Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

49

"Y ou don't look like a hitchhiker."

"No," Daphne agreed. The trick was to control her nerves, to not let her concern show. As a professional, she knew all the tricks, though as a possible victim, many of these now eluded her. She explained, "I'm meeting a friend in Poulsbo. One of the deckhands told me there's only a couple taxis here at the dock, and I'm late as it is, and if I missed that taxi—"

"From the city?"

"Yes."

"I thought so."

"And you?"

"Here and there," he answered.

"As in here and there?" she asked. "Or as in anywhere? You mentioned Suquamish."

"Friends there."

"Are you Native American?" He looked more Polish, with a hint of Mediterranean in the skin color and around the eyes.

"No way. Just friends up there. You know. Some business acquaintances."

"What do you do?" she asked.

He glanced over and grinned, though not playfully.

It was an asocial grin, a grin that said to leave well enough alone, a grin she had seen worn on the faces of child killers and rapists and multiple murderers. Too many to count—but only the one mattered at the moment. She experienced that glance as voltage deep within her. It disemboweled her. Disturbed her. It dawned on her then. He knows who I am!

"Electronics," he answered. "I'm kind of like a sales rep. I handle a lot of lines." But there was that look again that said he could tell her anything he wanted because she'd never have the chance to repeat it. She saw Maria Sanchez lying in that hospital bed as still as a corpse except for the lonely eyes. Was he the man who had done that to her?

"Like electric company stuff?" she asked. "Or more like my VCR? You can't program my VCR, can you?"

He laughed at that, and pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and offered her one. When she declined, he cracked his window and lit up.

"Can't get my window to work," she said, as innocently as possible, her finger showing off the problem.

"Oh, here," he said. And her window operated again. They were traveling a busy roadway at forty-five miles an hour. "Thing is constantly on the fritz," he offered.

"Electronics. Maybe you could fix it."

He laughed again, enjoyed a pull on the cigarette and made a spitting noise with his lips as he exhaled. He said, "Let me guess: you're a model."

Her turn to laugh. She threw her head back and chortled to the faded ceiling fabric. "I'm flattered! Thank you."

"I've seen you someplace," he said, his inquiring expression making her uncomfortable. She felt him undress her with his eyes. Men did this all the time with her, but this one actually penetrated beyond the clothing to where her skin burned hot, and she felt repulsed by him. She imagined him with Samway: abusive, sexually dominant, taking what he wanted when he wanted it. The woman in her wished the car could drive faster, that Poulsbo would arrive sooner. She could see him dragging her by the hair into the woods, tying her up to some tree and having his pleasure with her. Leaving her there, half naked, gagged, to starve to death or be consumed by the elements. Such things happened more frequently than the civilian population knew— women of all ages disappeared at an alarming rate. The Bryce Abbott Fleks were responsible—the professional in her knew this as well.

"I'm a psychologist," she said, hoping it would put him off as it did so many people.

"A shrink?"

"Not exactly. A counselor is more like it. People come to me with their problems." She debated going for the heart, or sitting back to see where he took this, but the desire to dominate won out. She didn't want him controlling; she wanted him back on his heels. "Relationship problems, grieving the death of a loved one, control issues. You'd be surprised how many people can't control themselves."

"The TV?" he asked. "You on a show or somethin'? Is that where I seen you? Sally Jessy? Somethin' like that?"

"I've been interviewed by local news a few times, but nothing recently."

"Maybe that's it," he said.

She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. It felt a little to her like the cat batting the mouse in the face with the claws retracted, playing soft because there was plenty of time and both the mouse and the cat knew who was running the show. It was this control issue that she seized upon. She needed him off balance, or she needed to just shut up and get through the ride, but the psychologist in her wanted to get inside him in a much different way than he wanted to get inside her.

"You still look like a model to me," he said, working on the cigarette. "You should have waited for the taxi," he suggested.

A stabbing pain at the V of her rib cage. "How's that?" she asked, doing a decent job of concealing her sense of terror that resulted from the comment.

"You took a chance thumbing for a ride like that. There are a lot of creeps out here, you know? These islands? A woman as fine as you. . . . You understand what I'm saying."

"Well then, I'm glad it was you who picked me up," she said. She waited a moment and told him, "At least you don't strike me as a creep."

They both laughed. Flek first, from the gut and hon estly. Daphne followed with the best she could manage—laughter was not an easy concept for her.

The gun was in her purse at her feet. So was the cell phone.

He said, "You can put it up on the seat if you want." He'd caught her staring. "I won't steal nothing from it."

She covered quickly, "Just trying to remember if I left something back at the office or not."

"So take a look," he suggested.

"It's only lipstick," she vamped. "A different color."

"I like the one you got on."

"Thank you."

"Not that you care." He sounded suddenly bitter.

"Sure I do."

"That's bullshit, and we both know it. Pardon the French."

"I care what I look like," she told him. "That's all I meant."

"Priorities," he said in a dreamy voice. "So you being a psychologist and all. My brother got smoked last week. Dead. What do you think of that?"

"I'm sorry for your loss. But what do you think of that?" she asked. "That's the more important question."

He glanced over at her. "I miss him." A whisper that ran chills down her spine.

"That's only natural. Grief is expected at such times. As painful as it is, grief is a healing force. A cleansing force. It's good to just let it happen. Men, more so than women, can have a problem with that. They bottle up their grief. It comes out as anger or violence or both." She hesitated. "Are you experiencing any of that?"

"I didn't ask for a free session or nothing."

"Pardon me. Professional liability, I guess. I was only trying to help."

"You can't help. Nothing's going to bring him back. Nothing helps."

"I didn't mean any offense," she said.

Flek reached down, hooked the strap of her purse and yanked it up to the seat alongside of her. He had the reaction time of a lizard. She had barely seen his arm move.

"Jeez," he said, landing it next to her. "Thing weighs a ton! You oughta have wheels for that thing!"

The gun and two spare magazines made it very heavy. She panicked, her brain locking as she stared at her purse. She froze a moment too long and they both knew it.

"The lipstick," he said brightly, the grieving brother suddenly gone.

She didn't like the fact that he could throw the switch so quickly. Another in a long series of red flags alerting her to his instability. Boldt had plenty to fear from this man—Flek was capable of pulling the trigger.

He said, "Try the other color. I'll tell you which is best, which I like. It's a date, right? Poulsbo? A dinner date. Right? I'll tell you which one is better." He switched on the ceiling light.

"I ah—" They approached the Agate Passage bridge. "Listen," she said, "I don't want to put you out. If the casino is easier for you, let's do that. I can call a cab from Poulsbo and he'll be there in a matter of minutes."

"Don't try to change the subject!" he objected. "I'm telling you: I think you look great. But try the other color and I'll tell you what I think."

"But I left it. . . . I think. The lipstick. . . . I'm sure I did."

"Look," he said, nudging the purse closer to her with his open palm. As he touched the purse his head snapped up, his eyes intense and dangerous. Had he felt the gun barrel? He knows! she thought, this time with more certainty. "See if you've got it . . . if you brought it with you . . . I'd like to see it on you." He couldn't take his eyes off her purse. She thought he might wreck the car.

She couldn't open the purse. Her gun was near the top—she'd made sure of that on the ferry—right where she could reach it in a hurry. "I don't think so," she said. "You said you like this color. That's good enough for me."

"Come on," he pleaded.

She dragged the purse to her lap as they drove onto the bridge. She was thinking that if there was a place to pull the weapon and force him over it was there, where the car was restricted. She hadn't thought any of this out clearly enough. Improvisation was fine, but did not come naturally to a mind preoccupied with consideration, even fear. She angled the purse toward her and slipped her hand inside. The cool metal of the weapon washed a sense of relief through her. The rose lipstick had settled on the bottom amid Tampax, a Flair pen, and loose quarters. Her fingers danced between the two: the handgun and the lipstick.

Flek watched all this with one eye while driving with the other, unable to see into the purse. "Well?" he asked, as if knowing the dilemma she faced.

She pulled her hand from the purse ever so slowly and produced the lipstick and a crumpled tissue. "Found it!" she crowed.

"I knew it!" He pounded the steering wheel, suddenly a little boy. "Lemme see. Lemme see."

She snapped the purse shut, wondering if that was a mistake. "You mind?" she said, taking hold of the car's rear view mirror.

"Go 'head."

She smudged her lips onto the tissue, removing the sand colored lipstick and then carefully applied the rose, her attention on the mirror. She could feel him staring.

He said, "Both lips. You do both lips. My mother . . . she used to wear this really red lipstick. Would do just the top lip, the upper lip, you know, and then kiss her lips together to get it onto her lower."

"Bright colors, you can do that," Daphne said. She kissed her lips together a few times and presented herself to him. "Duh-duh," she trumpeted like a fanfare. "What do you think?"

He stared a little too long. She caught herself check ing the road. "She wore bright lipstick all the time, your mother?"

"I got it," he said confidently, meaning she could take her eyes off the road. "I'm not gonna hit no one."

In control, she thought. "What about the rose?"

"It's sexier," he said.

He successfully turned the attention away from himself, and she felt resentful of this. She wanted to get back to discussion of his mother. "My mother—" she said, "I'm probably older than you . . . but she wore this fire-engine red lipstick, and I mean really big on her mouth."

"My mother was a waitress," he said. "And she sold clothes too for a while. And bartended and stuff. Changed jobs all the time, but I don't think she ever changed that lipstick."

"Is she still alive?"

"Booze got her. It was a long time ago."

"Do you drink?"

He glanced over at her again. "That one's way sexier than the other one."

"You think?" She tried to sound flattered.

The road, state highway 305, swung left past the casino toward Poulsbo. Suquamish—Indianola was to the right. Flek followed traffic.

"You want to get a beer?" she asked, as they neared the casino. Her thought process was quick and therefore flawed, though she tried to work all angles before speaking, her mind a flurry of thoughts and consideration. She wanted a chance to telephone Boldt, to tell him where she was and what she had in mind. He could then call ahead to Poulsbo and arrange for the local police to pick up Flek moments after dropping her off. He would never be out of her sight. She might even be able to start an interrogation immediately after his booking. It felt like a plan to her, but she needed this chance to call Boldt ahead of her being dropped off. A bar seemed the perfect place—her cell phone from a toilet stall, well away from the ears of Abby Flek.

"Right now?" he asked.

"One beer would help relax me—before this dinner," she said.

He jerked the wheel hard, throwing Daphne against the door. The tires cried and the huge car fishtailed slightly. An on-coming car sounded its horn as Flek shot the Eldorado across to the far side and bounced it into a gas station next to the casino. He hit the brakes hard and threw her forward against the dash. "Sit tight," he said, leaving the car running. "Couple beers coming up." He jumped from the car and hurried inside.