Saving Rachel, Page 2

  Chapter 3

  I need to … what? Run for cover? Run to Mary’s side? Call Rachel? Get help? What the hell is going on? I feel a surge of panic overloading my brain circuits. My feet seem bolted to the ground, and I remain this way until the screaming starts.

  I look around. People are pointing at me, screaming the two words I don’t want to hear: “Get him!”

  I hold up my hands in protest. “It wasn’t me!” I yelp. Why would they even think that? I’m her brother-in-law. They couldn’t possibly think I was involved in the shooting. I don’t even have a gun, for Chrissake.

  I’m selling, but the park people aren’t buying. Worse, they’re becoming a mob. A mob full of angry, athletic men and women who suddenly start running toward me, converging on my position at breakneck speed from both sides of the field.

  I turn around to check for the limo and see it hasn’t moved. I put my faith in my legs and make an all-out burst, hoping to get back to the car before the crowd can overtake me. While I run, I shield my face to make it harder for them to identify me later.

  The bad news is most of the younger guys are lean runner-types and there’s no way I’m going to outrun them in a normal footrace. The good news is I’m in great shape, I have the lead and the angle, and this isn’t a normal footrace; it’s life and death.

  I press on.

  Now the limo is less than a hundred yards away, and I’m closing fast. But my breath is coming quicker and my lungs start to ache. The faster runners close in on me like a pack of jackals. What made them so flippin’ brave all of a sudden? Sheer numbers? The fact that I’m unarmed?

  Two runners appear out of nowhere, cutting me off. I spin around. There’s no place to go, nowhere to hide. The park people slow down and begin forming a circle around me. I put my hands up, ready to surrender.

  What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. Behind the runners, I see the limo door open. Mr. Clean emerges with an enormous gun. He slowly lifts it, takes aim, and seamlessly fires two shots that strike both of my would-be captors in the back of the head. My eyes are transfixed on his face as he watches them fall, and I can tell you there is no change in his expression. He could be watching two men die, watching traffic, or watching paint dry. Then Mr. Clean lowers his gun, turns, and climbs back into the limo.

  The stunned mob veers away from me in a single motion, like a school of fish encountering a big-eyed predator. Somewhere behind me, a woman shrieks. The two runners between me and the car appear to be dead. I’m horrified, but not so horrified that I can’t hurdle their bodies and run to the open door of the waiting limo.

  Inside, Mr. Clean is sitting, pointing his gun at my face. I start to enter the vehicle, but Mr. Clean cocks the hammer. I freeze where I am, which is halfway in and halfway out.

  The crowd behind me is starting to reconsider their retreat, a decision that bodes poorly for me. Mr. Clean places his index finger on the trigger, and that bodes worse.

  The gangster says, “You need a lift?”

  “I do,” I say.

  The gangster says nothing. Behind me, I feel the crowd moving toward the car, slowly at first, like Night of the Living Dead, but with a growing confidence that the shooting might be over.

  “May I please have a ride?” I say.

  No response.

  Then it hits me. “Thirty-two B,” I say. “Rachel’s bra size.”

  The gangster says, “Jump in.”

  The driver guns the engine, and the big tires squeal as we roar out of Seneca Park. We hit the freeway doing ninety and head back downtown, toward the hotel where Karen Vogel and I had sex less than thirty minutes ago.

  Chapter 4

  I gag and retch, but manage not to throw up in the limo. When I’m able to speak, I shout everything that’s on my mind. “You killed Mary! Oh, my God! And the others! What the hell is going on? What do you want from me? And what the fuck does Rachel have to do with this?”

  The mobster remains calm in the face of my outburst.

  “You brought this on yourself,” he says. “Maybe you answered my question ten minutes ago …” He turns his palms up and shakes his head. “… none of this happens.”

  My brain cells spin like slot-machine tumblers as I try to process his words. If I heard him correctly, this goomba wants me to believe that the closely guarded secret of my wife’s small titties has caused her sister’s death. If he’d said he played pinochle every Tuesday with an eggplant, that would make more sense.

  “You’re insane!” I shout. “You’re freaking insane!” The tremor in my voice tells me I’m shaking.

  He shrugs. “Don’t talk for a minute,” he says. “You been through a lot just now. Take a deep breath and think about some things, like how you’re not going to tell anyone about the time we spent together today.”

  I look at him—and not for the first time—as though he’s lost his mind. Of course I’m going to tell! I’m going to tell anyone who will listen. I might put an ad in the paper about it, maybe post a billboard or set up a Web site.

  “I see the wheels turning,” he says. “Maybe it’s best I kill you now.”

  I stop in mid-thought and show a “no wheels are turning” look to the guy who just had my sister-in-law whacked, along with three other people, including a cop. Holy shit! It just hit me. These guys killed a cop!

  “I’d rather keep my mouth shut than die,” I say, trying to calm down.

  We ride in silence until I say, “What do you want from me?”

  “Listen to yourself,” he says, “going on again with the questions. Look, we’ll talk again soon. You’ll call me when the time is right.”

  “Call you? I don’t even know who you are. You’re going to give me your phone number?”

  “Sometime soon, you’ll pick up the phone. I’ll be on the line.”

  The one thing I know for certain is he doesn’t know how telephones work.

  To the driver, he says, “Hand me the bag.”

  The driver picks up a pink Victoria’s Secret bag with his right hand and passes it back to Mr. Clean, who in turn hands it to the gangster.

  “I’ll tell you one last time,” the gangster says. His voice is steady, his words firm and measured. “Don’t speak of this to anyone, not even Rachel. Say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hands me the Victoria’s Secret bag. “Speaking of Rachel,” he says, “I got her a little present. A … whatcha call … replacement.”

  I open the bag and push the pink-and-white tissue paper aside. I remove the gift, wondering what he means by “replacement.” The tag says, “Perfect One, TM, Full-Coverage Bra.” It also says, “Padded, Level 1, Size 32 B.”

  I look at the gangster.

  “You think she’ll like it?” he says.

  Chapter 5

  They drop me off a block from the hotel, and I’m wondering how many red Audi R8s there could possibly be in Louisville, Kentucky, and it suddenly dawns on me to check my pockets to see if my keys are there. I do, and they’re not.

  I walk with purpose to the hotel parking lot, wondering how long it will take the media to post my name and photograph on TV. The cops are probably swamped with eyewitness accounts, not to mention the cell phone videos that are no doubt being posted on YouTube as we speak.

  How much trouble can I be in? I wonder. I didn’t shoot anyone, and no one in the park could claim I had. But multiple witnesses saw me approach all four people just before they were shot. Two of the gunshots were fired from the area where my car was parked—or at least a car that looked like mine. The other two were fired by Mr. Clean, with whom I was seen escaping the scene. So, while no one can think I’m solely responsible for the murders, I’m far more than “a person of interest,” as the police like to say.

  I know it’s too early for the manhunt to have reached downtown Louisville, but I can’t help feeling as though everyone is staring at me. When I round the corner into the parking garage, I see my car right where I’d left it
. I fling the door open, jump in and instinctively reach beneath the driver’s seat, where I find an envelope. Inside are two items: my keys and a photograph. I’m not expecting the photograph, or what it depicts, so it takes a half second to register in my brain.

  I look at the photo and fill the car with a sudden gasping sound. I stare at the photograph in disbelief. I flip it over, but there’s nothing written on the back. I turn it again, and the computer in my head makes a note that today’s date has been electronically stamped on the bottom right-hand corner, along with the time: 8:46 am. My breath comes quickly. My fingers tremble so violently I drop the photo. As it falls, the edge catches my knee, and the photograph is sent skittering deep into the leg well, near the brake pedal. Nausea floods my gut. I’ll retrieve the picture in a few seconds, but right now, I’m feeling sick. I think about what I saw and start shuddering. It’s the most unsettling image I’ve ever seen in my life, and no matter how strained our relationship has been recently, no matter how far we’ve grown apart these past few months, Rachel and I are still connected in all the ways that truly count, and I’ve got to get home to her. I’ve got to save Rachel, and I will.

  But first, I have to call the police.

  Chapter 6

  I can think of a million reasons not to call the cops—the most serious one being the gangster’s warning—but I’m in over my head. This is no longer about me, about some gangster trying to set me up for Mary’s murder. This is about saving Rachel.

  I grip my fingers around my cell phone and start to dial 911. Before I get the third digit pressed, the passenger door flies open, startling me. It’s Karen Vogel. She climbs in, saying, “What’re you doing here? You left a long time ago. I saw you!”

  “Wait—why are you still here?” I say, trying to turn the tables on her.

  “I took a shower,” she says, eyeing me suspiciously. “What’s your story?”

  It’s a good question, one for which bullshit is the only answer.

  “I just pulled up. I had to hold you one more time,” I lie shamelessly.

  “Aww, Sam. That’s so sweet!”

  It was sweet. I make a note to remember the line. Maybe it will work on Rachel before they throw the switch on me for conspiracy to murder her sister.

  “What’s in the bag?” she says.

  “Bag?”

  “The Victoria’s Secret bag in the backseat.”

  “Oh that. It’s a present.”

  “For me?”

  “Of course for you!” My lies are on autopilot, beyond my control. At this point, I’ll do or say anything to get home. Rachel needs me.

  “You left here to go buy me something? And then you drove all the way back to give it to me in person? Oh … my … God!”

  She leans over and gives me a big kiss on the mouth, the kind of kiss I’d give anything to get—some other time, but not now. Rachel needs me. I can’t believe I’m sitting here, still going through the motions with Karen. What kind of jerk would do that? I wonder and then mentally answer my own question. The kind of jerk who has a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that somehow Karen Vogel might be involved. In my gut, I’m not ready to believe Karen is mixed up in all this, but how else can I explain our Beauty-and-the-Beast love story? I mean, come on, Karen Vogel? In love with not Christian Bale or Matthew McConaughey or Colin Farrell but me?

  Karen snatches the Vicky’s Secret bag from the backseat, opens it, and says, “Oh, Sam, I love it!”

  “You do?”

  She holds it up in front of her, and I see her expression change ever so slightly, like a thin cloud passing briefly across the sun.

  “Yes, but … it’s a bit small for me, don’t you think?”

  I look at the label and pretend I’m shocked. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’ll exchange it immediately. I can’t believe they wrapped the wrong size. Guess I was in such a hurry to get back before you left.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It really is a wonderful gift. And it means the world to me that you went to all this trouble.”

  I’m trying to say all the right things to Karen but my pulse is pounding the drum line from “Wipe Out” in my ears. I study Karen’s face with full knowledge that I make my living by reading computer code, not people. So I really stare at her and come away with this: if there’s any guile in Karen’s face or body language, I can’t find it. Either she’s the greatest actress in the world, or she’s completely innocent in this whole gangster/Mary/Rachel thing. I’m leaning toward her being innocent, but I can’t dwell on it. I’ve wasted enough time sitting in my car. Rachel needs me. Now! I make a show of looking at my watch. “I’ve got to run,” I say.

  “Me too. I’m going in to work after all.”

  “You called in sick,” I say.

  “I’ll tell them I got better. I’d rather keep half a sick day for the next time.” She gives me a wink.

  I nod.

  She whispers, “I love you, Sam.”

  She kisses me again. Then she opens her door, but first, we do that thing where we slowly break away from each other until just our fingertips are touching. I’m thinking, God, I’m pathetic. Finally, mercifully, she’s gone. I fire the ignition. Before I blast off, I take a deep breath and look at the photograph again.

  In it, Rachel is lying spread-eagle on her back on our kitchen floor. She’s blindfolded. Her hands and feet are tied to eyebolts that have been screwed into the floorboards. She’s wearing a white bra and black panties, nothing more. She has some sort of ball in her mouth, like the kind you’d see in a low-grade bondage movie.

  On her bra cups, written in thick, indelible ink, are the letters “K” and “V.”

  If that doesn’t stand for Karen Vogel, I’m out of ideas.

  Chapter 7

  Traffic in downtown Louisville is only heavy at noon and five, and noon is a half hour away. By then, I’ll be at Rachel’s side or in police custody, and I’m not sure which is safer.

  I make short work of the downtown area, hit the interstate ramp, kick the Audi into third, and catch rubber out of the turn. I shift again and jam the gas pedal till I hear the engine whine. I shift to fifth, flying. I’m flying! But my mind is flying faster.

  Someone has molested my wife, unless she woke up wearing a white bra and black panties. I try to think. Did she? I rewound the morning in my head. She was sleeping when I left. What about last night? Think! Last night, I came into the bathroom, and—

  Shit! I swerve and change lanes, barely missing the car in front of me. I’d misjudged its speed. I look at the needle. I’ve slowed to one-ten. Jesus!

  Okay, so last night, she’s at her makeup desk in the bathroom. She’s sitting there, her back to me as I enter the room to brush my teeth. She’s just showered and still has a towel on her head. She’s got another towel draped around her shoulders; she’s not wearing a bra. And she … she does have on black panties. Okay, so it’s possible she put on a white bra. Wait—no, it’s not possible. She wears a flannel nightshirt to bed, no bra. This morning, I get up and get dressed, and she’s still asleep in her upstairs bedroom. So, she does what? Wakes up after I leave, starts getting dressed, right? Maybe she puts on the white bra and starts getting dressed, but someone breaks in and—

  No. I force myself away from that scenario. Maybe she’s sleeping when they break in. They overpower her. No, that’s even worse. I stop concentrating on how they got her bound and gagged and into the bra and focus instead on why.

  Why would they write “K” and “V” on her cups? It’s a reference to Karen Vogel, nothing could be more obvious. In the photograph, Rachel is blindfolded. Does that mean she doesn’t know what they wrote on her bra? If so, I’ll have to come up with a plan to get her bra off before she sees it.

  Excuse me?

  I slap my forehead to remind myself to stop being a jerk. This is my wife. She’s lying on the floor. She’s scared to death. She’s bound and gagged, and—

  And blindfolded. There it is again. I can’t g
et my mind off the blindfold.

  My best guess is Rachel doesn’t know about Karen. The “K” and “V” are a warning to me. If I don’t do what they want, they’ll tell Rachel about the affair.

  But what do they want me to do?

  They’ve never said.

  I wonder if they have pictures. I wonder again if Karen could have set me up. I’ve only known her a month. How well can you possibly know someone in just a month? I mean, Karen’s been with me the same month and doesn’t know I’m married, right? But what if she does know about Rachel? Would she want to punish me for lying to her?

  Possibly.

  But is she capable of murder?

  No. But this isn’t about the affair. If Karen found out I was married, she’d throw a shit fit, sure. But she wouldn’t do anything that would result in the death of my wife’s sister or a policeman.

  Unless …

  What is it they always say in the movies?

  Follow the money.

  Good advice, that. Because this is almost certainly about the money, and not just my money, I’m beginning to suspect, but the money I move for my clients.

  One of the lanes is closed up ahead, and I’m forced to downshift to sixty, which gives me more time to think.

  Maybe I’m coming at it the wrong way. Maybe the gangster found out about Lockdown T3 and hired Karen Vogel to be receptive to my advances. Maybe he figured if Karen got close enough, I’d give her details about my operation. If that’s it, she’s done a helluva job, because other than the standard, “What do you do for a living?” Karen’s hardly mentioned my business.

  But I have.

  I’ve told her plenty.

  That’s me, Mr. Big Shot, trying to impress Karen from day one and throughout the whole courtship, making sure she knows how special I am, how lucky she is to be with me, how clever, rich, and successful I am, what I did to get that way, and how it works. So yeah, I told her plenty—not enough to breach my security, but certainly enough to pique her interest on behalf of her gangster friend.