “Is the joy you would feel killing me worth dying for?”

Summer tugged on the trigger. The chamber flicked forward one sixteenth of a turn.

Marsalis added speed: 110, 120, 125. Two cars collided behind.

Summer considered the weight of the gun in her hand. She pushed the gun harder into Marsalis’s temple. “I said, ‘Stop the car.’ ”

“Shoot me.”

“Stop the car!” Louder this time.

“Fuck you!”

Summer shouted, “Stop-the-car-you-misogynistic-cyber-geek-psychopath—”

Marsalis joined in, merrily screeching while weaving through traffic.

Summer pulled the trigger.

Click
.

Marsalis sputtered. One part laugh, one part cough.

Summer shot him again. Nothing.

He pulled the gun to his mouth and puckered his lips around the barrel. Summer squeezed the trigger, felt the spring action load. But no bullet. Not even a blank.

Marsalis spat out the gun. “Tastes like rust.”

Summer fired at Marsalis’s profile. He slumped forward, clutched his heart, shut his eyes, but continued steering. He sprang to life. “No bullets. Satisfied?”

“There are two shots left.” Again, Summer pulled the trigger.

This time Marsalis flinched. He veered into the opposing lane; a truck, horn blaring, hurtled at them. When Summer braced for impact, Marsalis grabbed the barrel of the gun and torqued the steering wheel. They swerved back into their own lane.

They wrestled for the gun, Marsalis straining to direct the barrel away from his head. They were doing a steady 120. They squirted between two trucks, passing them like they were going backward.

Summer squeezed the trigger and fought the gun’s recoil. There was a tremendous explosion as the driver’s side window shattered, showering them with glass. Wind whistled inside the car.

Marsalis let go of the barrel and rode the brake, slowing to 55. They passed a road sign. Next right:
Fayres 10 miles, St. Freeburgh 12 miles, Redwood Falls 26 miles
. They were at Haze County’s northern edge. Marsalis was breathing rapidly, sweat prickling on his forehead. After wiping her prints, Summer tossed the gun into the back.

They were silent until the turn off, and then Marsalis said, “There’s glass in your leg, from the window.”

Summer plucked a fragment out of her shorts.

“You figured out it was a test,” Marsalis said.

“It wasn’t your first.”

“How did you know there was only one bullet?”

“The heft of the gun.” Summer looked out onto the moving landscape, the vineyards bursting purple, ice-capped mountains, a pack of deer. Here, over the Santa Ana Range, it was cool and lush.

Marsalis brushed errant glass off the dashboard. “Wib taught you to shoot?”

“He gave me a gun for my Sweet Sixteen.”

“How did you know the last chamber held the only bullet?”

She shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t leave anything to chance.”

Marsalis took the turn to Fayres. “I’m curious as to what you’re feeling right now.”

Summer hid behind a mask of impassivity.

Marsalis continued, “But curiosity can get you into trouble, or endanger others. Take Jimi Cruz.”

“How does Jimi Cruz pose a danger to you?”

“To
you
.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you don’t watch much TV, but tune into Channel 54 tomorrow, a cable-access show of mine that debuts at 3:30 a.m. I have a wonderful surprise for you.” Marsalis ungripped the wheel and posed: Two thumbs up.

“What have you done to Jimi Cruz?” she asked.

Marsalis was back on the wheel. “Tune in tomorrow.”

Summer tried to put the puzzle together, but there weren’t enough pieces. She knew of no strategy that would force Marsalis to give her what she wanted. He had a drug dealer way about him: He made himself indispensible; then, after hooking her, pressed his advantage. All she could do was wait him out.