Matt would have laughed, I thought. He never used the remote that came with his Camry. “There’s not enough return for the extra space the square thing takes up on my key ring,” he’d said.
There was no streetlight close to my car, and I knew I’d have a hard time seeing the lock. I put my bags down on the sidewalk, fumbling in my purse for the small flashlight I always carried.
Clank!
I turned to see one of my tote bags knocked over, my metal T-square hitting the pavement. Small white atoms rolled out of the bag and into the gutter. I worried momentarily about the storm drain, but figured the tiny balls wouldn’t be the worst of the contaminants headed that way on an average day.
“Let me help you with that.” A deep, unfamiliar voice. I started at the sound, seeming to come from nowhere, yet so close that I bumped into him—a man I didn’t know—when I turned around. I gasped, a wave of fear coursing through my body. I looked around at the street, not exactly deserted, but no one within range of my voice, either. He leaned into me. An unwashed smell attacked my nostrils. Perspiration, cigarette smoke, foul breath. A homeless person? No. In the next moment I knew who he was, though I’d never met him.
Wayne Gallen.
He’d used surprise to his advantage and taken my keys from me, knocking over more of my bags in the process. He pressed himself against me, so that my back was arched against the hood of the Cadillac, my knees unnaturally bent. Pain shot through my lower body.
“Nice wheels, Aunt G,” he said. My eyes widened. “Oh, yes, MC and I used to talk a lot, back in Houston. She sure is crazy about you.”
I’d always thought a Southern drawl would sound soothing, even sweet. Not this one, however. His voice was strident, threatening, on the edge of malice. I tried to breathe, to sound normal. Not easy with my hips and knees at the wrong angle to each other. But even through the pain, I thought, Just what he did with MC—this man has no imagination.
“Mr … . Gallen, is it?”
He eased his upper torso away, pinning me, knees to knees, and tipped his filthy cap. “Yes, ma’am. Wayne Gallen himself. Listen, I need to talk to you, but let’s get inside where it’s private.”
What is this? I wondered. A new kind of stalker? The Unwanted Passenger Stalker? I also wondered why a certain inappropriate flipness always accompanied the moments of crisis in my life.
“My husband is a policeman,” I said, “and he’s expecting—”
Wayne smiled, a crooked grin, but not at a pleasant angle as Matt’s skewed smile was. Wayne’s was more like a sneer. He shook his finger at me in mock reprimand. “You are not married, Aunt G. Don’t go lying now, or neither me nor MC will be able to trust you.”
Well, we’re practically married, I thought. Maybe we should tie the knot, just for situations like this.
A few cars passed us, but I was parked on the left side of a one-way street, with the driver’s side next to the sidewalk, unable to signal anyone. Besides, our relative positions against the car probably led people to think they were witnessing a romantic interlude. No help needed.
Wayne held me with one hand, inserted the key in the door with the other. I made no attempt to get away, knowing he was stronger and faster than I. Most people were. He must have realized I wasn’t about to bolt, because he relaxed his hold a bit. He ushered me into the backseat of my car, not pushing hard, almost as if he were my chauffeur having a bad night.
“I need you to talk to MC,” he said, settling himself into the backseat beside me. “I know she trusts you. You need to explain, A, that she’s in a lot of danger here, and B, that she needs to come away with me. It’s the only solution.”
Half of me was scared to death, trying to plot a getaway. The other half was happy to have located Wayne Gallen, or vice versa. I wished I had a copy of the PFA the police couldn’t seem to issue in the last forty-eight hours. It was small consolation that the order was in effect whether the respondent, in legalese, knew it or not.
He didn’t really hurt MC, I reminded myself. Maybe I can get some information out of him.
“What kind of danger is MC in?” I asked him, just an interested Aunt G.
Wayne lit a cigarette from a new package. Evidently the surgeon general’s message hadn’t reached Texas. He carefully removed the red cellophane strip from around the top and tucked it into his jacket pocket. A neat, environmentally conscious captor, despite his lack of grooming. I thought about bolting while he focused on keeping his thin, handlebar mustache from going up in flames from his lighter. “My boss won’t like it if I tell you, believe me.”