Killer Move

When the women arrive, he knows they are only in his imagination. He’s still not sure about Katy, but he knows that the figures that start to appear now around the periphery of his vision are nothing more than the product of his memory. He remembers then that he did come up with an idea something like the fantasy index Katy’s ghost told him about. He knows that’s what his mind is serving up, except that the figures that are coming to share this space are not those who were attracted to him. He had a very different role in their lives, and there are many of them. He’d never realized quite how many.

He’s not afraid.

But he’s not a fool, either.

When he’s ready, he holds the ends of both arms of the chair with his hands. He anchors down with the balls of his feet. He closes his eyes and pushes, raising the front legs just a little.

Then he throws his back against the chair, hard.

The chair rocks, once, twice, and then tips slowly backward over the edge.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I didn’t go far. After I’d made it onto the main road without being confronted by a cop car, I calmed down a little. I knew what I was doing was not smart, but also that it wasn’t a CNN-worthy Bronco debacle either. How was I to have known that the cops were on their way? Well, okay, because Karren had told me—but they didn’t know that (yet). And they should have called ahead, right? You can’t just assume people are sitting around with nothing better to do. I had business to attend to. I had a client to meet, a dentist’s appointment, a brand-building encounter group and astrology “fragfest” up in Bradenton. I had to do . . . whatever the fuck.

So I wasn’t home. So sue me.

I drove into downtown Sarasota and developed an idea on the way. It was a small idea, but it was the only one I could find, and some form of positive and direct action seemed like a good plan right now (and a great excuse for not being at home, too).

I parked on Felton Street and walked the extra block to the offices of Not Just a Beach. I could see through the big glass doors that someone was still behind the desk, but when I tried to open the door, it was locked. The girl looked up from her computer and shook her head with the god-given authority of receptionists everywhere.

We be shut. It de law.

I went through a mime show to indicate that I knew it was after six and they weren’t open, but that I was desirous of communicating with her anyhow—and not likely to give up any time soon. She took her time interpreting this, or maybe just wasn’t too smart. In the end she pressed a button and the door clicked.

“We’re closed,” she said primly as soon as I’d set foot inside.

“I know, and I’m only going to keep you a second. I’m Stephanie Moore’s husband.”

The girl upped her respect level by about twenty percent, Steph being senior editor of the magazine. “Oh, okay, hi.”

“I’ve had my phone crash on me. I’m supposed to be meeting Steph but I can’t remember where. She texted me the place, but I can’t access my calendar. Can’t reach her on the phone, either. She didn’t mention where she was headed this evening, anything like that?”

The receptionist diligently consulted various bits of paper strewn across her desk and stuck around her computer monitor. “Sorry, no.”

“Okay, last resort—you got a number for Sukey?”

This was something I’d tried to establish back at the house during my phase of searching the place, but the number wasn’t on Steph’s laptop.

“I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

“Of course.” I grabbed a pen and a slip of paper from her desk and started scribbling. “But this is my cell, okay? Will you do me a favor, e-mail or text Sukey that number, ask her to give me a call?”

I walked back onto the street. I wasn’t confident she’d do as I’d asked, and it probably wouldn’t make much difference. So what now?

As I walked back to the car, I caught sight of a bar sign in the distance and thought: That’s what now.

Krank’s was slammed with the after-work crowd and I didn’t bother to even try to get a seat in the air-conditioned interior, instead grabbing one of the tables on the terrace. With a beer on the way I tried Steph’s number for the three millionth time. Getting voice mail again had me gripping the phone about as hard as its tough little case could handle. I didn’t bother to add another message. I did, however, notice that my battery had taken a thrashing over the course of the day and was already down to half a charge. This gave me a twist of additional anxiety that I didn’t need. Though, after all, I could charge it when I went back to the house, right? It wasn’t like I was on the run or anything. I’d be home real soon. Exactly.