The Sanctuary

12

I SPENT TWO more hours with Keith before he ducked out to run some errands. I’d shown him my kit, and, unless I’d completely misread him, he was impressed. Not with what I had, but with my knowledge of knives and guns. Naturally, I felt obligated to show him how each should be used. Sure, I didn’t look as natural as Danny or Keith, but, to use Keith’s words, I would get the job done.

He asked why I thought I needed all of it. The gun, he understood. The knives, sure, although the Bowie was a behemoth in my hands. The pepper spray, even the handcuffs—who doesn’t have a pair of handcuffs, right?

But the wire was a different matter. I told him it had come as part of a detective kit I’d ordered online. Truth be told, I don’t know why I thought I needed a wire. It’s not like I had any plans to run up behind a robber and strangle him until he dropped what was in his hands.

When I told Keith this, he smiled and shook his head. “No, but you’d be surprised how effective it can be in a tight spot. I’d say you take the folding knife, and the wire, nothing else.”

“The wire?”

“You can’t pack a gun, they’ll just take it from you. If they search you, they may find the knife, but the wire, they’ll never find. Not unless they strip search you.”

“Hide it where?”

“Around your hips. Under your jeans. If everything else fails and you still have use of your arms, you get to it and you get it around their neck from behind. Then you hang on for your life.”

Made sense. The knife went in my right pocket—I had to give them at least something to find.

The plan was simple: I would play the naïve damsel in distress, willing to do anything to save her man behind bars. Keith would approach from a side street and park his Ford Ranger in an alley one block away. If things went wrong, I would push the small reset button on a black wristwatch he’d given me. A page would be sent to his iPhone, which was tracking mine through its GPS. If things went terribly wrong, I had the wire and the knife.

I had a pair of short black leather Harley boots with inch-thick soles that I’d bought two years earlier, thinking they looked cute. After wearing them for a week whenever I went out, I decided they were too heavy and I hadn’t worn them since. I also had a black leather Harley vest I’d bought with the boots. Over a cropped red tank top I looked quite the biker chick. A skinny one with a white belly.

The Rough Riders bar was located on the Pacific Coast Highway in Long Beach. It was a fairly typical bar from what I could tell by its website, trying hard to appear inviting to nonbikers without alienating bikers.

I parked my Toyota in the small parking lot on the north side of Rough Riders at 9:55 and called Keith.

“I’m here.”

“Good. You’re sure you’re up for this?”

“Does it matter? My palms are slimy, what does that tell you?”

“It’s not too late to—”

“Of course it is. We both know I don’t have a choice.”

He said nothing.

“I can handle myself, right? I’ve been in worse situations, believe me. Just be ready to bail me out.”

“I’m right here, Renee. Anything happens, you page me.”

“What if they take my watch?”

“We don’t even know there will be a they. You just go straight to the phones and find whatever he’s left for you. Then get out. I’ll meet you at Brady’s Diner as planned. That’s all that’s going to happen.”

“What if they want me to do something crazy?”

“We’ve been over this. Anything illegal and you get to the bathroom and get me on the phone.”

“What if they’re listening to my phone right now?”

“Renee…”

“I know, too many what-ifs.”

“We don’t know. But this guy used a letter, not an e-mail, to deliver his demands. He doesn’t strike me as a tech-head.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know. But it’s a comforting thought. Just get in and get out. If I haven’t heard from you in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in.”

My questions were only my way of coping. We’d gone over all the details a dozen times already.

“Okay, I’m going.”

“Renee…”

“Yeah?”

“Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“No. I think you’re probably smarter than me. But the kind of people who would be connected to Randell are scum. Resist the temptation to set them straight. They also tend to have hair triggers.”

“Okay. I gotta go now.”

“Be careful.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” I said, then disconnected.

It was 9:59 when I stepped up to the door with the large red and blue neon sign that said Rough Riders. Seven bikes were parked out front, at least a few of them Harleys. The sidewalk was empty except for an older man with a cane who hobbled away with his back to me.

Okay, Renee…okay, just any biker chick in on a Thursday night, looking for her old man.

I pushed the door open to the sound of Guns N’ Roses playing “Sweet Child of Mine” and stepped into the dimly lit establishment. The bar was to my left. Two bartenders served six or seven meaty guys and one woman seated on bar stools. A dozen tables with oak chairs sat on a well-worn wooden floor that ran up to a small dance floor. A railing separated the main bar from a brown-carpeted lounge that had two pool tables and a couple couches. The walls were lined with beer lights and biker paraphernalia.

All of this I saw at a glance.

That and the fact that the floor needed to be scrubbed and swept, that the poor lighting failed to hide stains on the walls from one too many thrown beer bottles, that a bad shampoo had failed to remove all the spill spots on the carpet. I was walking into bacteria heaven.

Two things I didn’t immediately see: One was the public phone. It was probably by the bathrooms around the bar. The second was the people, because I hadn’t come to meet the people, only get to the phone as quickly and quietly as possible.

But then my eyes took in the patrons and I found myself returning stares. Not one or two, but a dozen of the thirty or forty people in the bar, looking at the skinny white biker chick with the black leather vest who’d just entered their sacred realm. Ripe for the pickings.

From what I could see the room was seventy percent men, thirty percent women, half of them bikers, half wanting to be. Many of them had beards and even more had tattoos on their arms. They were mostly dressed the way you would expect biker chicks and dudes to dress, in jeans, T-shirts, and jackets or vests. A thin fellow with a silver chain looping from his pocket was slow-dancing with a girl who had a big bottom, but he was looking over her shoulder at me, not at her.

I avoided all their stares and walked along the bar, feeling their eyes on me. I headed to the left, where I saw the two prehistoric pay phones on the wall between the men’s and women’s bathrooms. It was even darker in the hall than in the bar.

So far so good.

I didn’t know what I was looking for, and my heart was beating like a jackhammer. There was no package on the ledge under the phones, no folders or envelopes on top of either, nothing but two phones long ago stripped of their phone books.

Relieved that the hallway was clear, I stepped up and frantically searched the first phone, ducking around it to get a better view of what might be under, above, or behind it. Nothing but years of crud. I grabbed the phone and tugged, half expecting it to tear free, but it didn’t budge.

So I hopped over to the second phone and bobbed around again. This time I saw the small folded note tucked underneath the metal box, and my heart missed a beat.

“Can I help you?”

One of the bartenders, drying a glass, had stuck his head into the hall—a tall guy with curly hair and long sideburns. He weighed at least three of me.

“No thanks.”

“You need change for the phone?”

“No. I was just going to the bathroom.”

“Well that’s a phone, honey, not a door opener. Bathroom’s to your left.”

“Not a door opener, huh?” Keith’s warning not to help people see the errors of their ways whispered warning in my mind. I took the three steps to the bathroom door and turned back. He was still looking.

“I collect old phones,” I said, offering him a dumb smile. “Someday they’ll be worth a mint.”

“Huh. Never thought about it that way.”

I ducked into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Took a few calming breaths. Okay, I had to look more natural, not like some junkie searching for loose change and making strange comments about collecting phones. But at least I’d found the note.

“Wow, those boots are adorable.”

I jerked my head to the side. There was an open toilet stall facing me, and on the pot sat a woman. She was peeing. Her eyes were adoring my boots in a way that made me wonder if she wanted to confess a fetish.

“I always liked those kind of boots,” she said. “You get them at the Harley shop?”

The place smelled like fake pine-tree spray and urine, and it occurred to me that with every sharp inhalation I was breathing in thousands, maybe millions, of bathroom bugs.

“I got them online,” I said. “Same with the vest.”

She said something about her birthday, but I was already halfway out the door, relieved to see that the bartender was gone. Using my thumb and finger, I pinch-plucked the note out from under the phone and unfolded it. The sheet was one of those tiny pages ripped out of a spiral-bound notebook. It was too dark to read the words, but I immediately recognized the handwriting.

Sicko.

I edged down the hall into better light and read the four words written in red ink.

Dance with the bear.

I turned the note over. Nothing. That was it.

Dance with the bear.

My mind raced, considering a retreat to the bathroom to think through the meaning of the instructions. But there was a woman who adored my boots peeing in there. Dance with the bear—what was the bear? Wasn’t that Russia? Dance with a Russian bear? I imagined myself doing a Russian folk dance, but no, that couldn’t be what Sicko wanted. He wanted me to steal a million dollars.

Was bear another term for prison? A judge? A powerful woman with a beard? Or was it a who? If so, the note would have said just bear. Dance with Bear with a capital B. Not Dance with the bear with a small B.

I had the note. I should go back out to the street and call Keith, who at least would have an opinion on what Sicko could possibly mean. If he wanted me to rob a bank, why didn’t he just say that? But then I knew, didn’t I? Sicko was more interested in unraveling Danny and me than in getting the million dollars. That was Randell’s interest, not Sicko’s.

I shoved the note into my left jeans pocket and made a beeline for the main room. Head down, eager to get out and breathe some fresh air, I passed by the patrons seated at the bar. But halfway to the door I glanced up. In that single glimpse, I saw the four men gathered around the table closest to the dance floor. They all had tattoos and beards. Three of them wore vests with patches. Two of them were staring at me.

One of them wore a black T-shirt with the words Don’t Screw with the Bear written above an image of a roaring bear head.

The man’s eyes held mine and he winked.

I made it to the street in five seconds flat and had Keith on the phone in another five.

“You good?”

“No, not really. He says ‘dance with the bear.’”

Keith paused. “The note said ‘dance with a bear’?”

My hands were shaking. “There’s a man in there with a T-shirt that says Don’t Screw with the Bear.”

“And the note just reads ‘dance with the bear’?”

“The man winked at me.”

“He winked?”

“Sicko wants me to dance with the fat, bearded man in the T-shirt. The bear-man is working with him.”

“Hold on, we don’t know that. You sure there was nothing else on the note?”

I turned and looked back at the red and blue neon Rough Riders sign. “He wants me to dance with the bear. It’s the man with the shirt.”

“Maybe, but we have to be certain.”

“He winked at me, Keith! What else do you need?”

I could hear Keith’s silence and it only reinforced my conviction.

“If I don’t—”

“It’s a test,” Keith interrupted.

I headed back, walking on feet that seemed to move on their own now. The letter in my apartment claimed I would find my next test at the phone in the Rough Riders. I had found that test. It was to dance with the bear. The man in the T-shirt was that bear. If I was wrong, I would find out soon enough, but if the man was the bear and I didn’t dance with him, Sicko would make Danny pay.

“I have to find out,” I said.

“You’re going to dance with him?”

“I have to. Right?”

A beat.

“Just don’t get yourself in any trouble, Renee. Don’t do anything rash. Stay calm.”

“I have to go.”

“Call me as soon as you get out. Please, just be careful.”

“I’m a very careful person, Keith. You’ll get to know that about me.” I hung up the phone, shoved it into my pocket, and turned into the Rough Riders bar.

For the second time in ten minutes the skinny white girl with the black leather vest and the heavy but adorable Harley boots stepped into the realm of bikers and wannabe bikers. But this time she did not stop at the entrance and take note of how dirty the place was.

This time she walked straight toward the table with the four men closest to the dance floor and looked directly into the eyes of the man wearing the Don’t Screw with the Bear T-shirt.

I was halfway to the table, determined to deal with the bearded man, when another man stepped away from the bar and looked down at me with smiling brown eyes.

“How ’bout I buy you a drink?”

I almost pushed past him but then thought better of it. He looked like a regular here, sidled up to the bar as he’d been, and it occurred to me that he might be able to help me.

“A drink?”

“Sure. Just a friendly drink. You look like you could use one, darling.”

“Well, I guess that depends.”

“It does, does it? Depends on what? ’Cause I’d hate to see a pretty girl like you lost in a bar like this. Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. Do you know Bear?”

He cocked his head. “Bear? Can’t say that I do.”

“That man behind you in the bear T-shirt. You don’t know him?”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, saw that the man in the bear T-shirt was staring at us, and offered a curt nod. “Yup. That’s Bill.” He turned back to me. “Why, you know him?”

“Should I?”

A knowing smile slowly formed on his face. “Well that depends if you like three hundred pounds of man smothering you.”

“You ever see him wear that shirt before?”

He looked again and shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I have. You want him? Because I think he could be persuaded.”

“That depends.”

Without waiting for me to lead the conversation any further, the man turned and called out, “Hey, Bill, I think the pretty girl here likes you.”

The cacophony of background voices faded, leaving the sounds of AC/DC blaring alone.

“Well, heck, send her over,” Bear roared. “Come on over here, sugar.”

That was one way to approach Sicko’s test. I was now fully committed, and I let my impetuous nature lead me on. With only a moment’s hesitation, I stepped past the man who’d offered to buy me a drink and walked up to the table where Bear and his three friends sat, wearing impish grins. They needed baths, all of them. And, hairy as they were, they should have at least had the decency to trim the hair poking out of their ears.

“Are you Bear?” I asked.

The man scooted his chair back and patted a thigh as thick as an oak trunk. “Come to papa, sugar.”

Now, I could have told him where to shove his sugar, but I refused to let my disgust distract me from what I’d come to do.

“Actually, I’d rather dance,” I said.

That earned a chuckle from the man to his right, a thin fellow who looked half Bear’s age. “That’s right, Bear. She wants to dance for us. Honey, you can dance for me anytime you like.”

“Shut up, Steve. Don’t you listen to him, sugar.” He paused, eyeing me with round, bloodshot eyes, then spoke in a lower voice. “How much you charging?”

Heat washed over my face and it took all of my focus not to kick him in his shin and leave. But that didn’t stop me from helping him understand that I wasn’t a prostitute and that I hadn’t offered him a lap dance.

“On the floor, you buffoon.” What if he wasn’t the right man? “A friend told me I should dance with a man called Bear. Either you’re that man, in which case I would like to dance with you, or you’re not, and I can leave you to your beer.”

His smile softened, but he didn’t immediately acknowledge that he was in fact the bear. My patience was all but gone. I’d gotten the note and followed what I thought were the instructions. Either there was a bear in the bar or there wasn’t. I looked up and saw the whole room was now watching our exchange.

“Is anyone else here called the bear?”

They all just stared at me, some grinning, either pleased with my show of chutzpah or embarrassed for me.

“No? No one?”

Not a soul spoke up.

I turned back to the hairy man. “That leaves you. Now either you want to dance with me or you don’t. Your call.”

He nodded, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek. “Sure, sugar—”

“Can you please not call me that?”

Beside him, Steve stifled a laugh.

“You wanna dance, then let’s dance.” Bear started to push himself up, and seeing his lumbering form rise, I felt a sudden urgency to know without a doubt that this thug really was working with Sicko.

“You sure you’re the bear?”

“I am for you, sweet cakes.”

“Don’t call me that either,” I said.

He loomed over me, belly out like the nose of a submarine, and gave me half a bow. “If it’ll get me a dance.” To one of the men behind the bar, “Give us something romantic, Harry. Foreigner or something.”

“You sure you’re Bear?” I asked again, needing to be sure.

“Don’t worry, sugar, you’ve found your man.”

The music stopped midsong and then started with the intro to “I Want to Know What Love Is.” Satisfied, he pulled his oversized jeans up by the belt and walked out onto the dance floor. Spreading his legs, he waved his arms like a belly dancer and began gyrating his hips.

Hoots and whistles filled the bar. “Swing those hips, Big Bear. That’s right, show her what you got, Bill.”

I stood like a fence post, suddenly terrified by what I had gotten myself into. But this was exactly what Sicko wanted. He was testing me, leading me down a path to see if I would break. Dancing with Bear was the least of my concerns.

I walked out to Bear and stood three feet from him as he moved to the music. My jackknife was in my pocket. I could have it out in two seconds if he started slobbering in my ear. The wire was under my jeans, but I couldn’t see jumping on his back and strangling him out here on the dance floor. But I was overthinking the situation. He only wanted to dance.

“Come on, sugar, dance with the Bear. Show me what you got.”

I was tempted to slap him, but I didn’t. Instead, I began to shift my weight to the beat of the music as the chorus swelled.

“That’s it, baby. Ooo, yeah. Show me what you got.”

“Shut up,” I said, loud enough for only him to hear over the music.

He moved closer and reached for my hand. “Move that skinny little butt like you want it, baby.”

That was it. I stopped. “Okay. I’ve danced with you, now what?”

“You call that a dance? I don’t think so. You show me what you have or you don’t get what I have.”

“So you do have something for me?”

“Maybe. But you’re going to have to dance with me, sugar. And I do mean dance.”

“Is sugar the only word you know for ‘woman’?”

He winked. “Melts in your mouth and in your hands.”

I couldn’t help thinking it would be pretty easy to poke him in one of those big eyeballs of his. But that wasn’t what Sicko had in mind, so I reluctantly let him take my hand and went through a few motions with his bulbous belly pressed against me.

Slow now. “That’s it. That’s the way you dance with the papa bear.” He pulled me closer and whispered into my ear. “I have what you want but not out here. Follow me after the song.”

He pulled back, lifted both hands above his head, and swayed to the music. More whistles and catcalls. I could barely hear the music over the surge of encouragement. But I now knew I’d found the right man, and I played my part, offering a forced smile for the benefit of the onlookers.

The song began to wind down and Bear took my hand. “Come with me, darling.” He led me toward the hall and the bar began to settle behind us, punctuated with a holler from Steve: “Bill’s gonna get himself some.”

I assumed Bear was simply leading me into the hall so that he could give me whatever he’d been paid to give me. But I was wrong.

He waddled down the hall and entered the women’s bathroom. Left with no clear option, I followed him in. The woman who’d occupied the stall earlier was gone. I was alone with the hairy and now sweaty bear, and with the smells of a badly cleaned bathroom.

“I got what you want, sugar,” Bear said, eyeing me as if I were a piece of candy. “But it’s not going to be that easy.”

He was making no attempt to hide his interest and my thoughts flashed to the knife in my pocket. Then to the wire around my waist. But if I pulled either out now, he would only pull out whatever hidden weapon he had, and I would either leave empty-handed or not at all.

He drew one hand through his beard. “How about a little kiss. Hmm?”

“How about you give me what you were paid to give me. I danced with you, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yeah you sure did. But that wasn’t the deal.”

“Well that was my deal, so please, just give me whatever you have for me and no one gets hurt.”

Bear chuckled. “Is that what you think you’re going to do to me? Hmm? You gonna hurt me?”

He shouldn’t have said that. He couldn’t have known it, but he’d put me in a whole new frame of mind, no longer as concerned with what weapon he might have hidden in his pocket.

But he’d also opened a door for me, hadn’t he? Bear was a pervert, and there’s more than one way to deal with a pervert. Summoning my full reserve of control, I forced my mind off the knife in my pocket and offered him a thin yet seductive smile.

“Is that what you want?” My stomach turned. I placed a hand on his chest, then gave him a gentle shove.

“And how do I know you have what I’m looking for?” I asked in the same tone. I closed the space, leaving only six inches between us. “How do I know you’re not just an imposter trying to step in on another man’s fun?”

“Because I have it,” he said.

“Have what?”

“The note.”

“Show me.”

He hesitated. Then reached for his jeans without removing his eyes from mine. Wearing a coy smile, he slowly pulled the leading edge of a folded note out of his pocket. “See? It’s right here.”

I smiled and slowly slipped my hand up his thigh toward the note while I leaned in and gazed into his eyes. Every nerve in my body was on fire, but not in the way he hoped.

“Good,” I purred. And then I closed my fingers around the note and brought my knee up into his groin with enough force to break a watermelon in half.

He gasped and I let my rage get the better of me. I slapped him across his face. Hard.

“Shame on you!”

Bear roared in pain, more from my knee than from my slap, I guessed, but I didn’t hang around for clarity. With the note firmly in my left hand, I flew to the door, ducked out, took one deep breath, and headed back out to the bar.

I have no idea what the patrons thought I’d accomplished in such a short time alone with Bear, but a few of them whistled and called out their congratulations. I simply smiled courteously and walked past them all without a backward glance.

The moment the door swung closed behind me, I was running for my car. I can’t lie, I felt a strange euphoria—the kind you might feel after narrowly escaping a rushing rhino. What was more, I’d maybe helped Bear gain a new appreciation for women, especially those who were a third his size. For a moment there, I came close to whooping and pumping a fist above my head. I had the note. I was alive. Danny was safe.

Victory.

But a few other words quickly pushed the thought of victory from my mind.

I’m serious as the devil in hell.

I turned into the parking lot and pulled up, breathing hard. This was just the beginning, wasn’t it? And Danny…My heart broke thinking about him. Danny had no clue. If he knew, he would carve Sicko up into small chunks and throw his body parts into the ocean.

In that moment, standing alone ten yards from my Toyota, I wanted Danny to do just that. I wanted it with all of my heart.