Killer Move

I didn’t even see her hand move from the steering wheel, but then suddenly there it was, clamped around my wrist, arresting the forward movement in my arm so fast that I felt my shoulder joint twist.

“If you want,” she said, looking at me with cool blue eyes, “I can drag you out of this truck and do you in the lot. Right now. And I’m talking flamboyant, crowd-pleaser, playing to the gallery. Broken bones, rib kicks, with my hair down and chest stuck out so everyone sees it’s a girl busting you apart. What do you say? Want to press start on that?”

I tried to pull back, but she was too strong. Her eyes held mine, unwavering. The muscles in her face and jaw were hard planes of intent, and I could feel the long bones in my forearm being pushed together. I had no doubt that she could—and would—do what she’d threatened.

I’ve also been in many meetings in my time, however, sat face-to-face with a lot of people who aren’t revealing everything they know. I’ve seen what humans look like when they’re trying to hide something, to present only one side of a deal, when they’re playing poker with a guy they think is just a dumb-ass extra in their lives.

“You’re scared,” I said.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

“You know what, I am going to do it. I’m going to kick your fucking ass.”

“Not scared of me. I get that you’re tougher than I am, okay? Big deal. But you’re scared about something, and blowing up at me isn’t going to help you solve that.”

The grip on my wrist got even tighter, then she abruptly dropped my arm. She looked away, at the brick wall in front of us. The middle fingers of both her hands moved to press against the opposing thumb. She held them there, pushing hard for a few seconds, and then let go with an audible exhale.

“I need something to eat,” she said, as if the last conversation had not happened, as if she was a friend of a friend who just happened to be in the same car this sunny Friday morning. “Probably, so do you.”

The idea made me feel ill.

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “But you need rehydrating at least, or today is going to get worse and worse for you. And trust me, your baseline of expectation should already be set very low.”

She opened her door. “Are you coming, or what?”

She directed me to a table in the corner of the restaurant, sweeping the detritus of the previous eater’s meal onto a tray with an oddly prissy movement before marching over to the counter. As she waited in line, she got out a cell phone and pressed a speed dial number.

The place reeked of fries and ketchup and sounded like an experimental station called “Radio Human”: people chewing, bawling out kids, talking on phones, belching, breathing, existing. I don’t come to burger joints very often, for the same reason that I do head to the gym and read positivity blogs. Because we’re supposed to. Supposed to eat right, think right, act right by the planet: the endless series of secular rituals intended to keep others thinking well of us, or keep us thinking well of ourselves. People rag on about God, how lucky we are to be getting shot of him, but He at least would throw the occasional bone, handing down a good harvest or ticket to heaven once in a while. The internal taskmaster we’re working for now doesn’t believe in fripperies like motivation. He/she just wants you as his bitch.

Steph and I have a ritual, though. Once in a blue moon we’ll come out to an UltraBurger or Kingdom of Fries—though usually it’s a McDonald’s—and slum it, showing the world that we’re bigger than the zeitgeist, that we can make our own choices. I suddenly realized we hadn’t done this in months, however. I had been getting deep into the program. We both had. Time had been patiently breaking Steph and me, turning us into everyone else.

But now the program was breaking down, too, and the only thing I cared about was finding my wife and putting things right.

As I sat watching the woman getting closer to the front of the line—she’d finished on the phone now—I recalled how convincing she’d been in Jonny Bo’s, both on the night of my anniversary dinner and the time I’d had the coffee with Hazel (who I suddenly remembered I owed a call, though I couldn’t imagine when that might happen). In Bo’s this nutcase woman had been slick, professional, the consummate waitress.

She could act, in other words. This got front and center in my mind and stayed, enough to make me raise my head and watch her properly, and start asking questions.

What did I actually know? I knew this woman had been involved in getting pictures of Karren onto my computer. Maybe she’d even e-mailed Janice to ask her to get a booking at Bo’s, the restaurant where she’d been working, presumably as a cover. A cover for what, I didn’t yet understand. So . . . I knew some stuff.

But I didn’t know what had happened to Cass, who’d killed her, or—for the love of god—why. I didn’t know where Steph was—though I hoped it had nothing to do with all of this. I didn’t know why this other woman had happened to turn up—how she’d known I’d be in Cassandra’s apartment. I didn’t know why, after starting to drive one way, she’d turned around. Had there really been someone up the road—or was that another piece of acting, to convince me a pursuit was under way at exactly the point where I was starting to get my breath back and question why I was allowing myself to be dragged out of a building by someone I’d never properly met before?

How could I tell what was the truth?

She’d admitted she’d been involved in screwing up my life. Why should I believe that she now had another goal? Wasn’t it more likely that this was another roll of whatever dice were being used in this . . . What? Game? Did she really not know where Stephanie was, or was she faking ignorance to bond me to her? When she came back to the table was she going to tell me truth, or more lies? Would I have any hope of being able to tell the difference?

I realized that I would not, and there were only two things that I needed to do right now:

Find my wife.

Talk to the police.

Neither involved this woman.

She reached the head of the line. The server stared at her with bovine insolence. The woman’s eyes flicked up to the menu boards, as they always do, even if you know what you want. She was occupied, for a few moments at least.

I stood up. I walked at a steady, even pace to the doors. I opened them, went outside, and when my feet made it to the sidewalk I started to run.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

What screwed me was trying to be clever. While I was sticking to sensible and semismart, I did okay. Clever was a step too far. I trotted down the sidewalk—and I was starting to get my shit together quickly, because though I wanted to sprint, I didn’t, as who the hell goes haring down the street at nine o’clock on a Friday morning without evident quarry, unless they’re running away from something they’ve done? So I trotted instead, as if in a vague hurry but no more—no need to stare, people, nothing of interest happening, just a guy doing something, going somewhere a little fast. Move along.

Soon as I could I ducked around a corner, however, and then I did ratchet up the pace. I’d like to say this was a conscious decision to put distance between me and the woman before she noticed that I’d gone. It wasn’t a real decision, however. It just happened. I started to run because I was scared. Really scared. Scared of what I’d seen in Cassandra’s apartment. Scared because I didn’t know what was going to happen to me, or where my wife was. And scared perhaps most of all by the fact that the woman I was running away from was frightened, too. If the person who knows more than you do looks freaked out, then you’d better be freaked out even more, on principle.

Eventually I had to stop. I staggered to a halt, gasping for air, and glanced back along the street. I’d been jacking back and forth through the blocks for ten minutes, and there was no sign of the woman on foot or in her pickup. It probably hadn’t occurred to her that I would up and run, that someone in my position would turn down assistance in a time of need. Probably it was an outlandishly dumb thing to do. I didn’t care. Getting away from her felt like the first sensible or active thing I’d done since my first beer at Krank’s the night before—and maybe for far longer than that.

I ran a quick inventory, bent over on the corner as trucks and cars belted past me. I had my phone, with