Читать интересную книгу Saving Rachel - John Locke

Speaking of the muscle-head, I notice he hasn’t so much as twitched the entire time I’ve been conscious in the car. He’s a beast of a man with a sheath of muscles that bullies the fibers of his suit. He has a dull, don’t-give-a-shit look that marks him as a primitive man, one who could snap at any moment and morph into the Incredible Hulk.

I look away and quickly look back to see if he flinches. He does not. He just continues staring at me through vacant, unblinking, reptilian eyes—as if daring me to venture just a wee bit closer so he can feed.

“Rachel’s got a sister,” the gangster says, “name of Mary.”

I look at him but say nothing.

“I’m telling you this about Mary because I want you to know I expect answers from you, regardless of the question. You might think the question is silly or personal or … whatcha call … irrelevant to the situation at hand. But I don’t give a shit what you think about my questions. They will be answered, or there will be … whatcha call … consequences.” “Like what?” I sneer, showing him my tough side. I flex a bit. He sighs. “Oh, please.” With that, the driver pulls up to the curb near the jogging trail and parks the car. He keeps the engine running.

The gangster shakes his head from side to side, pretending to be overcome by a heavy sadness. He says, “Sam, you disappoint me. It’s clear you’re not ready for the discussion I wanted us to have. So for now, I’m gonna let you go.”

I blink a couple of times and rub my calf to get the blood fl owing. From the moment I entered the parking garage, nothing has made a lick of sense. But I figure if I can get out of the car in one piece, maybe I can find my way back to the planet Earth. I wonder if he’s teasing me or if this is someone’s sick idea of a joke. Either way, if he intends to let me go, I intend to exit the car sprinting.

“We’ll wait here a minute,” the gangster says, “in case you want to catch a ride back to the hotel with us.”

Fat chance.

To the driver, he says, “Turn the car around, and unlock the door.”

When that’s done, he says, “Okay, Sam, off you go.”

I’ve always lived my life by a simple rule: don’t spend more time in a limo with a crazed gangster and a T. rex than you have to. I follow my own advice and jump out of the car where the jogging trail loops between Rock Creek and Reece. I hit the ground running with a specific destination in mind and move toward it with all the speed I can extract from my legs.

I’m running to the cop on Reece, the one who’s talking to Rachel’s sister, Mary.

I’m full throttle now, yelling and waving my arms like a castaway trying to flag down a passing ship. They turn toward me, and several things happen all at once: A look of surprise registers in Mary’s face as she recognizes me. A shot rings out. Mary falls to the ground. The cop hits the street and starts radioing for help. I stop in my tracks. The cop quick-crawls to Mary to check her pulse. Another shot rings out. The policeman’s head explodes.

An engine revs, a car door slams in the distance, and tires squeal on pavement as an Audi R8, red with a black vertical stripe, races away from the scene.

Chapter 3

I need to … what? Run for cover? Run to Mary’s side? Call Rachel? Get help? What the hell is going on? I feel a surge of panic overloading my brain circuits. My feet seem bolted to the ground, and I remain this way until the screaming starts.

I look around. People are pointing at me, screaming the two words I don’t want to hear: “Get him!”

I hold up my hands in protest. “It wasn’t me!” I yelp. Why would they even think that? I’m her brother-in-law. They couldn’t possibly think I was involved in the shooting. I don’t even have a gun, for Chrissake.

I’m selling, but the park people aren’t buying. Worse, they’re becoming a mob. A mob full of angry, athletic men and women who suddenly start running toward me, converging on my position at breakneck speed from both sides of the field.

I turn around to check for the limo and see it hasn’t moved. I put my faith in my legs and make an all-out burst, hoping to get back to the car before the crowd can overtake me. While I run, I shield my face to make it harder for them to identify me later.

The bad news is most of the younger guys are lean runner-types and there’s no way I’m going to outrun them in a normal footrace. The good news is I’m in great shape, I have the lead and the angle, and this isn’t a normal footrace; it’s life and death.

I press on.

Now the limo is less than a hundred yards away, and I’m closing fast. But my breath is coming quicker and my lungs start to ache. The faster runners close in on me like a pack of jackals. What made them so flippin’ brave all of a sudden? Sheer numbers? The fact that I’m unarmed?

Two runners appear out of nowhere, cutting me off. I spin around. There’s no place to go, nowhere to hide. The park people slow down and begin forming a circle around me. I put my hands up, ready to surrender.

What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. Behind the runners, I see the limo door open. Mr. Clean emerges with an enormous gun. He slowly lifts it, takes aim, and seamlessly fires two shots that strike both of my would-be captors in the back of the head. My eyes are transfixed on his face as he watches them fall, and I can tell you there is no change in his expression. He could be watching two men die, watching traffic, or watching paint dry. Then Mr. Clean lowers his gun, turns, and climbs back into the limo.

The stunned mob veers away from me in a single motion, like a school of fish encountering a big-eyed predator. Somewhere behind me, a woman shrieks. The two runners between me and the car appear to be dead. I’m horrified, but not so horrified that I can’t hurdle their bodies and run to the open door of the waiting limo.

Inside, Mr. Clean is sitting, pointing his gun at my face. I start to enter the vehicle, but Mr. Clean cocks the hammer. I freeze where I am, which is halfway in and halfway out.

The crowd behind me is starting to reconsider their retreat, a decision that bodes poorly for me. Mr. Clean places his index finger on the trigger, and that bodes worse.

The gangster says, “You need a lift?”

“I do,” I say.

The gangster says nothing. Behind me, I feel the crowd moving toward the car, slowly at first, like Night of the Living Dead, but with a growing confidence that the shooting might be over. “May I please have a ride?” I say. No response. Then it hits me. “Thirty-two B,” I say. “Rachel’s bra size.” The gangster says, “Jump in.”

The driver guns the engine, and the big tires squeal as we roar out of Seneca Park. We hit the freeway doing ninety and head back downtown, toward the hotel where Karen Vogel and I had sex less than thirty minutes ago.

Chapter 4

I gag and retch, but manage not to throw up in the limo. When I’m able to speak, I shout everything that’s on my mind. “You killed Mary! Oh, my God! And the others! What the hell is going on? What do you want from me? And what the fuck does Rachel have to do with this?”

The mobster remains calm in the face of my outburst.

“You brought this on yourself,” he says. “Maybe you answered my question ten minutes ago …” He turns his palms up and shakes his head. “… none of this happens.”

My brain cells spin like slot-machine tumblers as I try to process his words. If I heard him correctly, this goomba wants me to believe that the closely guarded secret of my wife’s small titties has caused her sister’s death. If he’d said he played pinochle every Tuesday with an eggplant, that would make more sense.

“You’re insane!” I shout. “You’re freaking insane!” The tremor in my voice tells me I’m shaking.

He shrugs. “Don’t talk for a minute,” he says. “You been through a lot just now. Take a deep breath and think about some things, like how you’re not going to tell anyone about the time we spent together today.”

I look at him—and not for the first time—as though he’s lost his mind. Of course I’m going to tell! I’m going to tell anyone who will listen. I might put an ad in the paper about it, maybe post a billboard or set up a Web site.

“I see the wheels turning,” he says. “Maybe it’s best I kill you now.”

I stop in mid-thought and show a “no wheels are turning” look to the guy who just had my sister-in-law whacked, along with three other people, including a cop. Holy shit! It just hit me. These guys killed a cop!

“I’d rather keep my mouth shut than die,” I say, trying to calm down.

We ride in silence until I say, “What do you want from me?”

“Listen to yourself,” he says, “going on again with the questions. Look, we’ll talk again soon. You’ll call me when the time is right.”

“Call you? I don’t even know who you are. You’re going to give me your phone number?” “Sometime soon, you’ll pick up the phone. I’ll be on the line.” The one thing I know for certain is he doesn’t know how telephones work. To the driver, he says, “Hand me the bag.”

The driver picks up a pink Victoria’s Secret bag with his right hand and passes it back to Mr. Clean, who in turn hands it to the gangster.

“I’ll tell you one last time,” the gangster says. His voice is steady, his words firm and measured. “Don’t speak of this to anyone, not even Rachel. Say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir.”

He hands me the Victoria’s Secret bag. “Speaking of Rachel,” he says, “I got her a little present. A … whatcha call … replacement.”

I open the bag and push the pink-and-white tissue paper aside. I remove the gift, wondering what he means by “replacement.” The tag says, “Perfect One, TM, Full-Coverage Bra.” It also says, “Padded, Level 1, Size 32 B.”

I look at the gangster.

“You think she’ll like it?” he says.

Chapter 5

They drop me off a block from the hotel, and I’m wondering how many red Audi R8s there could possibly be in Louisville, Kentucky, and it suddenly dawns on me to check my pockets to see if my keys are there. I do, and they’re not.

I walk with purpose to the hotel parking lot, wondering how long it will take the media to post my name and photograph on TV. The cops are probably swamped with eyewitness accounts, not to mention the cell phone videos that are no doubt being posted on YouTube as we speak.

How much trouble can I be in? I wonder. I didn’t shoot anyone, and no one in the park could claim I had. But multiple witnesses saw me approach all four people just before they were shot. Two of the gunshots were fired from the area where my car was parked—or at least a car that looked like mine. The other two were fired by Mr. Clean, with whom I was seen escaping the scene. So, while no one can think I’m solely responsible for the murders, I’m far more than “a person of interest,” as the police like to say.

I know it’s too early for the manhunt to have reached downtown Louisville, but I can’t help feeling as though everyone is staring at me. When I round the corner into the parking garage, I see my car right where I’d left it. I fling the door open, jump in and instinctively reach beneath the driver’s seat, where I find an envelope. Inside are two items: my keys and a photograph. I’m not expecting the photograph, or what it depicts, so it takes a half second to register in my brain.

I look at the photo and fill the car with a sudden gasping sound. I stare at the photograph in disbelief. I flip it over, but there’s nothing written on the back. I turn it again, and the computer in my head makes a note that today’s date has been electronically stamped on the bottom right-hand corner, along with the time: 8:46 am. My breath comes quickly. My fingers tremble so violently I drop the photo. As it falls, the edge catches my knee, and the photograph is sent skittering deep into the leg well, near the brake pedal. Nausea floods my gut. I’ll retrieve the picture in a few seconds, but right now, I’m feeling sick. I think about what I saw and start shuddering. It’s the most unsettling image I’ve ever seen in my life, and no matter how strained our relationship has been recently, no matter how far we’ve grown apart these past few months, Rachel and I are still connected in all the ways that truly count, and I’ve got to get home to her. I’ve got to save Rachel, and I will.

But first, I have to call the police.

Chapter 6

I can think of a million reasons not to call the cops—the most serious one being the gangster’s warning—but I’m in over my head. This is no longer about me, about some gangster trying to set me up for Mary’s murder. This is about saving Rachel.

I grip my fingers around my cell phone and start to dial 911. Before I get the third digit pressed, the passenger door flies open, startling me. It’s Karen Vogel. She climbs in, saying, “What’re you doing here? You left a long time ago. I saw you!”

“Wait—why are you still here?” I say, trying to turn the tables on her.

“I took a shower,” she says, eyeing me suspiciously. “What’s your story?” It’s a good question, one for which bullshit is the only answer. “I just pulled up. I had to hold you one more time,” I lie shamelessly. “Aww, Sam. That’s so sweet!”

It was sweet. I make a note to remember the line. Maybe it will work on Rachel before they throw the switch on me for conspiracy to murder her sister. “What’s in the bag?” she says. “Bag?” “The Victoria’s Secret bag in the backseat.” “Oh that. It’s a present.” “For me?”

“Of course for you!” My lies are on autopilot, beyond my control. At this point, I’ll do or say anything to get home. Rachel needs me.

“You left here to go buy me something? And then you drove all the way back to give it to me in person? Oh … my … God!”

She leans over and gives me a big kiss on the mouth, the kind of kiss I’d give anything to get—some other time, but not now. Rachel needs me. I can’t believe I’m sitting here, still going through the motions with Karen. What kind of jerk would do that? I wonder and then mentally answer my own question. The kind of jerk who has a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that somehow Karen Vogel might be involved. In my gut, I’m not ready to believe Karen is mixed up in all this, but how else can I explain our Beauty-and-the-Beast love story? I mean, come on, Karen Vogel? In love with not Christian Bale or Matthew McConaughey or Colin Farrell but me?