Money stowed, she grabbed a vintage motorcycle jacket from the next peg. Pulling off her bloodstained khaki fisherman’s vest, she stuffed it into the bag. Hurriedly she donned the jacket.
Next she strode down the hall into the small home office she maintained in the front of the house. Yanking open a file cabinet, she thumbed through the dog-eared files until she found the one marked Personal Documents. Inside was her passport, her birth certificate, the title to the house, the results of her last Pap smear, and an official copy of her college transcripts. She unceremoniously dumped the contents of the file into the canvas tote bag.
About to head upstairs to gather her toiletries, Edie stopped in midmotion. Peering through the window, she saw a dark blue Crown Victoria pull up to the front of the house. Behind the wheel was the buzz-cut killer. At his side, the dirty cop.
Quickly she ducked away from the window.
They must have found the purse that she’d left in her office cubicle.
Knowing she had only a few seconds to escape through the back door, Edie closed the file cabinet. She then slung the canvas bag over her shoulder and retreated to the kitchen, where she grabbed her BlackBerry out of its charger. She then snatched a set of keys out of the brightly colored ceramic fruit bowl, a souvenir from a fun-filled vacation in Morocco.
Keys in hand, she let herself out the back door, taking a second to lock the deadbolt. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d been on the premises. She then tiptoed down the circular staircase that led to the alley below. She paused a moment, listening. She heard Spanish music emanating from the apartment building opposite. But no voices. So far, so good.
Not knowing how long her luck would last, Edie sidestepped her neighbor’s parked Jeep Wrangler and hurried up the adjoining set of stairs to the same neighbor’s house. Garrett was in Chicago on business. He was frequently in Chicago on business. And when he was, she watered his plants and fed his cat. Good friends, they each kept a set of keys to the other’s house.
Grateful for the well-oiled lock, she opened the back door and rushed inside, ignoring the huge marmalade cat asleep on the kitchen counter. She then ran down the hall to the living room, taking up a position at the double-hung window that overlooked the street.
Standing in the crease of a full-length velvet drapery, she pulled back the purple fabric a scant half inch, giving herself a sliver of a peephole.
The two men were already out of the Crown Vic, the cop halfway to her front stoop.
Edie held her breath as he banged on the door.
“Open up! D.C. police!”
When he got no response, he banged again.
Then he did exactly what Edie expected him to do—he unlocked her front door using the house keys they’d undoubtedly found at the museum.
Because the two residences shared a common wall, Edie could hear the soft reverberations as the cop charged up her wooden staircase. That was followed of the slamming of several doors. Then he stomped back down the stairs. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the back door open. All the while, the killer stood sentry beside the Crown Vic.
A few moments later, the cop emerged from the house, stepping onto the porch.
“She hasn’t been here,” he announced to his partner, who joined him on the porch. As they stood side by side, Edie could see that the two men were near equal in height, giants the both of them.
“You certain?”
The cop nodded. “Nothing’s been touched in the bathroom. I can’t imagine a chick hitting the road without her electric razor and makeup bag.”
“Fuck! Where the hell is she?”
“Dunno. According to the background search, she has no living relatives and there doesn’t appear to be a significant other in the picture.”
Edie tightened her hold on the velvet drapery panel, disbelieving what she’d just heard.
They’d done a background check on her. They knew all about her. Her friends. Her family. Or lack thereof. Everything. They held all the cards and she . . . she was about to pee her pants.
Even if she hid out in Garrett’s house—and the thought was awfully tempting—she figured that sooner or later they’d come banging on his front door. Not having a key, they’d probably kick it in when no one answered.
“Where the fuck is she?” the killer again snarled.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find her. Without a wallet, she’s not going to get very far.”
“Don’t be so sure. She got out of the museum, didn’t she?”
Smirking, the cop said, “Hey, don’t blame me. As I recall, that happened on your watch, not mine.”
The killer countered with a glare. Of the two men, he was definitely the more frightening. “You’ve got the first watch. I want to know the second the bitch shows up,” he growled before stomping down the steps. The cop, relegated to guard duty, stayed behind on the porch.
Moments later, seeing the plume of white smoke emitted from the Crown Vic’s tailpipe, Edie let go of the drapery panel.
Time had suddenly become a precious commodity. She rushed into the kitchen, threw open a cabinet door, and grabbed a roasting pan off the shelf. Filling it with dry cat kibble, she placed it on the floor. She then removed a large mixing bowl from the same cabinet, filled it with tap water, and placed it beside the food. She figured it would do until Garrett returned at week’s end.
As she locked the back door behind her, she prayed that Garrett had filled the tank in his Jeep before leaving for Chicago. Along with the keys to his house, she had the keys to his wheels. And those wheels were her ticket out of town.
Unlocking the driver’s-side door of Garrett’s black Jeep Wrangler, she slid behind the steering column. As she did, she slung her canvas tote bag onto the passenger seat. Seeing the big wet spot from the melting box of spinach, she was hit with an onslaught of memories. Of leaving in the middle of the night to escape the landlord. The bill collector. The abusive boyfriend. The junkie in need of a fix. On any given day, those were the bit players in her mother’s poorly acted psycho drama.
As if she’d just been dunked in a cold tank of water, the memories crashed in on her. Thirty years had come and gone, and she was still that scared little girl huddled in the backseat of her mother’s old Buick Le Sabre.
Her hands violently shaking, Edie stared at the steering wheel. She tried to put the key in the ignition, but couldn’t; the metal key repeatedly slid off the steering column. She didn’t know how to deal with the fear then. She couldn’t deal with it now.
Breathe, Edie, breathe. In and out. Long, slow, deep breaths. It won’t conquer the fear, but it will mask it. Just enough so you can put the key in the ignition switch and start the vehicle.
A lost soul, she obeyed the voice in her head. Breathing deeply, she told herself that she could do this. She could escape the bastards. She’d escaped four different juvenile centers in the span of two years. This was no different.
By the fourth exhalation, she was able to start the Jeep.
She glanced at the fuel gauge.
Thank you, Garrett. I owe you big time.
Driving to the end of the alley, she turned left. Not too fast. Not so slow. She didn’t want anyone to later recall having seen a black Jeep Wrangler. As a light snow began to pelt the windshield, she reached over and turned on the wipers, still taking deep measured breaths.
At the corner of Eighteenth and Columbia, she put her foot on the brakes as the light turned red. As though she were an escaped felon, Edie nervously glanced from side to side. On the street corner nearest to the Jeep, a group of Latino men were huddled in front of a check-cashing joint. On the opposite corner, the owner of the quaint Salvadorian café La Flora was busy opening the shades on the plate glass windows that fronted the street. Edie was a frequent patron, having stopped in just that morning for a quick breakfast of frijoles and eggs.