122 Rules (21 page)

As she continued, pain spewed out of the ragged holes in her soul. It fed the anger, which came alive, erupting out of both new and ancient scars.

“Bastards! Who do you think you are you can just lock me away?” She brought the iron down on the hood. She cursed at her father for dying and leaving her with a drunken whore of a mother. She screamed at Peter for killing her friend. While yelling at Laven for being such an idiot as to not check his surroundings before meeting with his murdering friend, she pulverized the Audi’s little four-circle symbol, putting a satisfying hole in the grill.

She climbed up and hulked out on the front of the car like a 1950s movie monster, sending paint flakes and chips of metal flying as she brought the bar down on the roof while shouting at the top of her lungs, screaming her throat raw.

Over and over, she slammed the iron down until the muscles in her arms and back throbbed, rendering her tormented hands numb from the violent vibrations. At last, she fell into a sobbing heap on the asphalt. The battered iron bar, flicks of red paint embedded in its surface, clattered on blacktop as she tossed it aside.

The hellish pain and rage of her life flowed out of her, streaking down her cheeks. As the last of her sobbing subsided, a calm settled over her.

Weariness weighed down her body as if it had been infused with lead, but she forced herself to climb to her feet and retrieve the newspapers and duct tape she’d purchased. She covered the windows, mirrors, and lights of the now bashed-to-shit Audi. Even in her frenzy, she’d been careful to leave these undamaged.

Then she pulled out the final purchase: five cans of flat black spray paint. She covered every square inch of shiny red metal that had survived the bludgeoning.

With a silent apology to whatever species she endangered by placing her leftovers in the landfill, she stuffed everything into a nearby dumpster, then stood back and admired her handiwork.

Well, she’d wanted something that wouldn’t be tempting or eye-catching, and now she had it.

The parking lot was still deserted. She could just spend the night here—find a corner spot and curl up on one of the Audi’s seats—but then she’d be visible and vulnerable to anyone that happened by. Plus, in the sun, the car would turn into a pressure cooker in about five minutes.

Monica rummaged around in the trunk and pulled out a can of diet soda, then she rolled down all the windows and turned on the radio. Not many channels broadcast in the middle of nowhere, so she tried the
CD
button. A French rock band blared through the speakers.

She didn’t speak the language, but the bass thumped and the guitars shrieked. Monica instantly fell in love and cranked up the stereo to wine-glass-shattering decibels. She took a long pull off the cola, crumpled up the empty can, and belched long, loud, and deep as she powered her way out of the parking lot towards parts—and a future—unknown.

25

At just before two in the morning, Monica pulled into the dirty parking lot of a motel. Weeds grew from cracks in the asphalt, and aged pages of sun-bleached newspapers adhered to the brick siding, glued in place by ancient rain showers. She picked the establishment with the flickering neon sign that boasted rooms by the hour, day, or month, passing up nicer major chain accommodations because this place would probably accept cash and ask no questions.

The gaze of the greasy man behind the counter crawled over her as she approached the window, the sensation of being groped as palpable as though he had been using his hands to explore the contours of her body.

In the old Superman movies, the hero had the ability to see through barriers by simply wishing to do so. Unlike the man of steel, who perpetuated the advancement of humankind through the pursuit of truth, justice, and the American way, this man’s superpower—visual molestation—would have been used only to satisfy his unquenchable lust for leering.

Monica pried his gaze off her breasts when she handed over the night’s rent plus an extra forty dollars. The money disappeared in a neat sleight of hand that would have impressed David Copperfield. The pervert’s kryptonite: greed.

When he handed her a key, attached via a chain to a ridiculously large plate with
199
printed on its surface, his hand unnecessarily fondled her fingers. His lips and eyes formed a slow jack-o-lantern smile as he wished her good night, making the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. Monica left the counter as fast as she could without actually running, pulling out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and hoping the miracle of the disinfectant would wipe away the unclean feeling.

She followed the cracked sidewalk until she reached unit 199, inserted the key—the too-large paddle obnoxiously banging against the metal of the door—and, glancing around to make sure no one observed her, pushed inside.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. The room had the musty, depressed aroma of desolation and cheap, mildewed carpet. Thinking of the slimy hotel attendant, the FBI, the mob, and, of course, Peter, she set the deadbolt on the thin door then jimmied the room’s only chair under the handle. The hazardous conditions warranted more Fort Knox-like security, but under the circumstances, she could do no better. She looked one last time at her pathetic precaution then shrugged and turned to the bed.

Questionable stains whose origins she preferred not to think about darkened the bedspread, giving it a patchwork appearance. Ordinarily, the place would have sent her packing, but the events of the day hadn’t even been in the same universe as ordinary.

She dumped her meager belongings and lay down fully clothed, falling asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

26

Monica woke from a dreamless slumber to harsh sunshine bleeding through the thin, cheap drapes of the hotel room. When she sat up on the edge of the bed, her foggy memories from the night before played through her mind like scenes from a Quentin Tarantino movie rather than images from her own life. The only thing lacking in this saga: a white knight. Her flick required someone dashing with large muscles, extensive experience living outside the law, and a knowing aw-shucks smile to arrive on the brink of disaster and save the damsel in distress.

She waited.

When neither Matt Damon nor Daniel Craig burst through her door, she sighed and picked up the remote to the battered TV set and clicked the power button.

She hadn’t expected the television to even work, and she almost jumped when she heard a low electrical hum as it buzzed to life. She flipped through the channels, but only a kid’s program playing a
Sesame Street
knockoff and a news station worked in this remote corner of the globe. The idiocy of the singing animals only slightly outweighed the idiocy of the news anchors, so she chose the latter.

They transitioned from fluff story to fluff story, so she left the box on for background noise and padded into the tiny bathroom. She stripped and stood under the hot spray of the shower for what felt like hours. The grime-coated tub looked like it contained enough botulism bacteria to wipe out a small village, but the wonderfully strong water pressure massaged the exhaustion from her body, washing away the worst of the brain fog. Her arms and back ached, and she discovered a huge, source-unknown-but-shaped-vaguely-like-Texas bruise on her thigh. The deep purple looked sick and malignant in the jaundiced light filtering through the shower’s stiff plastic curtain.

As her mind wandered, a momentary flash of panic tore through her at the possibility that the perp who’d blown up her house had waited around to watch it explode. He could have seen her drive off. Undoubtedly the assassin would have been amused by the antics of the pickup truck full of teenage boys that had chased her just outside of Sinalta. He might be disappointed they hadn’t finished the job for him…

She nearly jumped out of the water to hide under the bed, naked and wet—the monsters under the mattress had to be more friendly and accommodating than the ones that dogged her in real life.

But if she had been followed, she’d be dead already. He wouldn’t have waited around until she’d had a good night’s sleep before putting a bullet in her brain. So, following that logic, neither the would-be assassin nor the FBI knew where she hid.

Calming her racing heart, she shut off the water. She dried herself off with a towel as soft and plush as dirty burlap then wandered back into the front room, taking stock of what she had. In summary: almost nothing. No clean clothes or toiletries, and everything else she owned had either been taken by Special Agent Jon and his henchmen or burned in the fire.

“In other news, a Walberg woman was killed when her house exploded
…”

Monica spun around and froze as she came face-to-face with her Arizona driver’s license photo—hair bunned, eyes staring, expression somber. The picture had a dour, depressed tone no professional photographer could hope to replicate. Only the Department of Motor Vehicles had the ability to capture that sort of soul-wrenching unhappiness. She fumbled with the remote and turned up the volume.

The clip changed to the “At The Desk” anchor, and Monica’s picture got relegated to the left corner as she received her five minutes of fame. “Susan Rosenberg, local paralegal from Walberg, was killed last night when her home exploded. Authorities report that a gas line under her house had been leaking methane and was ignited by a spark from an electric source, most likely a light switch.”

The segment shifted to the burned hole that had at one time been listed by Bobby as a “Classic bungalow in the heart of suburbia.” How would the smarmy salesman spin the sale now? Perhaps: “Airy and open to nature, with great fixer-upper potential.”

The camera panned to the scorched metal hulk that had been her car then a quick “eye witness” interview. The interviewee, her neighbor Todd or Trey or something, said he saw the house on fire. He then added for emphasis, “It was hot.” Those were his final words before switching back to the news anchor.

Way to be descriptive there
.

“The explosion has been ruled an accident.” The news anchor completed the segment by reminding her audience that if they smelled anything unusual when entering their home, they should leave immediately and call the gas company from a neighbor’s house. The camera angle changed, and the newscaster’s expression transformed to one of happiness as she announced, “Imagine being a kitten in a basket full of yarn…”

Monica clicked the power button, the scene of the cute and playful fur ball wrestling with red and green yarn shrinking to a pinpoint of light before winking out.

Dead. Everyone thought she had died. Really? She had expected to live on the run, having to watch over her shoulder. But being dead… What exactly did that mean?

All she knew was that she needed both coffee and a plan. But first, she wandered back to the bathroom to get dressed.

She picked up her blouse and sniffed the pits. It didn’t smell too rank, but then again, she had grown accustomed to the dank odor of the hotel, so who really knew for sure? She stared at the sink, considering washing everything in the little basin, but then she’d have to wait for her clothes to dry or be forced to put them on wet. She could handle wearing day-old pants and shirt but hadn’t sunk so low she would wear soiled underwear.

Monica winced as she slid, commando, into the slacks, her back protesting at the stretch and pull of bending over to thread her feet into the pant legs.

Lisa would have undoubtedly had an entire armada of hair and makeup supplies in her ample purse, paired with the skills of a starlet’s—say JLo’s or Madonna’s—dressing team to go with them. But Monica’s modest shoulder bag carried no such provisions. So she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to straighten and untangle the worst of the knots, then splashed cold water on her face.

She took a deep, cleansing breath. For the first time in memory, she had gained her freedom. As a dead girl, she had been released from the oppressive weight of the FBI pawing through her life and tracking her every movement. Free from living in a place she hated. Free to be under her own control for the first time since that day at the library about a million years ago.

The bomb hadn’t so much wiped the slate clean as blown it to bits, sending the shards of her old life to all corners of the globe.

She wiped the steam from the mirror, and her eyes widened in surprise. Braless, in a loose blouse, with a new, relaxed demeanor—she could have been a Feng Shui consultant or even a street musician. Donning her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, Monica smiled at herself in the mirror, then shouldered her purse and headed out to the car.

* * *

The Stardust motel lay on the outskirts of a small town Monica didn’t know. She drove up the main strip, slipping the Audi next to the curb in front of a small coffee shop. The few citizens strolling the sidewalks didn’t give the battered car a second glance, and she pushed through the glass door of the Happy Lizard Bistro.

The clean and well-kept shop contained just a smattering of patrons seated at small round tables next to the big windows facing the street. On a television hanging from a ceiling corner, the same news station she’d watched in her room dished out snippets of drama in bite-sized, thirty-second segments. These tiny soap operas intermixed with promises of more of the same. The recent trend of networks playing cute and hilarious videos swiped from the Internet—nothing more than cheap gimmicks—screamed of desperation.