My Everything (2 page)

When Dr. Nguyen and Dr. Westfall invited her to come for drinks with the group, she’d accepted readily, excited to be included with this prestigious company, never dreaming they meant a night out at a loud, crowded L.A. hot spot.

My God, she felt brittle. If one more person touched her, Grace thought she’d shatter. She’d only had two glasses of wine, but that was obviously two too many in her current state. Dr. Westfall was saying something in her direction, but Grace couldn’t make out a single word. There was a big, fat, shiny, blind spot where Dr. Westfall’s face should be. Grace knew it was time to go. Fortunately, she hadn’t driven to the club, but unfortunately she’d still have to take a cab back to her car before she could make her way to the hotel. It might take her over an hour to get back and Grace prayed she could handle it. She’d ended up in the ER six times over the past year with a migraine headache just like this one. Grace could tell already this was going to be a whopper.

Grace felt for her purse and mumbled her excuses, her stomach even now beginning to perform somersaults. She’d be lucky to make it to her car without throwing up at least once. Funny, Grace thought as she stood at the curb attempting to flag down a cab, here she was with a group of doctors and it didn’t occur to her to ask for help, and she was a pain management specialist.

The headaches were an unwelcome weakness she kept secret. When one struck, she was helpless. She’d had them since she was twelve years old, but they’d gotten worse after her husband had died. Grace missed his hands. Josh had the most sensitive hands and fingertips. His touch had felt like butter, like soft, smooth, liquid gold. On those rare occasions during their too brief marriage when she’d gotten a headache, he’d used his firm yet gentle fingers on her neck and shoulders. He would massage the back of her head, helping to soothe her until she’d finally drift off into a drug-induced sleep.

Her parents had never understood her debilitating headaches. They’d accused her of faking the headaches, claiming she was just afraid of competition. Even when the headaches had been so bad she was slurring her words and could no longer see because of the blinding aura, they’d push her to race until she’d collapse on the side of the road.

It wasn’t until her track coach had insisted she see a neurologist her parents had finally relented, but they’d never let Grace forget how disappointed they were that she’d missed the state championships her senior year.

After Grace left for college, the frequency of her headaches had decreased. She began running again and had even joined the cross-country team. She’d done well until she met Josh. One thing had led to another and Grace decided she’d better get on the pill.
Big mistake.

Six months of weekly migraines were enough to put her off birth control pills forever. They’d made do with condoms. Josh had never complained and occasionally they’d slip up, but they’d been lucky and Grace never got pregnant.

When she thought about it now, Grace didn’t feel so lucky. If she’d gotten pregnant, she’d still have a part of Josh. Instead she had memories. Memories didn’t hold you close at night. Memories didn’t laugh at your stupid jokes and tilt your chin up, lean you back against the kitchen sink and kiss you passionately even though your hands were covered with dish soap. Nope, even after two years, memories didn’t do that.

Grace shook her head and concentrated on flagging down a cab. She was growing maudlin. Well, she worked almost every single day with people who experienced loss, and like she told them, it was never easy. She blinked back tears. She would be wise to take her own advice. After she made it to her room at the hotel and climbed into bed‍—‌first things first.

Ben headed to
Houston on a United Airlines flight from San Jose. He squeezed into a coach seat between an elderly woman traveling to visit her daughter and a young American college student. He spoke only Spanish during the flight. The woman was chatty. The college student tried to follow the conversation, but he eventually gave up and watched the in-flight movie.

When the woman nodded off, Ben took the opportunity to close his eyes. He needed time to gather his thoughts. He was a little concerned about the hotel. He’d have to be very careful when he arrived in Los Angeles; to expect the unexpected. Ben wondered if someone associated with Aris Security was a problem, and that was what Tom was trying to tell him.

In any case, he could skip the hotel’s lobby. He had a key card that would let him in through the side entrance and into the room. The computer had already been hacked and it would show that Matthew O’Connor checked in yesterday afternoon. After customs in Houston, Ben would pull out O’Connor’s ID, hidden in a small compartment of his checked bag.

Matthew O’Connor, an agri-business management consultant from Sioux City, Iowa, had a reservation and a pre-printed boarding pass on a Southwest Airlines flight from Houston to Ontario Airport in Orange County. The Ontario Airport was much smaller and far less busy than LAX. Other than security, it would be nearly empty, especially at night. It was a quick walk to the baggage carousel and anyone suspicious would very likely stand out like a sore thumb. It would be a lot easier to see if he was being followed.

Ben would catch a random cab and take a circuitous route to his storage unit. He didn’t want to bring a firearm from Costa Rica just in case his luggage was searched. He had a permit, but he was reluctant to set off any red flags so he figured he’d stock up when he reached Los Angeles.

Ben traveled light, a small shoulder bag for his laptop and overnight essentials and a larger well-worn doeskin bag he’d checked through. If anything showed up on x-ray, it looked like the books he used as cover. Eyes still closed, Ben smiled. This past year he’d actually had time to read them.

Grace caught a
cab back to campus. Her estimate was correct. The drive took almost an hour through heavy traffic. Despite the fact that she could only see out of one eye, Grace possessed an innate sense of direction and a good memory. She managed to help the cab driver navigate the narrow campus roadways. When he pulled alongside her rental car, she thrust a handful of bills in his direction. He thanked her and was nice enough to wait until she unlocked her car door and climbed inside.

“The hotel is nearby,” he said.

“Thank God,” Grace mumbled. She was tempted to simply recline the seat and sleep in the car, but she didn’t want campus security to find her. Everybody who saw her in the middle of a bad migraine assumed she was drunk. Her speech became slurred, she couldn’t walk a straight line if her life depended upon it, and she tended to puke, a lot.

All Grace wanted to do was get back to the hotel, shove a pill or two in her mouth and fall into bed. Fortunately her lecture wasn’t scheduled until early afternoon tomorrow. Grace glanced over at the clock with her one good eye. Oh yeah, she realized that would be today.

Grace reached the hotel and drove through the lot, desperately searching for an empty parking place. She finally found a slot in the rear of the building at the very end of a row. She figured it had probably been ignored by the other guests because of a large blue van that was parked facing out, crooked and crowding over the line. Grace had rented a sub-compact, and at this point, she didn’t care how little space she had. She parked and squeezed out the driver’s door, tumbling into the thick hedge bordering the lot.

Grace groped to her feet, hoping there was an entry door at the back of the building because there was no way she’d make it all the way to the lobby; feeling around in her purse for the key card was challenging enough. Grace saw a lighted archway, and she lurched toward it. There had to be a door. Please God, let there be a door.

Now what was her room number, 312? 320?

Grace couldn’t remember. As she reached the lighted area, she tried to focus on the little paper folder the desk clerk had wrapped around her key card. She knew the number was on that. Between her blurred vision and the dim lighting, she could just barely make it out. 321.

Ben retrieved his
bag and caught a cab without incident. As far as he could tell, there was no one waiting for him at the airport and nobody followed the cab to the small storage facility in Pomona. He paid the cab driver and waited in the shadows until the cab pulled away and disappeared down the street.

He stood motionless for a few more minutes, studying the video camera, making certain it was still a fake, before he strode to the electric gate and punched in his code. He walked straight to his large storage unit. Inside was a black Pontiac Firebird with tinted windows. The car keys hung on a hook to the right of the door. Ben shoved them in the pocket of his jacket, setting the jacket and his travel bag on the hood of the car, then he reached for the small leather bag he kept stowed in the rear of the unit. He chose judiciously from his supplies. He didn’t need everything, just some cash, a couple of credit cards and assorted small arms and ammo.

He slid a knife into a slot in each of his boots and slipped the worn leather holster over his shoulders. He snapped in his Colt .45 and pulled his leather jacket on. Armed, Ben felt better. He secured his belongings in the trunk of the car.

Ben exited the unit and stood still in the shadows, scanning the area for anything untoward, but he saw nothing and heard nothing aside from the usual night noises. If the crickets had stopped chirping, he’d assume there was someone out there, but they kept right on with their cheerful noise.

Still alert, Ben climbed into the Pontiac. Thanks to Tom’s maintenance, it started immediately. He backed the car up, left the engine running as he closed and bolted the door to the storage unit, then he turned the car around and headed to the hotel.

It took Grace
six tries to open her door. She couldn’t seem to get the stupid stripe on the stupid key card facing the right way. Once the door opened, she cried with relief and rushed inside. She needed to find her suitcase. That’s where she’d stuck the toiletry bag containing her migraine pills.

Grace tossed her purse and the room key on the bed then stripped off her clothes. Even the touch of the lightweight cotton sundress against her skin was unbearable. She felt for her bag, finding it at last right where she’d left it, near the closet door.