Crimson Eve (12 page)
I looked away. “I really just need to do this alone. Okay?”
She stared at me a long time. I don’t think she believed me. Finally she shrugged. “Whatever.”
So now I’m set to go — ten minutes early. I thought I’d write what I’m feeling so I can read it later. You know, a before and after. But it’s hard to explain what I’m feeling. Part of me can’t really believe that anything’s goi
ng to happen. After all, Bryson’s a
state senator
, and I’m just me. But then I think, well, Carla, that’s just your mom talking. I
know
how Bryson feels about me. And he couldn’t have asked me to his cabin so he could dictate a letter.
How will I be next time I write? Next time I hold this diary again? I think I will be very different.
Time to go. And yes, dear diary, thanks to your secrets, I’m hiding you like never before. A diary-sniffing hound wouldn’t find you.
I can’t wait to be with Bryson. I’m shaking, but I can’t wait.
Carla hobbled toward the street running behind the Best Western, still shaking. Every step shot pain up her leg. Her eyes flicked left and right, looking for a black Durango or Thornby on foot. She’d decided to pull her suitcase rather than drive back to the room for it. Once she reached her car, she wanted
out
of there.
The weather was still unseasonably warm, the sky clear. But Thornby’s presence hung over the asphalt like cold fog. Goose-bumps popped out on Carla’s arms. He’d been here in the night. She’d swear it. What if he was here right now, watching her stumble, with a grin on his face? Any minute now a bullet could slam her head . . .
Where would she go if she died today? Not something she’d had to think about before.
It wouldn’t be heaven. God lived there — the God she’d hurled curses at years ago. The God who judged her for what she’d done.
Yeah, well, last time I checked, you deserve the judgment.
She reached the back road, turned toward the little white building behind the strip mall. It seemed a mile away. The sound of her suitcase wheels rolling over pavement grated the air. The parking lot smelled musty and wet, despite the September sun. Or was that her own sweaty clothes?
Interminable time passed before she reached the building. She drew to an abrupt halt. What if Thornby wai
ted for her behind it? Gun aimed point-blank —
Get in your car.
What would she do? She couldn’t run. No time to cry for help. The minute her mouth opened, he’d pull the trigger.
If only her ankle wasn’t so sprained. She felt so
maddeningly
helpless.
She swallowed hard . . . and forced her head slowly around the corner.
Sudden noise assaulted her ears.
Carla yanked backwards, nearly losing her balance. Fresh pain jolted her ankle. Her purse handle fell off her shoulder, crashing the bag against her thigh. Carla dropped the purse, both hands flying upward.
The sound came again.
On her left she saw it. A squirrel sitting on his haunches, chit-ting at her. The raucous noise took a razor blade to her ears.
A squirrel. That’s all. Just a squirrel.
What was a squirrel doing in all this pavement? Almost as if nature had sent him as a warning . . .
Carla hung there, shoulders hunched, feeling like an open target. A double wave of tiredness and hunger washed over her. A long moment passed before she gathered the strength to pick up her purse and venture around the building.
There sat her car, just as she’d left it.
She approached the Toyota with caution. Bent down to check underneath. What if he waited for her there, ready to grab her ankle as she neared the door?
Empty pavement.
Carla’s eyes swept the length of her car and back. It looked fine.
She unlocked the driver’s door with fumbling hands, tossed her suitcase and purse across the console onto the passenger seat. She slid behind the wheel, trying her best to place her left foot in a comfortable position. Fat ch
ance. Carla punched the door lock button and started the car. Her heart fluttered as she pulled around to the front of the little building and onto the street.
A block down, she hit Highway 8 and turned west toward Pullman.
She could hardly believe it — she was on her way.
Now, her next moves. First up — get the rental car. After Bailey’s call back in the hotel room, she’d gathered her wits enough to check for an agency in the Yellow Pages. Moscow didn’t have any. But there were two at the Moscow-Pullman Airport — a Hertz and a Budget. She’d studied a map in one of the ads. The airport was just a few miles away — a right exit off Highway 8.
All she had to do was get there without being spotted. At the airport she’d leave her car among all those parked by airline passengers. Even if Thornby found the Toyota, he’d probably think she’d taken a flight somewhere. She’d throw him off track.
The long Palouse Mall stretched on Carla’s right. She spotted a Starbucks and longed for a latte — the kind Bailey made for her every morning at Java Joint. She ached at the thought of her familiar counter stool and the smell of Bailey’s coffee. Only two hours away from home — but it might as well be two million miles.
Past the Palouse Mall Carla saw an Office Depot, U-Haul, Staples, a Wal-Mart. An Applebee’s, the Appaloosa Horse Club.
There you go — a horse. Thornby wouldn’t be looking for that.
Somewhere along the way she crossed the state border, and Idaho’s Highway 8 became Washington’s 270, but she saw no sign. A few more miles until the turn to the airport. Carla’s muscles tightened.
Hurry, hurry.
She’d feel so much safer out of her own car.
The town gave way to farmland, then rolling hills, a bike trail on the left now visible, now not. She saw an animal hospital a
head on her left — and in its parking lot, a Washington state trooper’s car, facing the highway. She could see the trooper behind the wheel.
A voice shouted in her head:
Stop! Ask for help!
No way. What if he was working for Thornby?
But what were the chances of that? Besides, if he wasn’t he could immediately protect her. This nightmare would be
over
.
Slow down, Carla. Do it!
She lifted her foot off the accelerator — and Thornby’s voice rang in her head.
Vince Edwards is your chief of police. His wife
is Nancy. He has a daughter, Heather, and a little granddaughter,
Christy. You call any law enforcement, one of them dies . . .
Carla pressed the gas pedal.
As she neared the state trooper’s car, his head swiveled in her direction. In a drawn-out second, their eyes met. His intense gaze pierced through her.
The second stretched . . . snapped by. Carla passed the trooper’s car.
She cast a wild glance over her shoulder. He was still watching her, his face hard.
He pulled onto the road behind her.
Paranoia descended over Carla like a choking fog. She gripped the wheel, glancing nervously in the mirror. This was just coincidence, right? He couldn’t be following her.
But the way he’d watched her drive by. The intensity in his eyes. As if he’d been
looking
for her . . .
One long mile churned by. Still the patrolman trailed her.
Come on, Carla, he’s just driving, that’s all.
But with each second that passed, Carla’s terror grew.
Maybe when she took the exit for the airport . . .
There it was, ahead at the light! Airport Road.
Carla turned right.
The state trooper followed.
She gripped the wheel. Okay, so he was going to the airport. Lots of people went there.
Carla’s back pulled away from the seat. She sat ramrod straight as she followed the curves of the two-lane road, acutely aware of its emptiness. Nobody ahead of her, nobody passing in the other direction.
This
was an airport road? Where were all the cars?
She checked the rearview mirror. The trooper was still behind her.
You won’t know what law enforcement to trust, because some
of them just might be working for me . . .
She passed a lone building on the left. Its sign read “Bear Research.”
Bear Research?
Was she out in the middle of nowhere? And
where
was the airport?
After an eternity she saw the turn. Carla took it, and the trooper followed. She saw another sign:
Airport, Next Right
. Parallel runways appeared on her right. Soon she reached the airport and turned in. It was tiny — nothing like the Spokane airport. One little building, red brick at the bottom, large white squares at the top. A small parking lot with a few slots each marked off for Hertz and Budget rentals. That was it. No back lots where she could hide her car, no bustle of people.
Until then, Carla had clung to a strand of hope: maybe the state trooper’s presence was just coincidence. Now, as she drove right by the airport building without stopping, turned left toward the road, then left again to head back to Highway 8 — and he followed her every move — she knew. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw him talking on a cell phone. Not a police radio. A cell phone. The thing he would use to call someone who’d hired him for a bit of extra duty . . .
No denying it. Thornby had found her. She would not live through this day.
I can’t believe I’ve lived through this day! A dozen times I thought happiness would plain burst me apart. I’ve finally calmed down enough to write.
I got to Bryson’s cabin just before 1:00 this afternoon. The whole time I drove there I was planning what to say. Something very clever for sure. But the minute I saw him, every word fell out of my head.
He was wearing jeans and a blue cotton knit shirt. I’ve never seen him dressed like that. He looked so
good
. He came out, took my hand and pulled me from the car, then stood there looking deep into my eyes. We went into the cabin without a word.
It’s a nice place. Better than this house any day. It has a den with a fireplace and two bedrooms — a master suite and a loft.
First we sat on the couch. He was drinking bourbon. He offered me some, and I put a little in my Coke, big drinker that I am. And we talked. He asked me about my friends. If I have a boyfriend. I felt weird talking about Scott. But I did tell him. After all, I know about Bryson’s wife.
Didn’t take me long to get comfortable. He’s so good at making me feel that way. He put his arm around me, and I leaned on his shoulder. I got the nerve to ask him if he and his
wife are going to have kids. I’ve been wondering about that. He said they wanted them more than anything and had been trying for ten years, but Catherine (I almost shuddered when he said her name) hadn’
t been able to get pregnant. He looked so sad when he told me. I hugged him and stroked his hair, like he was a little boy. Told him I was sorry. It felt amazing to be able to comfort him. At that moment he could have asked me for the sun, and I’d have run out to get it.
Then he started kissing me.
It went from there. I’d known it would, but a part of me still couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t help thinking how Mom would never guess how important I’d become.
The next thing I knew we were in the bedroom.
I felt really shy at first, taking off my clothes in the daylight. But Bryson kept telling me how beautiful I was. And so is he. I mean it. He’s
incredible
.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he asked.
What a question. I lowered my eyes. I didn’t want to say anything for fear of spoiling the moment. Finally I shook my head. “No.”
He smiled.
Bryson leaned over toward a table by the bed and opened its drawer. Pulled out a condom. For a minute I was embarrassed again. But then I told him about me. How I’ve been on birth control pills the last two months because of the horrible periods I was having. How the pills had really made things better.
“You telling me the truth?” He gave me a piercing look.
“Why would I lie? I can show them to you sometime if you want.”
For a long minute he looked at me. Then he put the condom back in the drawer.
I could tell he tried to be gentle, since I’d told him it was my first time. And even though he’s married and everything, he never made me feel dumb. “You are amazing,” he whispered to me. “I’ve never been with anyone like you before.”
I felt like I’d gone straight to heaven without even dying.
Afterwards, we lay there a long time until he said he had to go. I could have stayed forever.
I barely remember the drive home. It’s amazing I didn’t have a wreck. All I could do was relive those moments over and over again.
When I gave Mary Kay’s car keys back to her, she looked at me real funny. I couldn’t meet her eyes. The truth had to be all over my face.
“Tell me really, Carla, where’d you go?”
I shrugged. “What do you mean? I told you where.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, hurt and anger flicking across her face. “Fine, then, if that’s the way you want it.”
I walked home feeling terrible and wonderful at the same time. Wonderful about Bryson — but Mary Kay . . . I’ve never lied to her before. We’ve spent years telling each other everything. Suddenly I realized this is the way it would have to be. As long as I keep seeing Bryson — and of course I will — I won’t be able to tell a soul.
That thought made me sad. And lonely.
When I got home I just lay on my bed, thinking of Bryson.
Tonight Scott and I were supposed to go out. The closer the time came, the worse I felt. How could I possibly face him? Finally I called and told him I was sick. He sounded so sweet and worried about me and offered to come over.
I felt so guilty! “No, no, it’s okay. I just want to sleep.”
So here I am at almost midnight — wide awake.
I don’t know how I’m going to walk into the office Monday and act like nothing happened. Will Bryson be able to do that? Won’t Jilke take one look at us and know?
And what am I going to do about Scott? I don’t want to hurt him. But it’s going to be so hard acting normal around him.
