First Drop (19 page)

“I thought you used the payphone outside the motel,” I said.
Why hadn’t he really told me about his mobile? What was he trying to hide?

“Anyways,” Trey said, sulky now, “I can’t use my phone to call long-distance. My dad had like, a block put on it.”

I sighed. “Trey, if I’m going to protect you in all of this you’re really going to have to start communicating with me.”

“Protect me?” he said, his voice low but scornful. “How? First you send Mr Whitmarsh into the wrong room at the motel so they, like, kill those people who didn’t have nothing to do with this. Then you crash our getaway car. You’ve never even done this before.”

“Hang on a minute!” I stared at him in surprise. “You’re the one who’s been making me out to be some kind of Wonder Woman in front of your mates.”

“Yeah,” he said, churlish. “What did you expect me to tell them – that you’re just, like, the nanny who’s in way over her head? No way!”

Scott ended his call and ambled back across the lounge to hand the mobile back to Trey. “What’s up?”

“I really need to call someone in the UK,” I said. “Can I use the phone here?”

He looked sheepish. For a moment my temper sparked. He was prepared to help us outrun the police, but the prospect of a transatlantic phone call was too much to ask.

“I’m quite happy to pay for the call,” I said through gritted teeth.

“It’s not that,” Scott said quickly. “It’s just that, well, when my folks were up in New England skiing last winter I kinda used the phone a lot when they were away. I mean
a lot
.” He glanced from one of us to the other, clearly not keen to reveal his misdemeanours in front of his friend. “Dad went ape when he got back and found out. He, like, totally lost it. So now, when they go away, they have the phone company put a block on the line. All I can do is make local phone calls ‘cos, like, they’re free, y’know?”

“Another one,” I muttered, turning away in frustration. “That’s just great.”

Scott stuck his hands in his back pockets, making his shoulders round. “These guys you need to get in touch with,” he said, diffident. “Can’t you just e-mail them?”

I turned back, slowly. I’d been a latecomer to the information superhighway. I still didn’t own a computer and I’d only occasionally used the ones at Sean’s office to surf the Internet.

Then, I regret to say, it was usually looking for cheaper quotes for motorbike insurance, rather than sending e-mail. It just hadn’t occurred to me that it was the perfect way to get in touch with Madeleine, regardless of the time difference.

“Scott,” I said, smiling at him, “you’re a genius.”

He grinned back at me.

Trey didn’t like that much, either.

***

The message I sent to Madeleine was short and to the point, more like a telegram than an e-mail. “Job blown up. Locals hostile. KP disappeared. TP with me. SM missing. Instructions?”

I put Scott’s phone number on there as well and sent it with a certain feeling of relief, like I’d got an SOS out from a sinking ship. I hoped the whole thing wasn’t too cryptic, but I was reluctant to say much more without knowing who might be monitoring e-mail traffic.

All I could do now was wait for a reply.

Then I checked my watch and realised with a sense of dejection that it was 12.37pm, Eastern Standard Time. Add five onto that and it was just outside office hours in the UK. And on a Friday afternoon, as well. There was always a chance that Madeleine wouldn’t even pick up my cry for help for another two days.

By that time, we could both be dead.

Downstairs, a door slammed and we heard chattering voices. Scott leaned over the rail and called for Xander and Aimee to come up. Trey was still hunched over the computer keyboard, logging on to his own e-mail account.

It was at that point I discovered Aimee had bought a packet of pink hair dye that she was fully expecting to use on me.

“It’s not, like, permanent,” she pointed out, pouting. “It’ll wash out in about a month.”

I thought about the picture on the news report.

“OK,” I said, resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

I had to wash my hair first anyway, so they let me shower in peace in one of the guest bathrooms. I stood under a shower head the size of a dinner plate and let the hot water pummel my face and body for a long time. After twenty-four hours on the run, it felt indescribably wonderful to be clean again. I could have stayed in there for days.

Eventually, I reluctantly shut off the water and stepped out. I towelled myself roughly dry and opened one of the brown paper bags that Aimee had handed over. Inside was one of the smallest bikinis I’ve ever seen and a pair of flip-flops with plastic flowers on the straps – also in pink.

I glanced at the limp pile of clothes I’d discarded on the bathroom floor, but I couldn’t face the prospect of putting them back on again. I wrapped myself firmly in a bath towel, draped another round my neck, then grabbed the bag and ventured back out into the lounge.

The kids were all clustered in the kitchen. Someone had switched channels so MTV was playing loudly enough in the background for you to have to raise your voice to talk over it.

Trey was on a chair in the centre of the tiled floor, his hair covered in gunk. He didn’t seem to have changed out of his old clothes and he certainly hadn’t showered.

They all stopped talking when they saw me.

“Is this all you’ve bought for me to wear?” I asked, holding up the bag.

Aimee giggled. “If I’d left it to Xander – yeah,” she said. Her hands were still encased in the throwaway plastic gloves she’d used to spoon the dye onto Trey’s hair. She nodded to the nearest worktop, where a rake of other brown paper bags were scattered. “There should be some, like, y’know, green silk pants in there someplace.”

Fearing the worst, I searched through the bags for the article described, but discovered she actually meant a pair of loose-fitting trousers in a rather restrained colour that was close to olive drab. The only problem was that the waistband was held up by a drawstring that was nowhere near strong enough to contain the SIG.

I turned back and realised all four of them were watching me with a certain amount of anxiety.

“We got you a bag and a shirt, too,” Aimee said hesitantly.

I kept looking. The bag was a tiny thing with straps for you to wear it on your back like a rucksack. It was just about big enough for the gun. At least the shirt had a collar, even if its shortened tails were designed to be knotted to show off your midriff, so that left no room for the SIG either.

I tried not to show impatience with them. I’m sure that concealing an illegal firearm wasn’t something Aimee normally had to think about when she went clothes shopping with her pals. Considering what she
could
have picked out for me, she’d done a good job.

“That’s great,” I said, relieved. “Thanks.”

I took my haul back into the bathroom and got dressed. The bikini top seemed at least a size too small. If I made any sudden moves even someone of my relatively limited attributes was likely to fall out over the top of it.

I gave up on the flip-flops. The thought of trying to run anywhere in them didn’t bear thinking about. Instead, I washed out my socks in the sink and hung them to dry on the towel rail. That way I could put my boots back on. The trousers sat quite low on my hips and would be plenty long enough to cover the boots when the time came.

I slipped the SIG into the backpack, together with the blade I’d taken away from the skinny kid on the beach. Just those two items filled it enough for me to have trouble closing the zip and I had to slip my Swiss Army knife into my trouser pocket. What were people actually expected to carry in these things?

By the time I was dressed and went back out again Aimee had Trey’s head bent into the kitchen sink, rinsing the dye off. She glanced up and grinned at my appearance.

“You’ll have to lose the shirt,” she said. “I don’t wanna, like, get dye all over it.”

Reluctantly, I complied, shifting uneasily as Scott and Xander did a double-take at the sight of me in a bikini top. Aimee grinned again at their reaction. “I thought so,” she said airily, sounding a little smug. “I got just the right size.”

She suddenly seemed businesslike, less silly, as she set to on Trey with a pair of scissors and enough gusto to make me nervous. But by the time she’d finished snipping and blow-drying and gelling his hair, Trey had a short white blond spiky cut, very like Scott’s. It was quite a change.

“Now why couldn’t I have gone blonde as well?” I wanted to know as I sat down and prepared for my turn.

“Too close to your natural colour,” Aimee dismissed. She picked up a strand of my still-damp hair. “You have great hair. This
is
natural, yeah?”

“Well, it was,” I murmured. She grinned and began spooning the gloop onto my head.

I had to sit still while the dye did its thing. I spent the time ignoring the chatter that was going on above my head and trying not to watch the clock and wonder if Madeleine had picked up her e-mail.

Eventually, Aimee peered closely at a bit of hair and said. “OK, you’re done.”

She washed it off in the sink again but I backed off when she got her scissors out.

“Aw, c’mon Charlie, don’t sweat it,” she said. “I’m not gonna do yours real short like Trey. And you need it cutting anyways.”

So I let her do what she wanted. Whenever I’ve had my hair cut in the past I’ve always had a mirror in front of me, so I can see what they’re up to, and that’s when I’m dealing with professionals. This was something of a leap of faith.

It seemed to take her a long time, trimming a bit here and there. She blow-dried it and finished off by plaiting two small sections of my hair into thin braids, just above the outside corner of my right eye, with coloured beads threaded onto the ends. If I turned round suddenly the beads clunked irritatingly against my cheekbone.

“I’ve got some more beads you can wear round your neck that will, like, cover up your scar,” she told me, her voice chatty.

I made a noncommittal reply, uncomfortable having something I’d always viewed as so private discussed so publicly.

Aimee didn’t stop with my hair. She fished out boxes of make-up and started smoothing it onto my face with her fingertips. I would have objected but I’d seen the length of her fingernails and didn’t want to do anything that might make her jump when she was so close to my eyes.

Finally, she stood back, hands on hips as she studied me. “OK, Charlie,” she said, “you’re all set. Go have a look.”

I stood up, brushing the bits of loose hair from my knees. Nothing seemed to stick to the silk trousers for long. I went back through to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Only it wasn’t me.

Aimee had done something to my face that brought my cheekbones out and made my eyes look huge. The pink hair was in more of a bob than my usual rather straggly style and, I had to admit, it really quite worked. So did the braids and the outfit.

I struck a pose, giving it some attitude and putting my hands on my hips like I’d seen Aimee do. If I worked my jaw like I was chewing gum with my mouth open, the transformation was complete. Sure, I still looked older than Trey, but not by much.

I went back out into the lounge. Aimee looked up, expectant.

I shrugged awkwardly. “It’s amazing,” I said. “Thank you.”

She flushed and smiled, her cheeks dimpling prettily. “You’re very welcome,” she said.

***

We stayed in the house for most of what was left of the afternoon. Trey seemed to spend most of it up in the loft, either playing computer games or surfing the Internet. It was the only time I’d seen him look really at home anywhere. He seemed to lose his gawkiness when his right hand was clawed round a mouse and his eyes were locked on the screen. Mind you, then he just looked nerdy instead.

I even had a bit of a go at surfing myself, although I won’t say I was anywhere near being at his level. I tried putting in a search for the name of the software company Keith Pelzner worked for. That gave me their official website, which failed to tell me much more than I’d found out from Madeleine’s original report.

But, it also found any references to the company, including one that I guessed must be an online edition of the financial paper article that had so annoyed Gerri on the day of my arrival.

I scanned quickly down the page. All it said was that the company was on the brink of launching a new program that would mean big things for anyone intra-day trading on the futures markets, whatever that meant. It was not only couched in wildly technical terms, but also written in a style so leaden my eyes started to glaze over by the time I was halfway down the first page.

There was still no word from Madeleine.

***

Later, we ordered takeaway pizza delivered to the door. You couldn’t get to the surface of the dining table, so we ate with the huge boxes open on our knees, watching the news reports.