Lovely Death Page 7

  “Listen,” Nick said. “I need your word that you aren’t going to start screaming or yelling, okay. You know I don’t mean you any harm.”

  “Harm?” Layla replied. She turned to face him fully, exposing the eggplant colored bruise just below her hairline. “Stop repeating yourself. I know, I get it. You’re losing your fucking mind. And even though I look like a PSA poster child for domestic abuse, it’s not really your fault that it’s your fault. Right?”

  “I’m not losing my mind,” Nick said. His tone was so even and convincing that he almost believed it himself. “I’m just going through some shit right now and I haven’t quite figured things out yet.”

  “Poor thing,” Layla said, returning her gaze to the passing mountainside.

  Nick let out a heavy breath through his nose, squeezed the steering wheel a little tighter. “I’m trying to be reasonable here.”

  “I have to pee,” Layla said.

  The Conoco station rose out of the horizon a couple miles later and Nick could feel his palms start to sweat as he guided the car toward the exit ramp. Everything sharpened in his senses as his body reacted to the stress. He became aware of the funk of his breath, a byproduct of still not having brushed his teeth, and heard the distinct tinkle and crunch of thousands of tiny pebbles as the Cougar’s tires rolled off the pavement and up the sloped driveway of the filling station. There were four cars in the lot, three of them parked in front of the half dozen fuel pumps. The last, possibly the attendant’s, was backed in alongside the white, concrete block building. Nick pulled up in front of a pump. He felt his sweaty tee shirt stick to the leather seat as he killed the motor and reached down to unfasten his seatbelt.

  “Please,” Nick said.

  Layla shook her head. “Just get the fucking gas.”

  It felt like all eyes were on Nick as he stepped out of the car, dug in his wallet for the credit card. It was a ludicrous thought, he knew, but it could not be helped. His fate rested in the hands of the battered woman sitting six feet away in his front seat. He caught the eye of the older gentleman on the other side of the pump, topping off his Volkswagen coupe, and nodded. The fellow eyed him for a moment longer, glanced into the passenger compartment of the Cougar, and returned the nod.

  Nick’s heartbeat accelerated when the man inspected the car, but he remained calm. He took the nozzle to the trunk, stuck it down the tube behind the license plate, and squeezed the handle. Something mechanical clicked into place and the digital numbers started spinning upward on the counter.

  “Whoa, cool car, mister!”

  Two little boys, each with a Nerf gun in hand, stood beside a minivan that was parked at the pump in front of him. Jesus, didn’t kids ever go back to school? It was almost October. The mama bear peeked her head around the side of the vehicle to check on her cubs, saw them talking to Nick, and whistled for them to return to their rolling cave. Back in high school, Nick had had a Mormon friend named Todd who’d had seven siblings and jokingly called all minivans “Mormon Assault Vehicles.” Nick returned his attention to the Cougar, not wanting the mother to think he was some kind of lurid highway pervert, and shortly after the father of the family exited the store with a sackful of convenience store delicacies.

  While he waited for the automatic pump to kick, Nick wiped the windshield. His shaking hands left chattery streaks of washer fluid on the window. Finally, the pump snapped to a halt. Relieved, Nick declined a receipt and rapped on the passenger window. “You want anything?”

  Layla opened the door a crack. “I told you I have to pee.”

  “Oh, yeah. Uh—you didn’t have to wait.”

  She climbed out, rubbed her arms to warm against the slight breeze of the mountain air. It was noticeably cooler outside than it had been in the car and a skimpy tank top was not sufficient coverage. Her nipples stood at attention and she crossed her arms over them.

  “Where’s my purse?” Layla asked. “I’ve got makeup in it. And some things I can clean up with a little.”

  Nick furrowed his brow, then nodded. “I think it’s in the trunk. You go on ahead. I’ll grab it and bring it to you. The restroom’s right there.”

  The unisex lavatory was one of those located on the side of the building, right in plain sight. He had reservations about watching her walk twenty feet away from him, but there was literally nothing he could do to stop her. Especially not if he hoped to ever regain her trust.

  Nick watched her as she departed, breathing heavily through his nose in anticipation. There was nobody else around, aside from the ponytailed attendant and one lone customer chatting him up inside. If she broke for the door, Nick could be in his car and back on the highway before they ever had time to call the police. Beyond that, there was probably no chance of his escape in the long run, but what other choice did he have? He wasn’t going to tie her up and actually kidnap her with intent. If there was any way of getting out of this thing that didn’t result in him going to jail, it was to make Layla see that he truly meant her no harm.

  She crossed the lot, boots clicking a soft song against the asphalt. Nick could not help but watch as she moved. Her rounded hips swayed side to side like a perfectly balanced pendulum.

  Once the heavy steel door shut behind her, Nick stuck the key into the trunk lock and unlatched it manually. Why had he not thought of her purse until she’d mentioned it? He vaguely remembered seeing her walk out of the bar with it the night before. It was one of those little handbags, the kind of thing that could hold a pack of Kleenex and not much more. Definitely big enough to hold some makeup. And a cell phone.

  He darted a quick look at the closed door of the restroom and then thought better of it. No, if she’d had a phone on her she would have used it earlier, when she was in the trunk. Right? Jesus, what an incriminating piece of evidence to just simply forget about. As a storyteller, he berated himself for overlooking such a glaring plot hole.

  But he knew she didn’t have it. Unless it was hidden in the irritable bowel fashion of a Colombian drug mule, there was nowhere it could have been stashed in that skintight getup she was wearing.

  Returning his attention to the storage compartment, Nick became disheartened. The only thing his trunk housed was an underpacked duffel bag that now held only a dirty change of clothes and the toiletry bag his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday. He’d felt like James Bond on that day, a young man aching for a life of international adventure and hotel rooms, where he could clean himself up after a day of chasing down Goldfinger and make his way to the nearest casino with a sultry damsel on his arm. Not that it was anything fancy, just a canvas black bag with a zipper, but such was the gift of an overactive imagination.

  There was no sign of the purse. He closed the trunk and checked the back seat, as well. He crawled in back, tossed aside a few plastic bags and empty energy drink cans. It wasn’t there either. Nick closed his eyes, trying to picture something, anything from the night prior that could help him place the lost item. Yes, she’d definitely had it when they’d left. He remembered seeing it next to him on the seat as Layla straddled him, saw the glimmer of its sparkly surface in the moonlight. It had definitely been inside the car at some point.

  When nick opened his eyes he saw to his surprise that he was no longer alone in the car. Leonard Harrow was seated next to him, picking his teeth with a fishbone. Nick rocked backward, hitting his head against vinyl padding with enough force to cause a burst of colorful light in his sore eye.

  The air in the car instantly became thicker, full with the smell of pungent decay.

  “She’s quite a treat, that little bitch of yours. Isn’t she? You know what I’m gonna look most forward to?” Harrow asked, spitting out a chunk of something pink.

  Nick gave no answer, grasping fervently for something with which to strike this abomination to his reality.

  “I’m really looking forward to peeling those little toes of hers, one by one. Especially the tiny ones. Those are always the softest. Those are the
sweetest little piggies.”

  Nick’s hand closed around something solid and he swung it without pause. “You stay away from her you filthy sonofabitch!” In the next instant, Nick was blinded by a spray of liquid. The bludgeon he’d blindly selected was an unopened energy drink can. Leonard Harrow disappeared. And when the can impacted with the steel frame below the window, the carbonated canister exploded in his hand like a sugary grenade.

  Nick dropped the can and pawed at his eyes, which burned like mad. It took him a moment to register what he’d done. That was after he realized that he was once again alone in the back seat.

  “Fuck.”

  His arm, shirt, and most of his face were covered in sweet, syrupy fizz. Not to mention the seats. Nick stared at the seat across from him, which had been occupied only moments before. There were still fading divots in the leather, where Harrow’s spindly ass had made a temporary imprint. Nick shook his head. That wasn’t possible. He needed to clean this mess up before Layla got back.

  Nick paused, wiping his face on a dry patch of tee shirt. How long ago had he watched her walk into the restroom? He leaned forward to look through the passenger window of the Cougar.

  There, inside the convenience store, stood Layla. She was talking to the attendant, her finger aimed out toward the parking lot. She was pointing right at Nick.

  Ten

  All the breath rushed from Nick’s chest, his lungs replaced with sandbags. Nick could not breathe. He had still been recovering from the surprise apparition of Leonard Harrow (and the subsequent soda can explosion) and it took his mind a few seconds to catch up with what he was witnessing.

  Only a few paces away from him, under the bleached glow of fluorescent lightbulbs, stood Layla and the Conoco cashier, staring right back at him. The look on the cashier’s face was one of surprise, and Layla’s was of anguish.

  “Oh shit,” Nick said, as the gravity of the situation forced its way into him. She was doing it. She was spilling the beans to the station attendant. Deep in the back of his mind, he knew that running was futile. Nick was a celebrity. And even though his face wasn’t necessarily known, his status would ensure national attention, just as it had following the death of Laura. But still, his body’s automatic reaction was to run. All he needed to do was climb into the driver’s seat, crank the motor, and haul ass. It would at least buy him some time. Anything had to be better than just sitting here, waiting for the inevitable, right?

  He watched in horror as Layla pointed to the attendant, then aimed her finger back at the Cougar. And then something struck him as odd. The cashier, though listening intently and even following her gesture to look at Nick, wasn’t doing anything. He wasn’t reaching for the telephone. Nor was he locking the doors. In fact, even the balding patron who had formerly been chatting with the man was just standing there with his hands hooked into the pockets of his jeans.

  Nick peered closer, his physiology finally overcoming his shock and forcing him to breathe again. As he drew air he realized that Layla was not recounting her tale of abducted terror with anguish. She was having an argument.

  There was something in Layla’s hand. She proffered it up to the man behind the counter and again gestured toward Nick. It was obviously the object of contention. The pace of Nick’s heart slowed and he swallowed hard. He ran a hand across his face, wiping beads of sweat from his messy hairline. She may not have been begging the man to call the police, after all, but Nick still did not want any unnecessary attention drawn to them.

  He pulled himself back onto the bench seat and pushed the driver’s chair forward so he could get out of the car. As he crossed the lot Nick wished it was a longer walk so his nerves had a little more time to settle. He jammed one clammy hand into a front pocket and opened the glass door with the other.

  “Everything alright in here?” Nick asked. He cleared his throat and met the eyes of both the cashier and the unamused-looking patron with a crew-cut.

  “No,” Layla said. “This guy won’t let me take this into the restroom.” She held up a pre-packaged toothbrush/toothpaste combo kit wrapped in cardboard and plastic.

  “I already told you, missy. I can’t let you leave the store with somethin’ without payin’ for it.”

  “But I already told you he’d pay for it,” Layla said, squeezing the box hard enough to crinkle the plastic. “And for the last goddamn time, my name isn’t missy!”

  “Easy, easy,” Nick said. “This is just a misunderstanding. Layla, you go on ahead. I’ll make sure this fellow gets paid.”

  Layla stormed out of the store, boots rapping out a steady staccato beat as she left.

  The lanky cashier cocked his head, looking Nick over. He stared at the darkening bruise around Nick’s temple, a suspiciously sibling tattoo to Layla’s. The man’s greasy brown ponytail hung like a dead snake behind him as he considered the sleep-deprived oddity standing in his convenience store. “Whatever you say, pal. I just want you to know that I’m not game for any bullshit. Clyde here’s brother is the state patrolman who works this district. Ain’t that right, Clyde?”

  The paunchy, crew-cut man beside the counter grunted an affirmation. He took a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup and set it back on the counter, continuing to stare. To Nick, he looked like the cliché ex-marine, who belonged stuffed in a Sherriff’s uniform, wedged incompetently behind a desk in some shitty old seventies TV show.

  After taking in his all-around haggard appearance, the man who was supposedly Clyde let his attention settle on Nick’s blackened eye.

  “Hell of a shiner you’ve got there, young man. Looks like your old lady don’t take kindly to bullshit, neither.”

  The ponytailed cashier chuckled at that. “Yeah, looks like she got you good, slick.”

  Nick’s nerves had been beaten aside by irritation. What he really wanted to do was take this dickhead by his hairdo and strangle him with it. And then use it to garrote the fat guy. Instead, he reached for his billfold. He slipped out a hundred dollar bill and laid it on the mustard yellow counter. “I trust this is enough to cover the damage.”

  The attendant sneered down his crooked nose, pushed the bill back. “It would be if I could break it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nick said, turning around, “I’m not done shopping.”

  In the end, Nick left the store with four bags of purchased goods, including sunglasses, toiletries, an assortment of totally useless camping supplies, and a couple of novelty tee shirts. He also left with no change. The twenty-nine dollars he did receive from the asshole attendant he promptly dropped into the plastic cup beside the register with the face of a sick little boy on it.

  After depositing the bags in the trunk, Nick rapped on the restroom door. When Layla answered, he handed her the baggie of toiletries. She declined one of the new tee shirts. He kept throwing glances over his shoulder as he waited for her, expecting Clyde’s brother to show up and poke around at any moment. But the patrolman never came.

  When Layla emerged, Nick took his turn. He was quick about it, washing off the soda in the chipped sink as best he could, using a miniature bar of Dove soap and the coarse paper towels from the steel dispenser. There was no mirror, only broken mounting clips poking out of the wall and some Sharpie graffiti to look at while he cleaned himself up. Fortunately, not much sugary drink had landed on his pants, so once he donned a new shirt and some deodorant, Nick felt at least twice as good as he had before.

  Before leaving, he took a dump. Nick then returned to the car and put his bathroom kit back in the trunk. Layla stood next to the car, staring into the fishbowl of the convenience store.

  “Dickhead,” Layla said, glaring at the cashier with a mouthful of food. She had already dug into the junk food cache and was munching on a plain hotdog and a bag of potato chips.

  Nick nodded his agreement. As long as she wasn’t scornfully cursing him he wasn’t going to argue. He spent the next few minutes wiping down the back seat with baby wipes, getting the saccharine mess out of t
he crevices as much as possible.

  “The hell happened in here?” Layla asked.

  “I had an accident. What the hell happened in there?” Nick tipped his head toward the store, where both the cashier and his buddy were casting them casual glances.

  Layla shrugged. “Fuck ‘em. The world’s full of assholes. And they can only shit on you if you let them.”

  “Heh. Was that Confucius?”

  The faintest hint of a smile tugged at Layla’s lips as she balled up the hotdog wrapper and got into the car. She looked around and gave an annoyed huff.

  “I take it you didn’t find my purse.”

  “I didn’t. Sorry. No idea what happened to it. Don’t worry. I’ll replace everything that was in it.”

  Layla nodded. She let her attention drift out the window to watch the road roll by.

  “My boss is going to be really pissed I missed my shift tonight. My cat isn’t going to be thrilled either.”

  “You have a cat?”

  She grunted an affirmation and elaborated no further. Layla’s thoughts had drifted, taking her somewhere far away from Nick and the Cougar. Somewhere happier, Nick supposed.

  Eleven

  Walt Dean was a simple man. It was something he took pride in, like the fella in the Skynrd song. His life was uncomplicated; his daily routine was something that he rarely strayed from. And for that he was happy. He had no desire to be a part of the rat race, the struggle to make it to the top of the heap in the socioeconomic ladder. Who needed that stress?

  Every day, just as he had for the past ten years, Walt dragged himself out of bed and rinsed his face. Today would not be a showering day, judging by the not-quite-ready grease shine of his wooly gray hair. Neither would he be shaving.

  Walt whistled as he padded from linoleum to hardwood leaving the restroom for the main area of his studio apartment. He snared a Canned Heat tee-shirt from the middle of the pile, sniffed it, and put it on. Then he found his jeans, took the keys off the rack, and left his stuffy home in favor of the overcast day outside.