Duran got out and came around to open the door for her, his feet crunching in the gravel. As he reached for the door’s handle, he cursed and yanked his hand away. “Slide in the driver’s side,” he told her. “The door’s like an oven.”
As they drove away, she turned in the seat, and said, “I think the police station’s somewhere around the water tower.”
“We’re not going there,” he told her.
She looked at him as if he were insane (which, of course, was a theory). “We have to,” she insisted. “We can’t just keep running around—”
“It’s better we don’t go there,” he said, turning onto the highway out of town.
“Why?”
“Because we’re better off dead.”
She turned her head, and looked at his reflection in the window. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, if they think they killed us, that’s good. We’ll live longer that way.”
Chapter 29
“It won’t work,” she announced.
“What won’t?”
“Playing dead.”
Duran adjusted the rearview mirror, dimming the sunrise. “Why not?”
“Because the car’s gone. Which suggests we weren’t in the house. And the newspapers will say no one was killed.”
Duran shrugged. “At least it gives us a day.”
Another couple of miles rolled by, and Adrienne turned to Duran. “So let’s go to Washington,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because we have time, and because I want to go to my apartment. Get some things.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“You said it gave us a day.”
“Yeah, but… what if I’m wrong? I mean, I don’t even know how they found us in the first place.”
“I do,” Adrienne told him.
Duran gave her a suspicious look. “You do? How?”
“You told them.”
“I what? Told who?”
“You told them where we were,” she said. “You were online… in a chat room or something.”
Duran glanced at her, to see if she was kidding. But she wasn’t. She was dead serious. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“The night before last. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I did?”
“You were on some crazy Web site. All these images were flashing by, and then… it was like one of those instant messages on AOL.”
“What!?”
“Trust me.”
“So… what did it say?”
It was her turn to shrug. “I don’t know: good-morning, or something.”
“That’s it?”
She shook her head. “No. It said: ‘Hello Jeffrey.’ Then it asked where you were. And you typed something.”
“What did I type?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t come up on the screen. But they asked, and you answered. You could have given them the zip code and parking directions, for all I know.”
“Get out!”
“I’m serious,” she insisted.
“Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I tried! And it was like… I don’t know. It was like you were gone. Way gone. I had to call Doctor Shaw.”
“What?!”
“I was afraid of you! So he hypnotized you over the phone,” she told him. “You don’t remember this?”
Duran shook his head, thinking, It didn’t happen. Or I’d remember it. Because my short-term memory is fine. Shaw said so. Which means Adrienne’s lying or… there’s more than one me. Jekyll and Hyde. MPD. Christ—The dashboard emitted a warning beep, and his eyes went to the gas gauge. “We have to stop,” he told her.
They found a Gas ‘N Stuff somewhere near Bridgeville but couldn’t get the pump to accept Duran’s MasterCard. Duran turned to Adrienne for help, which made her blanch because “My purse was in the house! I don’t have a dime!”
He called the 800 number on the back of his credit card, punched in the account number, and hit the voice-mail option that was supposed to inform him of the card’s “available credit.” Instead, a recorded voice told him that his account had been “frozen,” and that he should stay on the line for a “customer service” representative. He did, and was told that his card had been reported stolen. “We’ll have a new one to you in… maybe two or three working days. It’s in the pipeline.”
Duran couldn’t believe it. “Look,” he said, “I have the card, right here. It’s in my hand. I didn’t report it stolen.”
“Someone did.”
“Ask me my mother’s maiden name.”
“That’s not something—”
“You’ve got validating questions. Use them!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Duran, but once a card is reported stolen, a new one has to be issued.”
“Look. I’ve got like—” He glanced in his wallet. “Two bucks on me. I’m outta town. I’m outta gas. Isn’t there any way—”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry—there’s nothing we can do. You’ll just have to wait for the new one.”
Returning to the car, Duran pumped $2.28 worth of gas, and explained to Adrienne what had happened. “The bank fucked up,” he told her.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like it. That’s what they do when someone reports a stolen card.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I wonder who did it…”
The way she said it, it almost sounded as if she thought he’d done it himself. And maybe he had.
They got as far as the Beltway before the dashboard beeped a second time, and the fuel light snapped on. Adrienne directed Duran along a complex route that took them past the Capitol, and up 16th St. They were less than a mile from her apartment when the car began to lurch, and the engine died. With the help of a couple of Latinos who were waiting for a bus, they pushed the Dodge into a loading zone on the edge of Meridian Hill Park.
“What happened to your car, man? You smash it up and then drive through a fire?”
The trunk, dented from the Comfort Inn parking lot collision, was something Adrienne was already obsessing about. She’d heard it could be a real hassle when you dented a rental car. She didn’t like to lie, but she’d told Duran that under no circumstances should he admit that he was driving. That could really tangle things up.
Now she followed Duran around to the passenger side, where his new friends were shaking their heads over the paint job. Which was… puckered.
“Son of a bitch!” Duran muttered.
“You need some bodywork, my friend.” The Latino began to fish through his pockets. “Let me give you my card—I give you a good price.”
“It’s a rental,” Adrienne moaned.
“For real?” the first guy said, shaking his head. “Oh, man. They going to bleed you.” Both men ran their fingers over the car door, and shook their heads sadly.
Adrienne was writing out a note, which she stuck under the windshield wiper. Stood back. Repositioned it. Said: “They’ll give me a ticket anyway.”
The Latinos chuckled. “They gonna tow your ass.”
Duran had to work to keep up with Adrienne’s quick march to her apartment. Fearful of a ticket or, worse, a tow truck, she was almost jogging. In the end, they covered the mile in about twelve minutes.
Wearing a bibbed apron and a faint look of alarm, Mrs. Spears let them in. “Adrienne! Where have you been?” she asked.
“I lost my key. Can I get in through the laundry room?”
“Of course,” the landlady replied, with a hopeful look at Duran.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Jeff—this is Mrs. Spears.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Duran said.
“We’re in a hurry” Adrienne confided, moving down the hall to a door that gave way to a flight of stairs leading down to the basement. With Adrienne in the lead, the two of them passed through a small storage room on their way to her apartment. Opening the door, she stopped so abruptly that Duran almost walked into her. “Jesus!”
She’d forgotten how bad it was. The room was a sea of detritus, with Adrienne’s belongings scattered everywhere: books, videos, couch cushions, clothing and CDs, shoes, blankets, towels, vases. And on top of it all, like whitecaps, were hundreds of pieces of paper.