PART 1 - Prey
CHAPTER ONE
THURSDAY P.M.
Desmond Roth got off the
plane at Pittsburgh International and joined the long procession of passengers
shuffling toward the landside terminal at the other end of the sprawling
complex. The brightly lit area, chaotic with nervous humanity, provided direct
access for everyone scrambling to get on their flights or coming off them.
Roth walked briskly toward the
front of the building, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. Anonymity had
been his way of life the last few years, but after his close
call in Orlando one year ago, staying under the radar had become an
issue of life and death.
People slouched on stools at
the food court, chowing down burgers and subs and drinking coffee and beer. He
kept a close watch on the activity, his finely tuned senses picking up quick
images. Family reunions. Loved ones departing. An impending funeral. An
important business convention. As always, he checked for eyes following him, as
well as eyes turning away a little too quickly.
He saw no sign, sensed no danger
or tension.
As he reached the last leg
of his trip through the terminal, where the ticket and car rental agencies
awaited him, he caught someone eyeing him from the approaching crowd. A
sloppy-dressed guy with wild black hair and a three-day growth of beard. The man
quickly averted his eyes and then looked down at his feet as he kept coming.
Roth caught a bright image:
a flash of hands, an instant's distraction.
A pickpocket. I really don't have time for this.
The man sidestepped at the
last possible moment. His left shoulder bumped lightly into Roth an instant
before he moved away.
Feeling the microscopic
pressure touching his breast pocket at that same instant, Roth spun around. His
right arm shot out, his hand latching on to the man's shoulder.
The man froze.
Roth focused on the man's
bloodshot eyes. Roth held out his left hand.
Trembling, the other man
reached inside his jacket, removed the tan camel-skin billfold, and handed it
over.
"Pl-Please...please
don't call the cops..."
This man had obviously been
a victim of hard times. His shirt and jeans clung to
him. He'd either taken them from the local Goodwill
box or had recently lost a considerate amount of weight.
Keeping his hand on the
man's shoulder, Roth glimpsed more images. This man had spent half his adult
life in jail--petty theft, picking pockets, purse-snatching, burglary, grand
theft auto. Booze and endless lines of coke also came
into the picture.
"How many others have you
taken today?" Roth asked.
The man shrugged.
"A shrug doesn't tell me
much. I prefer a number."
"Three..."
"Take what you've got to the
nearest church and leave it. They won't ask questions
if you just walk in, dump it in their office, and leave. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Roth released the man's
shoulder. The man seemed to be in some sort of daze.
He began staring at Roth's hand.
Roth hurried away, toward
the EXIT doors on the other side of the big building.
Twenty minutes later, Roth
slipped behind the wheel of a gray Dodge Challenger he'd
rented from one of the agencies he'd passed on his way out of the terminal. He
glanced at his watch. The pickpocket had only cost him three minutes or so.
He'd make it up on the road.
Ten minutes later, he
separated from the heavy flow heading for Pittsburgh, got on I-70 and headed
west.
His destination was
Manville, Ohio. According to his friend, this trip would take about half an
hour.
***
Her eyes
glazed over from staring at the computer screen the last four long hours, Laura
Neilson closed the laptop and pushed her chair back from the metal desk, where
she and Maddie did the books and tallied the day's profits.
It was almost six, and Laura was tired. Good thing it was the end
of the workday. Carl Gibson, Maddie's husband and co-owner
of Coffee Masters, had no doubt already flipped the sign on the front door from
OPEN to CLOSED.
The
coffeehouse had been nearly empty since around five.
It had been a normal day, the customers trickling in shortly after nine, when
the place opened. Activity stayed high from the time the lunch crowd staggered
in shortly after eleven, remaining busy until four, when the work force went
home for the day.
Laura had
been working for Maddie and Carl nearly one year. She'd started just a few days after receiving her clean bill
of health. Just two years earlier, she'd been involved
in a near-fatal accident on I-70, when an idiot in a Ford F-350 pickup
rear-ended her at nearly 100 miles an hour. The collision sent her silver Dodge
Charger into a quarter-mile skid, causing it to flip over, roll off the
Interstate and land in a ditch. The driver of the truck, a nineteen-year-old
high school dropout wasted on meth, had no driver's license or insurance, no
permission to drive his uncle's truck, and disappeared the moment he was released on bail.
The
accident left Laura with two smashed vertebrae, dislocated pelvis, three
cracked ribs, a broken jaw and a broken arm. The
Charger was totaled. The dream car Momma had bought for Laura for
graduating from Ohio University less than a month before the accident was gone
forever.
Laura
carefully pushed herself up from the desk. She considered herself fortunate
that she could perform such a simple task. It had taken her many
months to learn to walk all over again. Now, after nearly two
years, she could walk almost normally, her pronounced limp giving her
character, as Momma had said several times.
Sliding the
thick strap of her lightweight tan leather tote bag carefully over her right
shoulder, she left the cluttered office and shuffled stiffly down the hall and
into the bathroom to wash her face and fix her hair.
Under the
flickering overhead fluorescent, she stepped in front of the smudged mirror.
Leaning against the sink to support her back, she splashed her face with warm
water. After dabbing her cheeks with paper towels, she applied fresh lipstick
and then carefully unwound the red rope that held the bun she wore during
working hours. Her heavy dark-brown locks thumped onto her shoulders and slid down
her front. For the next few minutes, she applied the large green pick to free
the knots and clumps. After some furious tugging and
pulling, she grabbed the hairbrush.
Maddie came
in looking tired as usual, her fine features drawn, her cornflower blue eyes
slightly veined. Judging by her sour expression, she'd
either been to the bank or had another argument with Carl. Their eight-year
marriage was solid, but they frequently argued about how the shop should be run. Maddie had put up the money for the down payment and
had the final say. Carl ached to have a free hand in running the business.
Unluckily for him, Maddie was strong-willed and fiercely independent, insisting
on doing things her own way. Luckily for both of them,
Maddie had good business sense.
"How'd we
do today?" Maddie pushed some heavy red strands away
from her cheek and gave herself a quick look of disapproval in the mirror.
"The
after-lunch lull seemed longer than usual."
"It started
earlier, too. Business didn't pick up again until much later."
"That new
buffet restaurant that just opened in St. Clairsville could be slamming us."
"It
shouldn't affect us that much. Hungry people don't
go to a place that sells coffee and croissants. We cater to the Mall shoppers."
"I wouldn't
worry. Once the new wears off, it'll pick up again."
Maddie
shook her head. "Why are you always so damned optimistic?"
Laura could
never understand why Maddie always chose the gloomy side of everything. "It
beats being depressed, doesn't it?"
"Honey, you're
the one who almost died, remember?"
Laura
smiled. "The accident made me see things in a much clearer perspective, I
guess."
"What you
went through would definitely put a new slant on things. Call me weird, but I'd
rather keep my negativity than go through something like that."
"I honestly
don't recommend being rear-ended, believe me--especially at a hundred miles an
hour."
"I'll take
your word for it. While we're on the subject, I've been
wondering. Everything okay at home?"
"Why do you
ask?"
"I saw your
mom the other day in town. She seemed really deep in
thought. I was just wondering if--well, if something
was going on..."
"We're both
okay."
Maddie
watched her for a moment; she obviously had something on her mind. "I guess I'm
just wondering if...well, I don't know how to--"
"Just ask,
Maddie."
"All
righty. You haven't, by some strange coincidence, heard from your father, have
you?"
The
question took her completely by surprise. "Now why would you ask me that?"
"It was
your birthday last week. I just thought--"
"You
thought wrong."
"I'm sorry,
honey."
"It's all
right."
"You're
sure? I know I've never been one to mind my own business...
I'm just a little concerned."
"It's been
five years since Dad left, and still no word. I've
grown used to it. So has Momma."
"He didn't
come see you at all in the hospital?"
"He was in
Florida at the time. I don't know how he even heard
about it, but he called a couple of days after I was brought in. I couldn't talk to him because I was all doped up. Even if I'd been awake, I couldn't talk very well with my jaw wired
shut. Apparently he only called that one time. I never
heard from him after that."
"Never?"
"He never
called again."
"My father
did his share of crap, too. I saw him once or twice
after I left home, but there was no love lost between us. When he died, I
discovered that I couldn't even mourn. I obviously had
no feelings left for him."
"I didn't
know, Maddie. I'm sorry."
"I'm over
it. I can tell by what I see in your eyes that you're
over it, too. But he should've at least visited you in
the hospital, for crying out loud."
Laura tried
once again to force away the hurt. It was tough. She'd
been so angry and upset when Dad had left. Because of his actions, she'd harbored a deep resentment for all men and feared
she'd never be able to trust anyone again. She'd known
a few decent guys, even dated a couple of them before her accident. Even so,
she remained uncomfortable in their presence and blamed it on the pain and
distrust she'd developed from her father's
abandonment.
"I don't
know if I'm fully over it," she told Maddie. "I don't know if I'll ever be."
"Well, if
you ever need to talk, Carl and I live upstairs. And we keep late hours."
Maddie patted her shoulder and slipped into the stall.
Laura
shuffled outside through the rear entrance, where she'd
parked her ten-year-old light-blue Honda Civic in the side lot facing the Ohio
Valley Mall on the other side of the open thoroughfare. The Civic was a far cry from her beloved Charger, but she wasn't making
much money and had very little in her savings account. Economy had become her
only option.
She slid
very carefully behind the wheel, wincing at the sharp stab of bright pain. Not quite right. Gently she situated herself in the
seat, giving her bones plenty of time to arrange
themselves for the trip ahead. There. The pain slowly ebbed into a
distant hum.
She pulled
out of her space, coasted down Mall Road and got onto
I-70. Traffic was heavy as usual, the rush hour still in full swing. Although
she regularly used the same stretch of highway that
had nearly killed her, she knew not to let such things haunt her. It was never
very bright to keep looking back. It prevented you from seeing what you should
be facing in the present. She'd read that in a book a
while back, liked the way it sounded and never forgot it.
The drive
to Manville, where she and Momma lived, was only ten miles. She pulled onto the
first Manville exit and drove about a quarter of a mile down the straight
stretch that went directly to town, before slowing and stopping at the red
light. A dirty white van eased to a stop behind her. The driver's visor was pulled down. She had the eerie feeling that the driver
was watching her.
Your
imagination, kiddo... She'd
just seen a really tense thriller on Netflix, where Jennifer Lopez was being
stalked. You don't wanna
think of something like that right now. She was being silly. There was no
need to panic just because someone had gotten close to her in traffic.
Five
minutes later, Laura pulled off the main road and eased up the two-lane street
that brought her to their two-story brick house on South Elm. She pulled up the
short concrete drive in front of the garage, next to Momma's maroon Crown Vic,
and killed the ignition.
It was
six-thirty. She gingerly got out of the car and hobbled up the concrete walk
leading to the front stoop. Before slipping the key into the slot on the front
door, a strange tingling at the base of her neck made her stiffen. Mindful of
her balance, she turned around.
The dirty
white van hadn't turned off. Sometime during
the trip home, traffic had separated them, giving her the illusion it was gone.
It sat directly across the street, next to their neighbor's faded gray mailbox,
and didn't move away until she'd backed up against the
door and dropped her keys on the concrete stoop.
***
"Everything
okay, baby?"
Momma appeared
in the kitchen archway, munching on a carrot stick. She'd
already changed into her light-blue bathrobe.
Laura
immediately flicked on a bright smile and forced herself to ignore the
all-too-familiar stabbing of bright flame racing up her spine. In her panic, she'd twisted around out on the porch, shot awkwardly through
the doorway and slammed the door behind her. Now she stood with her back braced
against the door, holding her breath while remaining totally
still, waiting for the tremors to subside.
And now she
had to find some way to convince Momma that nothing
was wrong.
"I'm fine.
Why?"
"Why're you
standing there like that? Is your back acting up again?"
"I sort of
stumbled...when I came in."
"I wondered
why I heard the door slam."
"Sorry about
that. I bumped into it before I could close it."
"You need
to be more careful. Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself?"
"I'm sure."
Momma went
back into the kitchen.
As the pain
gradually became a distant throbbing, Laura began thinking clearly again.
Someone had
followed her home.
The very
idea was silly. She drove an old Honda, did the books at a local coffee shop,
maintained a savings account that barely covered the bank's $8 monthly service
fee, and wore reasonably priced, off-the-rack clothing.
Why would
anyone be interested in someone like her?
Who would
want to bother with someone who took half an hour to get out of her clothes,
hobbled around and screamed in agony whenever she stumbled or raised her leg an
inch too high while getting out of the tub?
Was it
because she was a slender young female? Because most people thought she was
pretty? Was it her thick head of hair that looked fairly good
most of the time, if she brushed it just right and let it do what it wanted?
Was that
what stalkers looked for these days?
She needed
to stop letting her imagination run wild. Even if there really was someone
following her, that didn't mean they were actually
interested in her, did it?
Momma would
be a much better candidate. She was attractive and in great shape for her age,
and pretty much financially independent since the
house had been paid for. And, of course, her job working for Sam more than paid
the bills...
Enough.
This was beginning to wear on her nerves.
She straightened
very carefully and slowly turned around. Trembling slightly, she moved closer
to the peephole.
The street
was empty.
She wanted
to slap herself. Just because she'd seen a dirty white
van parked across the street didn't mean it was the one she'd seen before.
There were certainly more than one or two dirty white vans in town. Even an
idiot could figure that one out...
Laura
suddenly noticed the thick, tangy aroma of Momma's legendary beef stew. Her
mouth watered, and the subject of the van and her imaginary stalker instantly
dissolved.
She dropped
her bag on the recliner on her way to the kitchen and hung her keys on the
pegboard fastened to the kitchen wall. She shuffled over to the simmering
coffeepot. "How was your day?"
Momma just
shrugged and went over to the stove, where the stew popped and bubbled in the
large blue spatterware pot.
Laura knew
better than press the issue. "Maddie asked about you."
Momma
stirred the stew gently with the ladle. "How's she doing?"
"She and
Carl are both doing well."
"Tell them
I said hi."
Laura had a
swallow of coffee. She began thinking about the van again. She wanted to ask
Momma if she knew anyone who drove one but knew that would be a mistake. Momma
would want to know what was wrong and Laura would have to lie. Laura was a
terrible liar. Besides, suggesting someone might be stalking them would not be
very bright.
"Well, I'd
better get out of these clothes. How's Sam, by the way?"
"I haven't
seen him. He's in Wheeling and probably won't even be in town for the next few
days."
Laura grabbed
her bag as she crossed the living room. Her back still ached; she'd probably have to take a pain pill after dinner.
Before she
went over to the stair lift, she had another peek at the peephole.
Still no
sign of the van.