A key slid into the trunk’s lock and the lid flew open. A full moon cast a muted light against the back of the shadowy figure that loomed outside the trunk’s cavity and she could just make out the silhouette of a pony tail she recognized. The orange glow of a cigarette confirmed the identity as it lit up the face of Tony Alonso.
With his left hand resting on the trunk lid, Tony reached into the trunk’s cavity and pressed the gun against her forehead. He took a long draw on the cigarette and then blew smoke toward her face.
The noxious residue from the cigarette filled her lungs and she heaved with coughing spasms, yet the cold barrel stayed in place between her eyebrows. Natalie trembled with fear that the next moment could be her last; that the gun would go off—a sound she would never hear—and a bullet she wouldn’t feel would crash through her skull, driving flesh and bone fragments ahead of it as it bore a deadly tunnel into her brain. She clamped her eyes shut and willed the gun to remain silent.
“I see you’re awake” Tony’s sardonic voice said.
He took another drag and blew the smoke into her space. “We’re going to stop for gas a few miles up the road, and if you make one damn sound while we’re stopped, not only will I kill you slowly and painfully, but I’ll kill anyone who might have heard you. Got it bitch?”
“Yes,” she said, still gasping for breathable air.
“That goes for any future stops too. Am I clear?”
She nodded her head.
Tony cocked the hammer of the Python .357, and pressed it harder against her forehead. He leaned into the cavity and shouted, “Damn it, I said, ‘Am I clear?’”
With his finger on the trigger, the probability of her demise, whether now or later, forced her to accept she had no control, and her body seized at the prospect. As her tears continued to flow in silence, her voice quavered the answer, “Yes.”
Headlights of an approaching vehicle stretched Tony’s shadow on the trunk lid above her, and before the engine’s sound hit Natalie’s ears, a glimmer of hope sparked. But it fled the scene even faster. With the gun to her head, she didn’t dare try to draw attention.
Tony took another draw on his cigarette and said in whisper she had to strain to hear, “Don’t even think about it, whore.” He exhaled again and blew the smoke into the trunk’s recess.
The metallic slam of the trunk lid as he ended their conversation shot an unforgiving stab into the tenderness at the base of her skull and rang in her ears like a church bell. Already mummified in the blankets, now she was plunged back into the darkness of her sarcophagus.
Moments later, the driver’s door shut and the gears engaged. She tried to brace herself as they made a quick U-turn, but she rolled and bumped her face on something hard.
Maggie sipped the drink until she emptied the mug and as her eyelids began to get heavy, the calm she had craved crept over her. With enough time passed for her friend to be out of the shower, she held the green button down on her cellphone and dialed the call a second time.
“This is Natalie, please leave a message.”
“Natalie, this is Maggie. It’s after two, call me,” she said into the mouthpiece.
She disconnected the call and then dialed Natalie’s cellular phone.
Tony followed the signs and turned right toward the highway. As they accelerated down the onramp, the sound of a jazz riff began to play. After a few seconds it repeated and then again.
Hank looked at Tony. He stared back. A vibration in his right vest pocket reminded him of what he had taken from the bitch’s purse at the warehouse. He pulled Natalie’s phone out.
“Whose is that?” demanded Tony.
“Hers,” Hank replied and nodded toward the rear of the car.
“Don’t answer it!”
“No way. Forgot I had it.”
“Does it say whose calling?”
Hank looked at the display. “Uh, yeah. ‘Maggie’ is all it says.”
“Let it go to voicemail, then find out what Maggie wants at two-thirty in the goddamned morning.”
Hank held the phone out in front of him like a stick of dynamite with three seconds left on an already short fuse. The melody repeated a few more times and then stopped. The glow on the face of the phone faded to black and Hank waited. Before a minute passed, the sound of a piano chord made Hank jump, and the panel lit up again. Hank looked at Tony and then over his shoulder to Rudy whose face was obscured under the folds of a dark gray hoodie.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hank saw Tony nod toward the phone. He kept watch on Rudy, flipped the clamshell open and pressed the one key. After he heard voicemail answer, he turned toward the front of the car and listened to the message.
When it concluded, Hank closed the phone and looked at Tony.
“Well?” Tony asked.
“Maggie said she saw the bitch’s car out front. I guess that means in front of their apartment. She tried to call her, but when there was no answer, she started getting worried. Thought you said parking her car in front of her house would buy us some time?”
“Damn it!” Tony said and hit the steering wheel with the palm of his right hand.
“Think she’ll call the cops?”
“Goddamn that nosey neighbor. Not yet, but shit yeah, she’ll call the cops.” He paused, hit the steering wheel several more times and then finally said, “Damn bitch. We’ve got to get some distance between us and LA.”
They drove in silence—just the whine of the engine and the low hum of passing vehicles—for a few minutes. When the lights of Mohave, California came into view Tony said, “Did you turn the phone off, Hank?”
“Uh, no. Should I?”
“Yeah, now.”
Hank reached into his pocket and pulled the phone out again. “Why?” He searched the keypad, looking for a way to shut it off.
“GPS!”
“GP. . .?” Hank started to ask, then like a light switched on. “Oh, global positioning.”
“If that phone’s equipped, as long as it’s on, the cops can track us.”
Hank finally pressed the right key—more on accident than a plan—and the lights went out.
“Give me the damn phone,” Tony demanded.
_____
©
Jearl Rugh 2012
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Rights Reserved
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