The hunt, p.3
The Hunt, page 3
I gave my daughter the thumbs-up.
“Now what?” she asked. When I didn’t answer, Juleen said, “Mommy, we can’t stay here. They might come back.”
I nodded and pulled into traffic.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t … know.”
“You can’t just drive around.”
She was right. I thought for a moment. “My … house.”
“What house?”
I waved her off.
“What house?”
“Where I grew up.”
“You grew up here?”
I nodded.
“Does Mr. Whitman know it?”
“Donatti,” I told her. “Mr. Donatti.”
The burner rang. Juleen put the cell on speaker and answered the phone. “Hello?”
I heard my ex’s voice. “Terry?”
It wasn’t the first time Juleen and I had been mistaken for each other over the phone. Our voices sounded alike. “I’m … here,” I whispered.
Chris said, “What’s going on?”
I started to cry and so did Juleen. She said, “They beat her up.”
“Where are you?”
“Valley,” I answered.
“Where in the Valley?”
“She’s driving to her house where she grew up,” Juleen answered.
“She’s driving?”
“Do you know where her old house is?”
“Yes, I know where it is. Don’t go there—”
His phone cut out. Juleen called him back, but it went to voice mail.
The sun was beginning to go down, and soon we’d be under the cover of darkness. We were about a mile away from the apartment we were renting but four miles away from my old house. My one good eye was starting to close up. I knew if I didn’t get there soon, I wouldn’t be able to drive at all. My head was exploding with pain, and I was getting very sleepy. I decided to head in the direction of my old high school—a common landmark for Chris and me. I kept shaking my head to stay awake. Each time I did that, bolts of lightning and thunder clapped inside my brain.
The burner sprang to life. Juleen answered. “We’re on speaker, Mr. Donatti.”
“Terry, are you there?”
“Hi, Chris.”
“Terry, listen to me. Are you physically able to drive?”
I didn’t answer.
“Terry?”
“Yes.” For the moment.
“Don’t go to your old house, babe. If I were looking for you, that’s one of the places where I’d camp out. Do you remember where I used to live?”
“Yes.”
“Go there. It’s on Jasper—8246 … no, 8446 …”
“8226,” I told him.
“Your beat-up brain is working better than mine. Can you make it there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. I’ll meet you in a couple of hours. Probably less. I’ll blink the headlights twice, then pause and blink them twice again, so you’ll know it’s me. You blink back. Do not leave the car for any reason. I’ll come to you.”
“Okay.”
“Juleen, do not let her fall asleep under any circumstances. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.”
After he hung up, Juleen said, “Can you drive, Mommy?”
“Yes.” Sort of. “I’m … okay.”
It took me about a half hour to go four miles on empty streets. I arrived on Jasper just as the last bit of daylight was fading from the horizon. The last time I had been at this apartment, I had been sixteen years old, in deep love with the most gorgeous guy in high school. I had tutored Chris at his apartment and at my house for about three months until the relationship turned odd and weird and was too much for me to handle. Inside, I knew he was bad news, but I kept going back. The last time I was here, we had spent the night together. It had been sexual but not sex. That happened in a prison somewhere in the Mojave Desert. By the time I had decided to cut bait, it was too late. But it all worked out. I couldn’t imagine a world bereft of Gabriel. I closed my eyes, hoping for numbness.
Juleen suddenly blasted the radio.
“Turn … that off!”
“He told me not to let you fall asleep.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Whit—Mr. Donatti. You know, Gabe’s father.”
I reached over and turned the knob to off. “I’m fine.” A minute later, my eyes started to close. Juleen shook me. I said, “Leave me alone.”
“You can’t fall asleep.”
I barely heard her words. I was fading away. She kept shaking me awake. She turned on the radio again. I turned it off. When she went for the knob again, I hit her hand. She didn’t care. She kept shaking me, screaming at me, clapping her hands in front of my face. I became too tired to even yell at her. Then I began to cry in earnest. I was crying because I had made a mess of my life. I was crying because I was in terrible pain. Most of all, I was crying with heartbreak for my lost little boy.
He must be so scared!
“It’ll be okay, Mommy,” Juleen said. “It’ll all be okay.”
I couldn’t answer her. I could barely breathe, and crying was only making it worse. Here I was, a forty-two-year-old woman, completely broke and utterly broken. I had made terrible choices in men. I had abandoned my older son and I couldn’t save the younger one. I was a terrible role model for Juleen. She was comforting me instead of the other way around. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t even provide the minimum of parenting?
I dried my eyes on my sleeve. My lids had swollen shut. If I picked one of them up, I could see. My head was throbbing, and I was dizzy and nauseated. On the plus side, I could still think, which meant I had a functioning brain. I also had my eyesight, one good arm, and two working legs. That was a lot of good stuff.
A text registered on the burner in Juleen’s hands. She said, “It’s Gabe. He’s asking about us and his dad. What should I tell him?”
The lightbulb went off. I couldn’t talk, but I could text with one hand. I took the phone and pecked out my sentences with my left index finger.
We made contact with Chris. He’s on his way down.
Thank God! I’ll come to see you. Probably tomorrow.
Don’t worry. I’m fine.
How are you feeling?
Ok. Tired. TTYL.
And it was all true. I was exhausted. I gave the phone back to Juleen. She was texting him something. I put my head back, looking at the roof of the car as I drifted off to sleep. Juleen started shaking me after fifteen seconds of blissful nothingness. As soon as I awoke, the pain recurred in full force. The burner rang and Juleen put the cell to my ear. It was Gabe. “You’re a doctor. You know better. Stay awake!”
“Yeah … yeah.”
But as soon as he hung up, I started to fall asleep. Juleen snapped her fingers, clapped her hands, and pulled my hair, which really hurt. I thought about how that goon had ripped my hair from my head. I felt my scalp, and sure enough there was a small bald spot.
I just wanted to sleep, but Juleen wouldn’t let me. I didn’t know how long the clapping and snapping and shaking went on, but it seemed like forever. Eventually I heard a car motor. I lifted an eyelid and saw two blinks, a pause, two blinks.
That’s him, I thought. I forgot to signal him back. Instead, I opened the door, started to stand, and immediately dropped to my knees and fell on my face. Nausea had overwhelmed me. I vomited again, hard and fast. So hard, I wet myself—something damp and metallic smelling spreading in the groin area of my jeans.
From ground level, I saw this very tall man with shoulder-length hair exiting the car and running toward me. In one giant swoop he picked me up without effort. Strong arms—his arms. His smell. I, on the other hand, was covered in barf and blood and stank like a public urinal. But he didn’t say a word as we headed toward his car. I picked up an eyelid and looked over my shoulder, at my daughter, who was carrying two trash bags, her violin case, her laptop, and my purse, hobbling furiously to catch up with me. Chris followed my eyes.
“Someone get the girl!”
Another man sprang into action and came to Juleen’s aid.
Santa had come with his elves.
Chris propped me up in the middle backseat of a stretch limo and slid in beside me. I was still holding my eyelid up when he cupped my chin and examined my face. “Jesus fucking Christ!” He looked at my pants. “Terry, you need to go to a hospital.”
“No …” I dropped my eyelid, leaving me in pain and darkness. If I couldn’t see, maybe this would all go away.
“You’re pissing blood!” To someone else, Chris said, “What’s the closest hospital from here?”
He obviously wasn’t listening to me, which was par for the course. I yelled out, “No!”
I heard Juleen’s voice. “She won’t go. She’s afraid they’ll take me away.”
“Then they’ll take you away,” Chris said. “It’s better than her dying.”
Someone started the car. We rode a few minutes, and I began to get motion sickness. I gagged a few times.
Chris said, “Stop the car.” I heard the car door open, and he held me as I threw up a third time, retching until I felt my stomach was coming up my throat. He said, “You’re also vomiting blood.”
I knew what that meant, but I didn’t care. I’d rather go out fighting. I hit him. “No … hospital!”
Chris lifted up my eyelid. “Listen to me, Teresa. If you don’t get help soon, you are going to die! You’re a fucking doctor. You know better.”
Gabe’s words almost to a T. I hit him again. “No!”
“Stop hitting me. It’s like an annoying gnat.” He was still holding up my eyelid, a brilliantly blue iris staring back at me. Then he let my lid drop and I was encased in darkness.
“This is against my better judgment.” He paused. “Okay, Terry, this is what I’m going to do. I’ll take you two back with me. I co-own a twenty-four-hour emergency room. I’ll take you there. I promise that no questions will be asked, okay?”
I nodded.
“We’re not equipped to handle this kind of situation. Most of the time, we just give out antibiotics or pain medicine, or wrap a muscle strain. The most we ever do is stabilize heart attacks and send them off to a bigger hospital in Elko. But I’ll call in and tell them what I’m dealing with. If the doc there tells me that you have to go to Elko, you’re going to Elko. End of discussion. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Start the car,” Chris said. “God help me if you die.” He was silent for a few moments. “What the hell is wrong with your arm?” He lifted my right hand and I screamed in pain. “I think your shoulder’s dislocated. Stop the car again.”
The driver obeyed.
Chris said, “I can fix this. It’ll probably take some pain away, but if your arm is broken it might make it worse.”
“Tape …”
“What’d you say?”
I motioned to Juleen to give me the phone. I picked up an eyelid and managed to orient a finger on the phone’s letters. I pecked out: Tape the arm.
Chris read it. He said, “Anyone have any tape?”
Someone from the front seat said, “I have electrical tape.”
Serial killer, I thought.
“Give it to me,” Chris said. “This is going to stick to her arm.”
I made a motion with my left hand.
“I don’t understand,” Chris said.
“Flip … it.”
“Flip … Oh, right.” He took my right arm, and again, I screamed in pain as he started wrapping my forearm on the nonsticky side as tight as he could. It felt like a tourniquet. I was sobbing, it was so painful.
“Hold on, baby doll. Almost done.” Finally, he said, “This is going to hurt—”
“Go …”
He took my wrist and pulled my arm forward and straight out from my body with some force, guiding the ball back into the socket. I shrieked in pain. Afterward, it still hurt, but I could wiggle my fingers.
I still couldn’t move my arm without pain. “Better,” I whispered. I pulled at the tape.
“You want me to take the tape off?” Chris asked.
I nodded.
“Hold still.” A moment later, something cool touched my skin as it ran the length of the electrical tape up my arm. A knife, I presumed. Chris always carried weapons. Even lying next to him, against his chest, I could feel his gun in its shoulder holster.
He said, “Don’t you dare fall asleep.” I was too tired to answer him. Still, he kept talking … to keep me awake. “We had problems, I know, but we also had a lot of good times too. Like … like remember in Vegas … I took you there for our five-year anniversary. And we both got so plastered that as soon as we entered the hotel room, we fell down onto the floor.” A pause. “And we laughed and laughed and laughed. And we made love all night. And …” Another pause. “And then we left for breakfast … after having been up all night. We both looked a mess—well, I did, not you. You always looked good, Terry, no matter what.”
Uh, I beg to differ.
“Anyway, we went down to the casino. And there was the giant slot machine that only took ten-dollar tokens. And you wanted to play it, and I said gambling was flushing money down the toilet.”
How true is that.
“But you insisted, so I bought you a token. And you pulled the lever. One time.” He gave a laugh. “One pull and the bell went off. You won a couple of grand. It wasn’t the big jackpot, but it was a good return on your investment.”
His voice was far away, like the distant music of a parade.
“And you wanted to give it to me … the money. But I told you to keep it and spend it on whatever you wanted. After all, it was your money.” A beat. “And you bought me a gun with it—an antique Belgian Mauser Model 1893 rifle. I mean, what the hell was I going to do with an antique rifle? But you were so happy to buy it for me. The smile on your face … pure joy. I still have it, you know. The rifle. I’ve bought and sold lots of guns over the years, but I’ll never give that one away.”
He stopped talking for a moment.
“And remember when you used to bake me these fancy cakes for my birthday? I think the first one … I think it was a cake in the shape of a cello.” A moment passed. “And then there was one that looked like an artist’s palette. And another one that was in the shape of a gun. But the best one … the one I remember the best was when I was on trial for racketeering and jury tampering with my uncle. You baked me a ‘get out of jail free’ cake. God, I laughed my ass off. It was such a tense period of time and that just … I don’t know. It just cut through …” Chris said, “How much longer?”
From the front seat, a man said, “Two minutes, sir. They’ve just finished gassing up the plane.”
“Get a route from the FBO. Once we get there, I want to move.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later, the car slowed and I heard a roaring engine. I opened an eyelid and saw that the limo had pulled up right next to a plane. With his long arms, Chris leaned over Juleen and opened the door. “Go ahead, up the steps.” When I started to move, he said, “Not you. Your daughter. You just wait here.”
As soon as he moved—taking away his shoulder for upright support—I slid until I was lying down. A moment later, Chris helped me out and then picked me up, taking me up the stairs and settling me into a chair. “Someone get me a wet washcloth and a couple of ice packs.” A second later, he said, “This is cold. Put it in the microwave. And get me a towel. And where the fuck is the ice pack?”
I opened my eyelid and looked around for my daughter, but Chris was standing over me, blocking my vision. He said, “Close your eye. It might burn a little.”
I cooperated. He began to clean up my face. It took a few minutes, and when he was done, he patted it dry. I still stank. He placed an ice pack into my left hand. “Hold this on your face for maybe a minute on and a minute off.”
“Thanks.” I paused. “Sorry.”
“Shhh. None of that. I have to copilot the plane, baby. If you need anything, tell your daughter and she’ll come get me.”
I nodded. He stood up, and then I saw Juleen was sitting across the aisle from me. The plane was a six-seater, and four seats were taken up. Chris had brought two sidearms with him. The men weren’t just men, they were also his weapons.
Chris put on my seat belt. “We’re going over mountains. We’re actually going into the mountains. It’s going to be really bumpy, especially because it’s summer and the heat rises after dark. It’s normal. Don’t be nervous.” He stroked my arm. “It’ll be okay, I promise you.” To Juleen, he said, “If she starts to fall asleep, just put this ice pack on her face, okay?”
“Okay.”
I held out my hand to my daughter and she took it. Within a minute, I was going under. And no amount of yelling, shaking, ice packs, and turbulence would disturb my rest. At one point, they thought I’d died.
Maybe I had.
CHAPTER 2
HE STANK OF vomit, blood, and his own sweat. As meticulous as he was, he tolerated the stench out of necessity. But as soon as she was wheeled into a treatment room hidden behind double doors, he had to change his clothes. He always kept spare duds in all his offices. And he had a lot of offices. The convenience factor was that he wore the same thing every day: black suit and a black T-shirt, either long- or short-sleeved, depending on the weather. His boots were the only item that showed creativity. He had hundreds of pairs in every possible color and animal skin available.
He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. The place didn’t have a waiting room. The men who came here were usually certain types: those who had purposely ditched hearth and home for a couple of nights of bacchanalian freedom, rich single men who wanted it done in a very specific way, and on-the-spectrum coders with no social skills and money to burn. The cash bought them good food, fine spirits, and copious amounts of sex with as many women—or men—as their wallets could afford. Who the hell would be pacing for them in a hospital waiting room? No wives, no girlfriends, no boyfriends, no friends at all.
Nope. No waiting rooms. Just a hallway with a few chairs. The girl was sitting in one of them, head down, with two trash bags, a purse, and a violin case at her feet.
