122 Rules (10 page)

* * *

The next morning, Susan woke at her normal time, donned her robe, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. A half hour later, she returned to her room with two steaming mugs of coffee and a small plate of cinnamon rolls from a tube she’d found in back of the fridge.

“Good morning,” Peter said, sitting up.

“Good morning to you. Hungry?” she asked, irritated he hadn’t gotten dressed and, in fact, continued to linger in her bed.

“Starving.”

She handed him the coffee, a pastry, and a napkin.

“Thank you.” He took a sip.

She nodded, disrobed, and started pulling on her office clothes.
Take the clue, boy. Time for you to go.

He watched her for a minute. “What’s on your agenda for the day?” he asked around a mouthful of pastry.

“I need to go to work.”

“You work on Saturdays?”

Crap. Duh. It’s Saturday. Okay, no problem. That makes perfect sense; we’ve got a busy office and lots of pressing matters.
“Yep, and though I’ve had fun, you need to go. Here.” She tossed the stack of documents she’d reviewed for him onto the bed.

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

“There are a few notes you should pay attention to, but overall it looks good. May I give you a little advice?”

He took another sip of his coffee. “Sure.”

“Leave town.”

“Pardon?”

“Leave. This place is a cesspool. The town is dying. The economy’s in the toilet. There’re no jobs and no prospects. It would be impossible to build a life here. Save your money and save yourself. Get out before it drags you down and sucks out your soul.”

“What if one has a romantic prospect?” He gave her his warm and inviting smile.

She’d considered it. Thought about it at great lengths while the rolls baked and the coffee brewed. Thought about asking him to take her for another ride on his bike, but this time, they would leave town and never come back. But no matter how much she’d laughed at his jokes and gave herself to him in bed, she couldn’t see them sharing a life on the run. He had a reserved, rule-following nature about him, that wouldn’t meld itself to life with a fugitive. She’d had her fun, given the FBI the finger, but now she needed to seriously consider getting out of town, and she couldn’t do that with this man around.

“No. That’s not going to happen. I had fun, but this was a one-time deal. I have to stay here, but you shouldn’t.”

To his credit, Peter’s expression did not falter when he nodded. “Okay, I understand. I’ll get dressed and get out of your hair.” He stood and pulled on his clothes. Finishing his coffee, he headed towards the front of the house.

She opened the door for him, grateful to be almost done. “Thank you. I had a nice time.”

He turned on the stoop, touched her chin, and kissed her gently. “Thank you. If I don’t see you again, I hope things work out. I really do.”

Goosebumps broke out on her body at the touch of his lips and the earnest pain in his eyes. The thought of asking him back into the house flashed through her mind. Something about the moment had touched her deeper than she could have ever imagined, and she longed to talk to him about it. She wanted to know what he felt at that instant. But before she could even consider formulating the words, he donned his helmet, climbed on his bike, and drove away.

She watched him until he dwindled from view.

11

The Monday after Peter Morrell stopped by their office, Lisa Bunder arrived at work anxious for date-night details. Susan filled her in on her clandestine evening with the dark stranger. Lisa’s mouth literally dropped open in astonishment at Peter’s abrupt departure. She’d always known her friend to be cool and levelheaded, but she couldn’t have predicted such an outcome simply because she couldn’t fathom herself ever being so bold.

“Wow. Yeah, you’re right to ask him to leave. But wow… Maybe that’s for the best. You don’t need the complication of a man in your life.” Lisa shook her head. “They ain’t nothing but trouble. Speakin’ of which, since you’re alone again, I was wondering if I could stay for a spell? Me ‘n’ Jeb been fightin’. Just ’til things blow over.”

“Yes, of course,” Susan said, as she always did.

“We’ve just been going through a rough patch.” Lisa began a long, rattling monologue on dramatic events that would have rivaled the best of daytime television.

* * *

While the two women filed briefs and discussed the intricacies of Lisa’s marriage at the office, a white telephone company van pulled up in front of Susan’s little bungalow.

No one had heard of this particular company before, but later witnesses would remark this unworthy of note. In the depressed economy, even the utility companies struggled and often changed hands.

The man wore blue coveralls, work boots, a baseball cap, and a utility belt. Descriptions of him varied from five-and-a-half feet with blonde hair to over six-feet tall with a long, shaggy mane and a mustache. No one got a good look at his face, and after several frustrating attempts, the sketch artist gave up, exasperated.

He carried a clipboard and a small toolbox when he walked around Susan’s humble dwelling to the point where the phone line veered off the main cable and met the side of the house. He disappeared around back, perhaps to go do some technical telephone maintenance task. A few minutes later, he put his tools back in the truck, wrote something on the clipboard, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off.

No record could be found in the local telephone company’s system of any maintenance ordered for that address, or any other in the area.

* * *

Long after the sun had set, Lisa locked the office doors, still prattling about her husband and their life. How, Susan wondered, could there be
so
much to say? She tuned out, thinking instead about a simple dinner and a hot bath. She really wanted some alone time. It had been an emotional few days, but she could see no quiet moments in her near future.

Susan placed her hand on Lisa’s shoulder, interrupting the monotonous monologue. “I’m going to run to the store and pick up something to eat. Need anything?”

Lisa halted mid-sentence and seemed to think it over. “No thank you, love. I’m going home.” By “home,” Susan’s boss did not mean the one she shared with her husband. “I’ll read a book and drink myself to sleep.”

* * *

Lisa drove the four miles to Susan’s modest, single-story house. She parked on the street and sat in her car listening to a sappy love song and mooning over her marriage to Jeb.

They’d had a rocky time of it lately, and she had started to wonder if they would “make it.” Having Susan as a friend had been a godsend. She loved how the girl listened—almost never giving advice—and helped her pick through the details, ad nauseam, of the fights with her husband. Their arguments had become far too frequent.

Despite encouraging Susan to form a relationship with the dark-haired stranger, Lisa had been more than a little relieved when she found out he’d left town. She had encouraged Susan to have a fling, but it hadn’t taken Lisa long to realize she needed her friend single and attentive, not tied down with obligations and a life of her own.

* * *

FBI Investigative Report

Entry #0908.3

Reporting Agent: Hale Lenski

Subject, Susan Rosenberg, remained at work until approximately 6:43 PM when she left in her 1992 Subaru wagon, heading east on Desert Scape Avenue (see town map, entry #19). She entered the grocery store, “Quickie Mart,” where she purchased beer: Michelob Light; cheese: cheddar; and a loaf of day-old French bread. At 7:05 PM, according to interview with cashier, Erin Trusk, she exited the store. Presumably driving home.

* * *

When Susan pulled into the driveway, Lisa got out of her car and headed across the street. Lisa often sat and listened to music while thinking about her wreck of a home life, so it didn’t surprise Susan to see her boss hadn’t yet made it into the house.

Susan got out a bag of groceries in one hand and the six pack in the other.

Lisa unlocked the front door then turned. “Hey, be a dear and grab the files from the back of my car.” She tossed the keys.

Having both hands full, Susan had no way to catch them, and they slid under the Subaru.

“Oops, sorry,” Lisa said but made no move to help.

Susan swore under breath. Lisa could not transition between personal and professional, telling Susan what to do and making her run errands—getting the files from the damned car for instance—as though they were still at the office.

Sighing, Susan set the groceries down and knelt behind her car, reaching under it for the keys. Her fingers searched and came up empty, so she crawled further under the Subaru until only her feet stuck out. Finally, her fingers grasped the fob to Lisa’s Audi.

“Gotcha!” she said as the front door of her house clicked shut.

* * *

Lisa leaned her back against the door, pausing to think about the cold beers Susan had pulled from the car. She slipped off her shoes and started down the shadowed hallway, nylon-clad feet whispering on cool linoleum. She had taken only a few steps, the odd smell just registering in her exhausted mind, when she flipped on the entryway light.

A small spark in the cheap, ancient chandelier ignited the gas that had been filling the house all afternoon. The resulting explosion vaporized the skin from Lisa’s body as it slammed her back into the closed front door. A wave of heat from the trailing fireball liquefied the underlying flesh then began to turn her bones to ash. Later, there wouldn’t be enough of her left for a DNA sample, though agents wouldn’t believe they needed one to make a positive ID.

The blast lifted the little bungalow’s roof, intact. It hovered a few inches above the studs for several seconds, riding a wave of heat and flame. When it came back down, it crushed the already weakened and crumbling walls, and the entire structure collapsed in on itself.

* * *

The force of the explosion shoved the car to the bottom of its struts, driving Susan into the concrete, almost crushing her. The oppressive weight of the vehicle felt as though someone had dropped a piano on her back. After the initial blast, the weight of the car lessened, and Susan wriggled out from underneath it.

She stood staring in disbelief at the destruction of the place she had, begrudgingly, called home. She remained paralyzed for a full minute by the overwhelming sadness that her friend had been inside when the house blew up.

She shook her head, trying to clear the buzzing in her ears. The sound from the blast had almost deafened her. What rang clear: someone had just tried to kill her. If she didn’t get out of there, another message like it would arrive in short order. This time, she doubted they’d miss.

This was what the FBI had been trying to protect her from.

She looked at the hulk of burned out metal that, up until a few minutes ago, had been a 1992 Subaru wagon. The car bore the brunt of the violence, becoming her unlikely savior. If she hadn’t been under it, she would have been killed. Grateful for the little Japanese vehicle that had protected her, she nevertheless had been left without a means of escape.

She tried to look around, but the fumes and intense heat burned her eyes, making them itch. When she tried to rub them, she almost jabbed herself in the face. The key. She still had Lisa’s key. Monica ran across the street, climbed into the Audi, and drove back to the office.

Fearful to turn on the lights and draw attention to herself, she picked her way to the rear corner where Lisa kept the safe. Her hands shook so hard she mis-entered the combination twice. Before trying again, she forced herself to take a deep breath, willing her rattled nerves to settle down. Three incorrect entries and the safety mechanism disabled the keypad for fifteen minutes. She’d be forced to wait.

She punched in the ten-digit code again. Relief flooded through her as the little indicator light changed from red to green. Monica opened the door and stuffed the cash, company checkbook, and company credit card into her purse. She closed the safe and locked the front door before climbing back into the Audi and speeding off into the night.

* * *

FBI Investigative Report

Entry #0908.7

Reporting Agent: Hale Lenski

Fire crews arrived on the scene but were unable to prevent the complete loss of Ms. Rosenberg’s house. They sprayed down the surrounding terrain in an attempt to keep the fire from spreading to other dwellings. Efforts that proved largely successful, although a nearby abandoned structure to the east received minimal smoke damage.

Fire chief Ryan Zyresk, of the Walberg Volunteer Fire Department, had been cited as saying, “There was no need to waste valuable resources trying to save something that clearly isn’t worth the effort.” The blaze seemed to be started by a gas leak, though it is unclear what triggered the explosion itself.