The Girl on the Edge of Summer Page 22

  A mumbled reply.

  The truck voice again, “There are no snakes. Maybe only small ones. Don’t be a pussy.”

  I tensed my legs. If the truck door opened, running was my only option.

  “I can’t drive on the fuckin’ grass, there are holes.”

  Another reply from within.

  “Fuck it, man. You got an excuse for everything. I’m not scared of no snake.”

  The driver’s door opened and he got out.

  I held still.

  He took a few steps in my direction.

  “See, no snakes,” he shouted back to his companions. He was still on the grass.

  As quietly as I could, I felt the ground. A pebble, a stone, some cut glass, a clump of dirt.

  He took another step.

  Outlined in the light, I could only see that he was medium height, medium build, hair short, no big muscles or large stomach.

  Another step.

  I tossed the clump of dirt, the darkest and heaviest thing I’d found toward the canal.

  It made a small rustle in the bushes.

  He stopped.

  I shook the pebble and stone together. Not sounds a hiding human would make, not footsteps or breathing, what he expected to hear. Maybe the rattle of a snake.

  He took another step.

  I shook them again, this time more agitated. Then let out a short hiss of air.

  “What the fuck.” He stopped.

  Took a step back.

  Pulled out a gun.

  He-man, beat up on a little bitty snake with a gun.

  A car horn off in the distance.

  He cocked an ear to it. Put the gun away, seemed to realize a shot would be heard.

  Ms. Snake lives to hiss another day.

  Took another step back, then turned and walked back to the truck.

  Slowly back to the truck.

  My body was aching from the hunched crouch I was in. I didn’t dare move until they were well gone.

  He was in no hurry, lingering outside, listening. Playing the same waiting game I was.

  He knew the figure he’d seen running couldn’t be far away.

  At this time of night, this was a quiet, desolate place. Footsteps, a car motor, would be heard.

  We waited.

  My leg started to cramp.

  I pressed my thumb into the muscle.

  He got back in the truck, but the light remained on the bushes I was hiding behind.

  Another minute.

  I pressed harder with my thumb. I couldn’t move the leg without risking being seen.

  From the truck, “Quiet, I’m listenin’.”

  If he were smart, he’d pretend to drive away, pull behind a building, and listen from there. Let me think they’d given up.

  Another chit in my favor. He wasn’t that smart.

  I let out another small hiss of breath. This one of pain.

  Then the driver’s door slammed and the engine whined into reverse. The lights arced away.

  I listened as it slowly drove off. I couldn’t risk raising my head enough to see, my only visual cue the fading of the light until it was only the dark of the night.

  Even in the darkness, I still counted to sixty, as slowly as my cramping leg would let me. Listening to the motor of the truck. They were leaving but at a crawl, still searching.

  I slowly, very slowly raised my head.

  I couldn’t see the truck.

  If they were smart they would have let one of them out, backtracking quietly on foot while the truck moved on.

  I had to hope they weren’t that smart.

  Carefully, I eased my leg to another position.

  It did little to ease the cramp, only made it start to cramp in another place.

  The truck had stopped. I couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it. Had they stopped and given up? Or just waiting?

  Cat and mouse, with me very much the mouse.

  I couldn’t stay here. The bushes were just thick enough to shield me from one side. If / when they came around to the street on the other side, I’d have to go to the far side of the bushes to hope to be hidden.

  I was hemmed in by the fence around the airport and the flood wall on the canal, leaving me only two directions to run.

  Still no sound of the truck. Maybe they’d given up and gone back to the party.

  Or maybe they were doing what I was doing, playing the waiting game.

  A lot of the businesses out here were places like scrap yards or body shops, lots of machinery littered around. Most of them had fences. I could probably get over them, but could I get over them without being seen? Plus, they might have security, from alarms to dogs. If I picked the wrong one, a screaming alarm would be a dead giveaway.

  I risked changing positions, still unsure of what to do.

  Truck engine. It was on the move again.

  Lights coming down the street behind me.

  They were doing what I was afraid they would do, circle the block, check out the far street.

  I tried to hide in the bush, to keep protection on both sides, but it wasn’t thick enough.

  Damn. And double damn. They were smarter than I’d hoped for. I could see the light of a cell phone on the near block. They’d left Mr. Scared of Snakes behind.

  However, he was stupid enough to be on his cell phone, not realizing what a bright beacon its screen was.

  At least I could see where he was.

  Dark clothes. Slow movement. I’d have to count on them.

  He didn’t have the strong beams of the truck to stab between the leaves. I’d have to count on him being too afraid of snakes to get close. If I could stay black against a black bush, he might not see me.

  I could clearly hear the truck coming down the other road now, lights brighter, engine louder. I edged around the bush, keeping it between me and the strong beams of the truck.

  If Mr. Scared of Snakes had a decent flashlight, he would see me.

  He was close enough I could see he was texting.

  The truck swung around, pointing its lights at me. At the bushes in front of me.

  Some of the light bled through, casting stripes of light and shadow around me.

  Mr. SoS kept texting.

  And he kept walking my way.

  I tried to crabwalk to a thicker part of the bushes, away from the shafts of light.

  “Hey, you see anything?” This from the texter. He was keeping his voice down, a quiet whisper, but close enough I could hear it. It wasn’t Mr. Scared of Snakes, but the other voice, the one I’d heard. The one smart enough to go around to both sides.

  If he looked up from his phone—and I had to assume he was smart enough to do so—he could very easily see me.

  I did not move. As shallow a breath as I could take, not blinking, jacket pulled up to just under my eyes.

  I kept watching him. I had to see when he saw me.

  I also had to assume these were the guys who had killed Eddie and they would kill me if they needed to.

  Closer. He whispered into his phone, “Keep looking.”

  I could still track his every step by the cell phone glow.

  Smart, but not smart enough to realize how far that small screen can carry. He solved one problem—how to communicate—but hadn’t thought through how much it would give away his position.

  Or maybe he had and, with his gun, he wasn’t worried about it. He was the hunter.

  Ah, but why whisper as if not to be heard? The slow, stealthy tread?

  Nice and clever, but all this thinking was doing little to get me out of this situation.

  Okay, he didn’t want me to know he was here but wasn’t smart enough to remember how annoyed he was at the movies when the person three rows down kept checking his cell phone screen, that bright point in the dark theater.

  He probably also didn’t realize how much that bright screen was ruining his night vision. As close as he was now, less than ten feet, he should have been able to make out my dark outline aga
inst the black bushes. But he was still scanning, looking left and right. Then back to the cell phone.

  That mistake, that one mistake, gave me the opening I needed.

  I lunged at him, aiming a shoulder at his midsection, taking him by surprise. I was silent, no yelling, a moving shadow.

  He saw me just as he felt me, a solid slam into him.

  Then one hand striking a blow to his solar plexus, the other to his nose. I don’t know how well I connected, but it was enough to hear a huffing grunt of pain.

  I deliberately knocked the cell phone from his hand. Then, in the moment of surprise, felt quickly for the gun.

  Idiot, he had it tucked into the front of his waistband, the perfect place to blow off his balls. I grabbed, thought for a second of keeping it, then did the sensible thing, throwing it as far as I could into the bushes. It was likely to be a hot gun, and the less time I had it in my hands—my still-gloved hands—the better.

  A final kick to the back of his knee to take him to the ground, then I ran away as fast as I could, giving the cell phone an extra kick as I passed it.

  I heard another gasping groan—I had at least hit him hard enough in the solar plexus to keep him down, and a tinny voice from the phone, “Hey, man, what’s going on?”

  Keep running.

  My feet pounding on the pavement, my breath starting to sound ragged in my ears.

  Behind me, a shout. He had gotten his wind back. He was smart enough to call the truck to cut me off. I had to assume that’s what they’d do.

  This was a long block and it turned into a T. Damn.

  Two directions to go. One would lead me to the airport fence, the other in the direction of my car. Fewer options than I liked.

  At the corner, a shape loomed off the side of the road. A big panel truck.

  I ducked behind it, then crawled under, hunched up against the tire.

  A glow of headlights.

  Bright.

  Brighter.

  Brighter.

  Passing me.

  Turning down the road I’d just run on, to meet up with his friend.

  I took a hasty glance from behind my tire, the lights facing away from me. Balancing quiet and haste, I hunched down and trotted along the road, trying to keep my footfalls light, finding my next hiding place behind another truck.

  I could hear the strident, angry voices. “At least two of them,” came through loud and clear.

  Naw, dude, just a girl, an old lady girl at that.

  Slamming of the truck doors and the roar of its engine.

  The lights again, driving slowly by. Prowling.

  I waited until the engine sound indicated they had turned a corner, then I moved again, to the next hiding place, this time behind a reeking dumpster.

  I could hear the truck turn around taking the block, coming back around. I hunched down, barely breathing as the lights glided by.

  I had about two more blocks to get to my car. Two long blocks. Long blocks with few, if any, places to hide. I took a quick glance at my watch. Almost four in the morning. That meant about another hour for me to make it to my car. Once it got light—if they were still looking—I would be too easy to find.

  I stayed where I was—the goddamn stench of the dumpster—for another pass of the truck. I’d attacked him—taken his gun—he had to find me now. They were still prowling, the truck’s engine whining down the block.

  Then either inspiration or desperation hit.

  A little stealthy—and, to be honest, squeamish—dumpster diving. A couple of plastic bags that looked like they were stuffed with clothes, hiding my camera bag in the least disgusting of them. I took my jacket off and tied it around my waist, brushed my hair back. And the final touch, a beer can in a paper bag. Oh, and gross, but found a cigarette butt and put it in my mouth.

  I think I’m up to date on all my immunizations.

  Then I started shuffling down the road, approximating a drunken weaving, my shoulders hunched down as far as I could to make me seem shorter, the jacket emphasizing my female hips.

  A faint glow of lights behind me.

  Closer.

  I didn’t vary my shuffle. Or try to hide.

  The engine growling behind me.

  Lights bright, surrounding me.

  Slowing beside me. The window down.

  “Hey, what’re you doing here?”

  Now, only now, did I look in their direction.

  The driver. Young but scruffy, he would be old fast. A short haircut that needed to be kept short and hadn’t been. The eyes were brown, a dull brown, too many drugs had altered what he saw, and there was no light in them anymore. His skin had a pasty sheen, again drugs. And the teeth were showing the signs of meth.

  I pitched my voice high, as female as I could make it. “You got any smokes?”

  “I asked you what you’re doin’ here?”

  “Quiet here. People don’t bother me. I could really use a ciggie. You sure you don’t got any?”

  “You seen anyone else around?”

  “Like you?”

  “No, not like us. On foot. Some guys.”

  By the faint glow of the dashboard, I could make out the second person, the scared of snakes guy. Pudgier, probably a lot of time with the munchies. But also the pasty, pale skin, hair slicked to the point of looking greasy. Not even looking at me, his eyes, also a dull dark color, on his phone. Another addiction.

  “Couple guys, big ones, run past me a little while ago. Didn’t even stop when I asked for a cigarette.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “That way.” I pointed vaguely in the direction to the interstate. “At least I think. Heard a car take off.”

  “Which way?”

  “I don’ know. Just heard a squeal, you know, didn’t see. Maybe you got some spare change? Could use some food.”

  “Fuck off, you skank.”

  The truck slammed into gear and roared off, as if it could catch a fictional car. But not so fast that I couldn’t read the license plate number.

  I remained in my disguise in case they came back, although I picked up the pace. They might be frustrated enough to take out their anger on a homeless woman.

  Only when I got to my car did I get rid of the bags—as close to a garbage bin as I could get—fishing out my camera case and putting my jacket back on.

  But even then I didn’t leave, just got in, quietly closing the door, then slid the seat down so I wasn’t visible. In case I dozed off, I set the alarm on my cell—making sure no one was around to notice the light—for about an hour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Of course I didn’t sleep, instead let my brain ramble and hit on everything I possibly could worry about from hurricanes to whether I could wash these clothes enough to get rid of the smell of sweat, dirt, the dumpster, whatever I’d rolled in under the trucks, and then back again.

  I waited until the day was clearly breaking, not just the first gloaming. People would be stirring, cars around; I could slip away as someone going to work, instead of driving in the deadest part of night when the lights of the only other vehicle on the road would be too obvious.

  I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  But I also needed to think.

  The pasty-faced twins seemed like so much better suspects than anyone else. My problem was how to point the police in their direction.

  I discovered the interstate entrance out in this part of the world; I’d never had occasion to use it before, hoping that it was still just early enough for traffic not to be too crazy.

  For once, my good deeds were rewarded, with only a few idiotic merges to get past.

  I did the painful but expedient move of going to my office instead of home, with its all-too-tempting bed. I had a shower there and a few generic changes of clothes in the storage closet.

  And coffee.

  The shower helped clear my head. And the coffee, especially the second cup. And the third.

  I went thro
ugh what I’d done last night and decided, while not exactly clean and dainty, I’d pretty much stayed within the law. No breaking and entering on my part; the closest was my attacking the skinny guy, but that was clearly self-defense in my book. Plus, since I doubted they’d gone to the police about it, I wasn’t going to mention it unless I had to.

  The big takeaway was overhearing them talking about throwing a gun in the canal. Odds were it was the gun that killed Eddie, and that meant the police needed to find it as soon as possible.

  Which meant I’d need to come up with some way of telling them so they’d believe me.

  Before she thought I was a murderer, Joanne and I used to be friends. I’d have to risk there was enough of that left that she would believe me now.

  I dialed her number.

  “Ranson,” she answered on the first ring.

  I had expected—hoped—to leave a message and for it to be several hours before I actually had to talk to her.

  “Kind of early in the morning for you,” she continued.

  Damn caller ID. Not only did it identify me, but it robbed me of my preferred option—just hanging up.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure,” she answered.

  “Somewhere besides on the phone.”

  “Should I come to your office?” she offered.

  “No.” I didn’t want to be cornered here. “I’m out of coffee,” I lied. I named a coffee shop on Esplanade Ave., about equal distance from where we each were.

  She agreed. “Half an hour?” she said.

  “Yes. Come alone.”

  I put the phone down before she had a chance to respond.

  I quickly made notes: the gun in the canal, the truck license plate, what Eddie’s girlfriend had told me. It seemed so small, only a few scribbles.

  A glance at my watch told me it was time to go.

  Joanne, of course, was already there.

  She had staked out an outside table, one off to the side, reading the paper, her sunglasses hiding her eyes even though the day was a mix of clouds with little sun, none at the moment.

  I sat down.

  She put a cup of coffee in front of me.

  “Black, right?” she asked.

  I nodded, nonplussed by the common gesture of courtesy.

  I took a sip, biding time.

  “You wanted to talk,” she prompted.