Mad River Road (3 page)

“She was clumsy. I can’t help that she was always walking into things.”

Gracie shook her head.

“Where is she?”

“What?”

“As soon as I got out, I headed straight for home. And what do I find? A couple of queers have set up housekeeping in my apartment. That’s what I find. And when I ask them what happened to the former tenant, they blink their mascara-covered eyes and tell me they have
absolutely
no idea.
Absolutely
no idea,” he repeated, his voice lifting a full octave on the word. “That’s how this skinny faggot says it, like he’s the queen of fucking England. I almost popped him one right then and there.” He tightened his grip on her collar with one hand, retrieved the knife from his pocket with the other, used his thumb to snap the switchblade into view. “Tell me where she is, Gracie.”

She was struggling now, frantically kicking her legs, flailing at him with her arms. “I don’t know where she is.”

Once again his fingers dug into the flesh of her throat. “Tell me where she is or I swear I’ll break your fucking neck.”

“She left Miami right after you went to jail.”

“Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know. She left without telling anyone.”

With that he knocked her on her back and straddled her, using the switchblade to cut the drawstring of her pajama bottoms even as his hand tightened its death grip on her neck. “You have to the count of three to tell me where she is. One … two …”

“Please. Don’t do this.”

“Three.” He pressed the knife against her throat while tugging her pajama bottoms down over her hips.

“No. Please. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”

He smiled, loosened his grip just enough for her to catch her breath, raised the switchblade level with her eyes. “Where is she?”

“She went to California.”

“California?”

“To be near her mother.”

“No. She wouldn’t do that. She knows it’d be the first place I’d think of.”

“She moved there three months ago. She thought it was safe after all this time, and she wanted to get as far away from Florida as possible.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” His hand moved to the zipper of his jeans. “Just like I’m sure you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Sure you are. And you’re lousy at it.” He lowered the knife to her cheek, drew a line in her flesh starting just beneath her eye, then dragged it toward her chin.

“No!” She was screaming now, thrashing from side to side, the blood flowing from the cut on her face onto the white of her pillowcase as he positioned himself between her legs. “I’ll tell you the truth. I swear, I’ll tell you the truth.”

“Why would I believe anything you tell me now?”

“Because I can prove it to you.”

“Yeah? How?”

“Because I have it written down.”

“Where?”

“In my address book.”

“Which is where exactly?”

“In my purse.”

“I’m starting to lose patience here, Gracie.”

“My purse is in the closet. If you let me up, I can get it for you.”

“What do you say we get it together?” He pushed himself off her, zipping up his pants as he dragged her off the bed toward the closet. She clutched at the bottoms of her pajamas, trying to hold them up as he pulled open the closet door and quickly scanned its contents. A couple of colorful print blouses, half a dozen pairs of pants, a few expensive-looking jackets, at least ten pairs of shoes, several leather handbags. “Which one?” Already his hand was reaching toward the top shelf.

“The orange one.”

With one swipe, he knocked the orange bag to the floor. “Open it.” He pushed her to her knees on the white shag rug. Several drops of blood fell from her cheek, staining the orange leather of the purse as she struggled with the clasp. Another drop buried itself into the carpet’s soft white pile. “Now hand me the goddamn address book.”

Whimpering, Gracie did as she was told.

He opened the book, flipped through the pages until he found the name he was looking for. “So she didn’t go to California after all,” he said with a smile.

“Please,” she cried softly. “You have what you came for.”

“What kind of name is that for a street? Mad River Road,” he pronounced with an exaggerated flourish.

“Please,” she said again. “Just go.”

“You want me to go? Is that what you said?”

She nodded.

“You want me to go so you can call your girlfriend as soon as I leave and warn her?”

Now she was shaking her head. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Just like you wouldn’t call the police either, would you?”

“I won’t call anyone. I swear.”

“Really? Why is it I find that so hard to believe?”

“Please …”

“I don’t think I have any choice here, Gracie. I mean, aside from the fact that I’ve been looking forward to killing you almost as much as I’m looking forward to killing her, I just don’t see where I have any choice. Do you?” He smiled, pulled her roughly to her feet, brought the knife to her throat. “Say good night, Gracie.”

“No!” she screamed, flailing at him with all her strength, her elbow catching him in the ribs and knocking the air from his lungs as she squirmed out of his grasp and raced for the hall. She was almost at the front door when the toe of her right foot caught on the bottom of her pajamas and sent her sprawling along the wood floor. Still she didn’t stop. She scampered toward the door, screaming at the top of her lungs for someone to hear her and come to her rescue.

He watched in amusement as she reached for the doorknob, knowing he had plenty of time before she’d be able to pull herself to her feet. She certainly was tenacious, he
thought, not without admiration. And pretty strong for such a skinny girl. Not to mention a loyal friend. Although when push came to shove, she’d given up her friend rather than submit to his admittedly less-than-romantic overtures. So maybe not such a good friend after all. No, she deserved her fate. She’d asked for it.

Although he had no intention of slitting her throat, he decided, returning the knife to his pocket and reaching for her just as her hand made contact with the brass knob of the front door. No, that would be way too messy, not to mention unnecessarily risky. There’d be blood everywhere, and then everyone would know immediately there’d been foul play. It wouldn’t take too long before he was a suspect, especially once they realized he was out of jail, and put two and two together.

She was kicking and scratching at him now, her green eyes begging him to stop, as once again his fingers tightened around her throat. She was screaming too, although he barely heard her, so caught up was he in the moment. He’d always loved using his hands. It was so personal, so concrete. There was something so satisfying about actually feeling the life slowly drain from someone’s body.

He’d drawn a bit of a break with her being on a year’s sabbatical. It might be days, even weeks, before anyone reported her missing. Although he knew he couldn’t count on that. Gracie had lots of friends, and maybe she was supposed to be having lunch with one of them tomorrow. So he shouldn’t get too cocky. The sooner he paid a visit to Mad River Road, the better.

“I thought we’d take a little drive up the coast,” he told Gracie as her eyes grew so large they threatened to burst
from her head. “I’ll just drop you in some swamp along the way, let the alligators have their way with you.”

Even after her arms went limp at her sides, even when he knew for certain she was dead, he held on to her neck for another full minute, silently counting off the seconds before opening his fingers one at a time, then smiling with satisfaction as her body collapsed at his feet. He walked into the bedroom and removed the bloody case from its pillow before remaking the bed, careful to leave the room as he had found it. He retrieved her purse from the floor where he had dropped it, pocketed a fistful of cash along with her credit card, and hunted around for her keys. “You don’t mind if we use your car, do you?” he asked as he returned to the front door and lifted Gracie’s still warm body into his arms. She looked up at him with cold, dead eyes. He smiled. “I’ll take that as a no,” he said.

J
amie Kellogg had a plan. The plan was relatively simple. It was to find the nearest respectable-looking bar, find a nice dark corner, where no one could see she’d been crying, and drown her sorrows in a couple of white wine spritzers. Not enough to make her drunk, of course, or even tipsy. She still had the long drive back to Stuart after all. She needed to have her wits about her. Nor could she risk being hungover in the morning. Not with Mrs. Starkey draped around her neck like an albatross.

She looked up and down the almost empty street. The chances were slim to none she’d find a decent bar in this area, although what better place for one than close to a hospital? She looked back over her shoulder at the low-rise medical building known as Good Samaritan, and grimaced with the memory of the scene that had just played itself out in its intensive care unit.
Don’t tell us you’re surprised
, she could almost hear her mother and sister whisper in her ear, their voices in perfect harmony with each other, the way they always were, or at least, the way they always used to be, when her mother was alive.

“Of course I was surprised,” Jamie muttered without moving her lips. “How was I to know?” A sudden gust of wind carried her question into the warm night air. At least it had finally stopped raining. For the last two days, the entire east coast of Florida had been pummeled by a series of spectacular storms, and some of the streets, including her own, had flooded over. Yes, I know that’s what I get for insisting on an apartment overlooking the water, but it’s just a little stream, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like I’m living in some overpriced oceanfront condo, like some younger siblings I could mention. She marched purposefully toward the small parking lot attached to the hospital, all the while continuing her silent dispute with her sister and recently deceased mother. Who would have thought the damn river would overflow?

That’s just your problem
, her mother began.

You don’t think
, her sister finished.

“And you don’t give me enough credit,” Jamie whispered, climbing behind the wheel of her old blue Thunderbird, the only thing she’d walked away with—driven away with?—when her divorce became final last year. She pulled out of the parking lot, hopeful she’d find a suitable establishment before she reached the turnpike.

Luckily her apartment was on the second floor of the three-story building, and so her unit had escaped the water damage suffered by the less fortunate tenants on the floor below. And speaking of water damage, she thought, checking her supposedly waterproof mascara in the car’s rearview mirror, gratified to see that her tears had left no lasting trail. Indeed, big brown eyes stared back at her with something approaching serenity. Sun-streaked, shoulder-length hair framed a pretty, oval face that, amazingly,
registered none of her inner turmoil. Whose big idea had it been to surprise him anyway? Hadn’t he told her repeatedly that he hated surprises?

On impulse, she turned the car left on Dixie and headed south. Yes, it meant she’d have farther to drive later on, but downtown West Palm was only a few blocks away, and she’d undoubtedly find a more welcoming atmosphere in the bars along Clematis than those on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard. And this way, if she wasn’t immediately comfortable with one establishment, she could simply continue on down the street to the next. She wouldn’t even have to get back in her car.

A bright red Mercedes was pulling out of a parking space on Datura, and Jamie quickly maneuvered the old blue Thunderbird into its place, careful to align it properly with the curb. She climbed out of the car and fished inside her purse for some change, feeding more than was required into the nearby meter. She wasn’t planning on staying very long.

Jamie turned the corner onto Clematis as a young couple, their arms falling intimately across each other’s shoulders, their hips seemingly welded together, walked past her, the girl’s skinny gold stilettos clicking noisily along the pavement. They stopped at the corner to kiss before crossing against the light. Going home to happily ever after, Jamie thought, watching them disappear into the night. She shook her head. Instead of happily ever after, she’d settle for one night without lies.

The Watering Hole was surprisingly busy for a Wednesday night. Jamie checked her watch. Seven o’clock. Dinnertime. Early May. Why wouldn’t the place be busy? It was a popular spot on a trendy street, and even though
the so-called season was technically over, there were still plenty of snowbirds around, reluctant to pack their final bags and head north for the summer. Probably that’s what she should do, she thought. Just pack up all her belongings and throw them into the backseat of her car. Get the hell out of town. Again.

Who would miss her? Not her family. Her mother had died eight weeks ago; her father and wife number four—unbelievably, he’d married two Joans, one Joanne, and now a former stewardess named Joanna, who at thirty-six was only seven years Jamie’s senior—lived somewhere in New Jersey; her sister would be glad to see her go. (“You’re worse than my kids,” Cynthia said when Jamie had called yesterday to commiserate about all the rain.) Jamie’s job as a claims adjuster at an insurance agency was boring and going nowhere, her boss an unpleasant woman who was always in a snit about something. Jamie would have quit months ago if it hadn’t been for the fact it was Cynthia’s husband, Todd, who’d recommended her for the job in the first place.
What’s the matter with you? Can’t you ever stick with anything?
she could hear her sister admonish. Followed by,
I should have known. You’re such a flake
. To be further followed by,
When are you going to stop fooling around and start taking some responsibility? When are you going to go back to law school?
To be hammered into the ground with,
Who quits school two credits shy of graduation to marry some jerk she barely knows?
And in case she was still breathing,
You know I’m only saying these things for your own good. It’s high time you stepped up to the plate, took control of your life. Are you ever going to be ready?