The Devil's Redhead (20 page)

He scrambled down the moonlit hillside scattering cows. Reaching the Dart in its blind of pampas grass, he threw his tripod and camera bag into the trunk and climbed behind the wheel. He put the keys in the ignition but did not engage the starter. Instead, he sat low in the seat, waiting.

Minutes passed. It was possible she'd taken the road west instead, he thought. He should hurry then, follow. He didn't move. His mind raced, his body sat. Then headlights broke the hill and a Pathfinder streamed past in low gear. Abatangelo caught a glimpse of her profile.

Shel drove with one hand on the wheel; the other hand held her head. She had to get out of the house, needed to drive, be out in the open air. For just a short while. She felt reasonably certain they wouldn't begrudge her that. They hadn't even bothered to post a man at the gate, which was normal for uneventful nights when the compound sat dark and empty, nights when it was left to Frank and Shel and Rowena to make the place look like any other out here, nothing more than occupied. Just another off night, she thought, that's what this was. That said something. It said she'd held up her end of the bargain. Frank had stayed in the saddle, he'd gone out to do his bit. And what she'd told Felix was true: She knew nothing. She could not connect anyone directly to anything, no matter what happened; she posed a threat to no one. That said, she told herself, not too far. They'll sense it somehow, track you down just to brag about how they did it, if you stray too far.

In her rearview mirror she spotted the pair of headlights. They were two curves behind her, gaining. It was Felix, she thought. It had all been a test, see if she'd stay put. Her throat clenched. This wasn't the sort of thing he'd want to handle personally. Maybe it was Bud Lally. Maybe it was the Mexicans everyone was bitching about. Maybe they were coming for Frank. And when they found her instead, what then?

She slowed, and the lights kept coming. Whoever they were, they weren't just following, they meant to catch her. She tapped the accelerator once to gain some distance, floored it suddenly, but no more than a thousand yards later she eased her foot off the pedal entirely. The truck slowed to a stop. No more running, she thought. Too far to any crossroad, no turnoff, no escape. Make your peace. If they mean to get you, they will.

The car in pursuit rounded the turn and drifted to a stop behind her, headlights remaining on. Please don't drag this out, she thought, so I won't be tempted to beg. Only one man left the car. She could not see if others remained behind. But of course, she thought, he's huge. She swallowed hard, fighting an impulse to retch, and leaned her head against the window glass, peering into the mirror. Something in the walk, the docking hips, the loping gait and the cock of the head, it seemed familiar.

The figure came up alongside and rapped lightly on the window glass. She found herself taking deep breaths through her mouth, eyes closed. Get it done with, she thought. Opening her eyes, turning, she bolted at the sight of the face, screaming, “Oh good God!”

“It's me,” Abatangelo shouted through the glass. He pressed his hands to the window. “Hey, hey, don't be scared. Just me.”

CHAPTER

10

The music from the barroom jukebox blared so loud the ladies' room mirror shivered above the white row of sinks. Shel had been standing there several minutes, unable to muster the will to step out into the bar where Danny sat waiting.

At the sight of him, the moment she recognized his face and realized she wasn't daydreaming, a knot unraveled in her chest. It had gotten worse as they'd driven to town, him following behind in his own car. She'd started sobbing so hard she'd thought of pulling over. But then he would've pulled over, too, and she couldn't let him see her like that. It was ridiculous, really. The complications boggled her.

In better times, younger times, such dim prospects would have inspired in her a steadying defiance. Now, with Danny at the bar, she wondered if she was equal to the task of simply sitting next to him and holding up her end of the conversation. She couldn't tell him what was going on. He'd want to take charge, pull her out of the pit she was in, and that would get him killed.

Several sinks down, two youngsters fussed at themselves, yammering at their own reflections. The nearest was a sinewy blonde in a spangled shift that clung to her shape like a body stocking. She was pretty in the local manner, everything in place, nothing too stark or ethnic. Straight teeth. Boyish of hip and wow of boob.

The other girl was on the chubby side, wrapped tight in a pink dress that pinched up her cleavage. Her hair erupted above her head in coils of syrupy henna. She brought to mind something Shel had read years before on a bathroom wall:
CUTE
—
LAST STOP BEFORE UGLY
.

The blonde gripped her clutch and snapped it shut. Using her hip, she nudged the door open. Music blared through the opening like a train horn. The blonde and her homely sidekick left without so much as a glance back at Shel. The door swung quietly behind them.

Shel stared at her hands, clutching the sink edge, avoiding her reflection. When she did look up finally, she confronted the middle-aged woman she had become. How long will it take him, she wondered, to decide this was all a wild mistake?

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and bit her lip to make it flush. Overall, she thought, addressing her own image, you look used.

Abatangelo positioned himself at the bar in such a way as to put the greatest distance between himself and the jukebox. It was the size of a tanning stall and the music it bellowed consisted of throbbing mush punctuated by schoolboy grunts. He disliked it less from a distance.

The bartender was a tall and rangy man with large, strong hands. He stood alone with his arms crossed by the ice bin, nursing a tonic water. A twelve-stepper, Abatangelo guessed. Ordering a dark rum neat with a soda back, he paid with a twenty and let his change sit. This is exactly the kind of joint, he thought, we used to avoid. Shel was sending him a message, no doubt. Don't expect much. Or, more to the point: Go home.

From long habit he began to view the room one-eyed, appraising shadows, framing possible angles and assessing depth of field. The decor called to mind a dozen interchangeable cities—Des Moines, Ft. Wayne, Columbus, Tulsa—cities in which he'd once grabbed a quick drink in an off-ramp motel bar. No one looked at home. The women were mouthy and overdressed. The men were scrubbed blue-collar types, recent entrants to the service sector, he supposed. Here and there a few souses loomed, hunched over beers, eyeing one and all with horny menace. Ready to fuck or fight. They lent the place its only character, them and the ax handle the bartender had tucked beside the ice bin to keep them in line.

Abatangelo sipped his rum. So what's the plan, Dan? First, he surmised, don't let on that you know her situation. She'll read that as charity and spit everything else you say right back at you. Don't try too hard to charm her, either. She's got built-in equipment for sniffing through charm, and besides, your mechanism there is rusty.

Judging from her eyes, Shel hadn't enjoyed much in the way of charm lately. It was odd, seeing in the flesh what he'd detected in her letters. He didn't want to pin a word like “depression” on it—words were particularly cheap at that end of the psychological spectrum—but she looked like it was all she could do just to function.

He checked his watch, sipped his soda, felt his pulse skip around. Two made-up vamps strutted from the ladies' room, braying at the boys. Shel didn't follow. What was taking her?

He pictured her scrambling out through a propped-open transom, jogging to her car and fleeing. That would be exotic, he thought. Then he pictured the two of them lying side by side, an impulsive stroke of tenderness, a motel room, naked. She would hike the sheet up around her chest, head propped on one hand. The lamp behind would cast a warming glow along her body. How many centuries had passed since he'd touched her? She would pluck gray hairs from his chest. She would crack unseemly jokes about his prison muscle.

Shel emerged from the ladies' room with a tentative stride. Abatangelo, watching her, felt every step break his heart. You're here for the same reason I'm here, he thought. Admit it.

Shunning eye contact, she crossed the room and slid a bill across the bar, nodding with her head toward the jukebox. The bartender palmed the bill, leaned down, reached for the throw switch, then turned around and flipped on the radio as the jukebox grew dark and the music faded into dissonance then silence. A roar of disapproval erupted from the crowd, to which the bartender turned his back. He adjusted the radio volume to a level compatible with talk.

“What was the fee?” Abatangelo asked.

Shel hiked herself onto the stool next to his. “Enough, apparently,” she said.

“Doubt it made you any friends.”

“Pete's my friend here,” she replied, nodding toward the bartender. As an afterthought, she added: “We used to work together. Long ago.”

She said this without sentiment. Down the bar, Pete the bartender set about mixing a double Stoli Bloody Mary. A dab of Worcestershire, several shakes of celery salt.

“I fear,” Abatangelo said, “Pete finds me unworthy.”

“Pete thinks everybody's unworthy,” Shel responded. “It's his curse.”

Pete concluded his preparations and carried Shel's drink toward her like a chalice. He spun a napkin down and pinned it with the glass stem. Abatangelo nudged a five from his change but Pete lifted a nay-saying hand.

“Thank you,” Shel said to both of them.

Pete smiled toward her, eyed Abatangelo, then retreated. Shortly he resumed his position at the ice bin, far enough away to imply discretion, close enough to overhear if voices were raised.

Shel regarded with relief the cocktail before her—fuss of celery, lime squeeze, peppery ice. The first taste went down with a delicious greedy snap and she promptly considered draining the glass, ordering a second. Instead, she took the celery stalk in her fingers and used it to stir.

A long silence followed. Sensing Abatangelo about to break it, she launched in first, saying, “Who are you?” Listening to her own voice, she decided the words did not sound coy or malicious. She meant to sound curious, as though they were strangers. A bit of make-believe, to lighten things up, give them a little emotional leeway. “If you don't mind my asking,” she added.

Abatangelo stared back at her with a look of bafflement. He picked up his glass and rolled the rum around, sniffing it, sipping.

“I am,” he said at length, “a photographer. I work in the city.”

“You're a long way from home.”

“I came out to see an old friend. Lost touch over the years. I'm hoping she'll turn up soon.”

He smiled gamely. She felt herself grow sad. She wanted a kiss from him.

“How did you lose touch,” she said, “you and this old friend of yours.”

“I've been away,” he said. “The desert.”

“Studying with a guru?”

This provoked a helpless cackle. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Me and all my hermit pals. We were studying with our guru. We were paving the road to enlightenment.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Well, it got a little dull.”

“Maybe your guru was messing with your head.”

“That's all part of the process.”

“Then who needs it?”

“Me,” Abatangelo said. “Wicked me. The wise ones decided: Send the sorry motherfucker to the desert, that'll straighten him out. Let him learn the ancient secrets of boredom and humiliation.”

“Listen …”

“That's enlightenment in the desert, my dear. That and an inkling, that, back in civilization, the people you used to know quite easily abide your absence. They, how does one put it, move on.”

He looked at her inquiringly. She felt her throat tighten.