Saving Rachel

I’m not happy one of the actors rendered me unconscious and stole my car this morning, but it all fits in with the theme. I just have to rack my brain and try to figure out who has the motive and means to fuck with me like this.

On the bright side, it turns out Rachel’s okay. No one molested her or tied her up. Someone did pretend to be her and ruined one of her bras trying to make some sort of sick point about my affair, but it’s clear that Rachel doesn’t know about Karen—not yet, anyway. And as far as I can tell, Mary’s safe.

Look in the trunk!

I get out my cell phone and call Karen’s home phone. It rings eight times, and I hang up. I’m sure she’s fine, but I’m worried she might be planning to end things without ever speaking to me again. If so, I’ve got an ace in the hole: her driver’s license. I might be able to parlay that into a discussion about getting back together.

What about her purse? What woman would go off and leave her purse and wallet lying on the floor?

I can only think of two scenarios that ring true: either she’s been kidnapped or she’s part of the hoax.

Part of the hoax? Doubtful. She was too frightened. No one could act it out that convincingly. Her screams were sincere. Maybe the guy in her trunk wasn’t her friend, maybe he wasn’t dead, but she was definitely convinced. And she’s gone, at least for now.

I exit the car and look up and down the street. On the far side of the park, away from me, the film crew and most of the extras are still hanging around. On this end, still a distance from me, people are walking their dogs, flinging Frisbees, and jogging down side streets. I pull out my cell phone and dial Karen’s number again.

I try to remember her office number, but can’t quite conjure it. I give up, dial information, and have the operator put me through. I’ve spoken to Dana, the receptionist, before. She answers, and I tell her it’s me.

Dana says, “Hi, Sam, Karen’s not here yet. Would you like to leave a message on her voice mail?”

“No, that’s all right,” I say. There’s a long pause before I realize I’m still on the line.

Dana notices too and says, “Karen called in sick this morning, but she called back at—” She pauses. I hear paper rustling. Dana’s found her notes. “Karen called at eleven fifteen to say she was feeling better, said she’d be here after lunch.”

I check my watch. It’s nearly one thirty. “You haven’t heard from her since?”

“Not a word,” Dana says. “You think something’s wrong?”

I think something’s definitely wrong! “No,” I say. “She probably had a recurrence. I’m sure we’ll both hear from her soon.” “If she calls or comes in, I’ll have her call you,” she says. “Thanks, Dana.”

I end the call and try Karen’s home phone again and her cell phone, for good measure. Her cell phone prompts a factory-installed voice message: “The cellular customer you’re calling is out of range or out of service at this time. Please hang up and try your call again.”

I end the call and look around the area again but still don’t see Mary. I don’t want to hang around waiting for her. I want to go home and see if I can find a throwaway phone. I’m sure Mary’s okay, and anyway, if she were to show up, what on earth would I say to her?

Hi, Mary, I thought you’ d been killed this morning, so I’m snooping through your car looking for evidence of your death. Oh, and also, I’m wondering if you know anything about my affair with Karen Vogel or if you know who might have kidnapped me this morning, put me in a movie scene, stole my car, wrote some initials on your sister’s bra, and placed it in my laundry hamper, and—oh yeah, while we’re on the subject—do you know anyone who looks just like Rachel that might want to be tied up to the floor of our kitchen and photographed seminude?

I place Mary’s spare key back into the magnetic key box. I’m about to place it into the wheel well when the voice in my head screams, Check the trunk!

I slide the little key box open for the second time, take out the key, place it in the trunk lock, and turn till it clicks. I can’t say if the car has been in the sun for hours like I originally thought, but the metal is hot against my fingertips as I slowly lift the lid of the trunk.

Though widely considered a sports car, the 2004 Toyota Celica has an astonishing amount of trunk space. Mary’s two-door, four-seat model contains seventeen cubic feet of cargo space. Enough volume, it turns out, to hold my sister-in-law’s dead body.

Chapter 14

I’m grounded, but the world around me starts swirling at an insane speed, like I’m stuck in the eye of a tornado, only there’s no flying cow. I want to vomit. I want to fall to the ground and pound my fists and scream until this crazy day ends. But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t do them because—all the madness notwithstanding—I seem to have gained enough clarity of focus to consider that three hours ago, I’d been completely fooled by a photograph of someone I thought was my own wife. So, although this definitely appears to be a dead body, it’s within the realm of possibility that the woman in the trunk isn’t dead or if she is, she might not be Mary.

Keeping my head above the trunk, I reach my hand in and poke her body with my finger. If she’s faking, she’s good. I feel around wondering if what I’m about to do will keep me out of heaven. I do it anyway. I poke and prod the body until I find one of her boobs. I pinch it as hard as I can between my thumb and forefinger until I know the woman in Mary’s trunk is not pretending to be dead.

I understand on a gut level I have to do something right now that I don’t want to do. I have to make absolutely certain it’s her. I duck my head a few inches into the trunk, and I’m suddenly aware of the searing stench. It fills my nostrils, burns my eyes, and triggers my gag reflex. I feel the bile working its way up my throat, and I start dry-heaving. I’m forced to turn my head away. I put my hands on my knees and assume the classic vomit stance. Then it dawns on me I’m standing on a public street with my back to a wide-open trunk that contains the body of a dead woman. I spin around, lower the trunk most of the way, and look around carefully to see if anyone is watching me.

I see no one but the dead lady in the trunk and a bunch of people in the park who are busy doing their own thing.

I take a deep breath, lift the trunk a couple of feet, and focus on the woman’s face. I’m certain it’s Mary, but the photograph they gave me of Rachel fooled me, so again, I have to be sure. Fortunately, I know a way to positively identify Rachel’s sister.