Zero Escape Page 6

  Marshall wanted to ask the women to leave, but not only was it not his place to do so, he actually thought they might be enjoying the attention. Drink and a show . . . by the look of the three brothers they were about to get it. “See, Warren?” Marshall said. “They don’t need you hanging around.”

  “Well, I was fine until you got involved.” Warren made two mistakes. One was taking a step closer to Marshall; the second was shifting his eyes to his brothers, indicating he needed their help.

  If he planned on doing what Marshall assumed he was about to do, then he absolutely did need their help.

  Marshall had a sip of his lemonade, which was extra sweet today, and as he did, he assessed where everyone else in the room was. The last thing he needed was collateral damage. He’d never made that mistake before and intended to maintain his record.

  Warren made the stupid move of stepping closer while he thought Marshall was distracted. But he wasn’t. Marshall’s eyes might be color blind, but his peripheral vision was excellent.

  Marshall turned to face Warren and saw the very second the dipshit tipped over the edge of hesitation. His twitchy lip gave away his intentions as though he’d fired a warning shot. Warren dove across the distance. Marshall planted his feet and was ready to plough his fist into the dipshit’s solar plexus the second it’d make maximum impact. Warren’s momentum and Marshall’s driven fist robbed Warren of his ability to breathe. Marshall then stole the stunned look from Warren’s face with a quick jab to the bridge of his nose.

  Warren fell to his knees and flopped face-first onto the weathered wooden floor.

  Ernie announced his charge with a wild scream, and all Marshall had to do was dodge his flaccid body and use Ernie’s impetus to shove him into the solid oak bar. He too fell in a silent heap onto the floor.

  Marshall turned to the third brother. Buck’s bottom lip quivered, and Marshall shook his head. “Don’t do it, Buck!”

  Buck’s wild eyes shot from one brother to the next, then up to Marshall. Without a word, he strode to his table, chugged his beer, and then raced out the front door.

  Marshall inclined his head at the tourists, who blinked at him with wide eyes and dropped jaws. “Enjoy your quiet drink, ladies.”

  He turned from them, stepped over Warren’s legs, and prepared to tuck back into the best smoky barbeque ribs in the world.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlene’s heart thumped out an erratic beat as she stared at the contents of the safe-deposit box. With clammy hands, she lifted out the videocassette and placed it aside. But it was the rolls of cash beneath it that had her mind screaming.

  Her heart pounded . . . in her chest, in her neck, coursing blood too quickly through her veins. Her head swooned, and as she gripped the table, the room swam around her. Dizziness threatened to engulf her. To close her eyes would be so simple. Block it all out. Pretend it wasn’t happening. The temptation was strong. Too strong.

  But she clenched her jaw and fought the easy escape.

  Forcing herself to focus, she picked up the videocassette and examined it. It contained no labels to indicate what was on it, and her mind whizzed as she considered that it might have all her answers. Although she didn’t have a video player, somehow she’d figure out how to watch it before the night was out. That was the easy part.

  What to do with the money was another problem.

  Chapel’s comments came tumbling into her brain. People who don’t use bank accounts always stash their money somewhere. Under a mattress. In the wardrobe.

  As far as she knew, they’d never had surplus cash. Peter had taught her how to be frugal. They budgeted every cent.

  She hated that her mind skipped to Peter being involved in criminal activities. He wasn’t like that. Yet the doubts were there. The floodgates had been opened. There was no stopping the thoughts now. All the certainties she had about Peter were cracking like solid ice in tepid water. He kept secrets. He told lies. He was an armed soldier. He stashed cash.

  From this day forward, Peter would be two separate people in her mind. The one she loved and the one she didn’t know at all. Once again, she wondered if her whole life was a lie.

  She was of two minds over what to do with the rolls of cash. She herself had about seventy dollars to her name until she found another job. She didn’t stash cash. It was either in her purse or she didn’t have it. The seventy bucks should last her about three weeks max. The rent was paid for another month, and there was already enough food in the fridge to feed her for two weeks at least. She didn’t have a car or a phone. And she didn’t need medicine or clothes. Public transport would be the largest expense.

  One thing she was confident in was finding work. The longest she’d ever been without an income was four days. She wasn’t fussy. As long as she was busy and the work was regular, she was happy. She’d never even worried much about the hourly wage. That might change now that she was on her own.

  But before she even considered getting back to her normal routine, she needed answers.

  She picked up a roll of cash and flicked the rubber band.

  The questions were piling up like sand in an hourglass, and time was ticking away with it. To get answers, she needed time. Going back to work would erode precious time. To have time, she needed cash. Without any further hesitation, she stashed the rolls into her handbag. She would need to carry the videocassette.

  She put the safe-deposit box back in compartment 669, locked it, and then, with her bag tucked under her elbow and the video in her hand, she walked out through the vault’s thirty-eight-inch steel door.

  Louisa-Ann turned to her with a welcoming grin. “Oh, hey, sugar, how did you do? Find what you wanted?”

  Charlene didn’t know how to answer. There were so many things she’d hoped to find, but she’d found exactly the opposite.

  “I’m always fascinated by what people put in these boxes.” Louisa-Ann must have seen Charlene’s confusion. “When people stop paying for them, and all hope is lost, we have to drill them open. If we’re lucky, there’s something valuable that we can auction off to recoup our costs. But most of the time, it’s just random stuff like photos and letters. The occasional will. You know, one time . . .” She flicked her hand. “Oh, listen to me rambling on. Looks like you found a video. Maybe some cute home movies on there?”

  Charlene’s eyes stung with tears. Home videos would be a nice relief. “I don’t know. We don’t have a player, though, so I’ll have to get one first.”

  Louisa-Ann’s eyes bounced from the cassette to Charlene and back again. “Say, how about you come over to my place for dinner? I’m cooking up my famous shrimp gumbo.”

  Charlene blinked at her, hardly able to believe this stranger’s generosity. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  “Hell yes you can. Who you got to go home to anyway?”

  She had a point there. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, sugar. You can eat your fill, then I’ll set you up to watch the video in private.”

  One thing Charlene had learned in her travels was that most people were incredibly generous. It was part of the fun of being a drifter: she never knew where she might end up or who she’d spend time with. “Thank you so much. It’s very kind of you.”

  Louisa-Ann flicked her hand. “It’s the least I can do considering all you’ve been through. Now here’s my address.” She reached to a notepad. “Come around any time after six.”

  “Thank you.” Charlene reached for the note, then passed the fancy skeleton key across the counter. “I’ve finished with this.”

  Louisa-Ann’s perfectly trimmed eyebrows bounced up. “You won’t be needing it anymore?”

  She shook her head. Charlene had no plans of ever returning.

  “But you’re paid up for five months.”

  “Oh.” Five months? That was a specific term. She wondered if there was a reason for that.

  “Maybe I can talk to the boss about giving you a refund. Given the circumstances. You�
�ve only had it for six weeks.”

  “Oh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

  “No promises, sugar.”

  “I know. I’m just grateful that you’d ask.”

  They said their good-byes, with Charlene promising to see her again in a few hours. She went straight home and dumped the contents of her bag on the kitchen table. The cash rolls spilled out, some rolling to the floor.

  She glanced at the clock and noted she had two hours before she’d have to leave for Louisa-Ann’s, and she had no intention of shirking that invitation. With a hot cup of tea at her side, she started counting the cash. As she released each rubber band, the cash curled back up, making her wonder how long Peter had been storing the rolls.

  When she finished, she sat back, sipping her cold tea and staring at the curled-up notes. Five thousand, six hundred and thirty dollars. There had been no system to the rolls; each one had a different value and combination of notes. For some reason, this pleased her. In her mind, she convinced herself that if Peter was involved in anything sinister, then the notes would be in large denominations.

  It was a stupid rationalization really.

  Then again, to still be considering Peter as innocent was stupid.

  She stacked the cash again, keeping all like notes together this time. Then, without any better idea, she wrapped them in tinfoil and had a nervous giggle as she put them in the freezer. If Chapel did a surprise search now, she’d be in deep trouble.

  As she showered, her mind played ping-pong with all the events since Peter’s murder. It was impossible to block it all out. With her mind and body on autopilot, she managed to change her clothes and get back out the door on time.

  Louisa-Ann’s home was in the French Quarter, and it was typical of the homes in that area. The Creole-style town house had whitewashed walls tinted pale pink and an elaborately decorated ironwork balcony. Charlene passed beneath a grand wrought-iron arched gateway that led through to a central courtyard. Centered among the rough paving stones was a disused well that was topped with a metal grill and potted plants.

  She knocked on a turquoise door marked with a large copper 7, and Louisa-Ann opened it moments later with a huge NOLA greeting. “There you are, sugar, come on in. Don’t mind my crazy family; they’re not shy.”

  Charlene was led up the stairs to a room filled with knickknacks, photos, and pages decorated with crayon drawings. Two kids were kneeling on the floor, coloring at the coffee table. Pangs of sorrow skipped across her heart at the sight. She and Peter had spent many hours drawing when she was a child, even though her skills barely went beyond being able to create a stick man. Peter, on the other hand, had been very talented.

  Delicious aromas filled the room with a comforting homely feel and had her stomach growling, reminding her she hadn’t eaten for twelve hours. Louisa-Ann introduced her two daughters and her husband, and they all welcomed her as if she was family.

  As dinner was served and she sat with the boisterous family, she allowed herself to forget all her recent horrors for a while. The kids were loud and funny, and for the first time in weeks, she found herself laughing. Louisa-Ann’s gumbo was the most delicious meal she had eaten in a very long time—rich, creamy, packed with chunky ingredients, and full of flavor. “This is delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  “People line up for my missus’s gumbo.” Louisa-Ann’s husband spoke with pride.

  “I bet they do.”

  Louisa-Ann feigned surprise and waved their comments away. “Alright, you lot, us women have got some things to do.”

  Charlene allowed Louisa-Ann to guide her from the table and into a room at the back of the house. Kids’ toys were strewn everywhere, and the room was a kaleidoscope of color and creativity. Charlene couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d had a room this interesting.

  Louisa-Ann indicated for her to sit; then she popped the videocassette into the player and made sure it was working. She paused it and handed over the remote. “There you go, sugar. Take your time.” Louisa-Ann placed her hand on Charlene’s shoulder for a brief second before she left the room and closed the door.

  Charlene inhaled a deep, calming breath and let it out slow and steady. Then she eased forward on the chair and pressed play. The footage didn’t have any lead-up. It opened on a woman with a large microphone at her lips, halfway through a song. Around her, a dozen or so women danced about wearing colorful, flowing dresses. The camera moved from one dancer to the next and back to the singer. It didn’t seem to focus on any one person. Although she’d heard the song somewhere before, she didn’t know it well. The singer finished to thundering applause, and when the thick velvet curtain was closed to conceal the entertainers, a man walked onto the stage.

  Charlene’s heart lurched. The man on the stage was Peter, and he spoke to the crowd in Spanish. After a brief introduction, he began singing. His voice was extraordinary, and Charlene stared at the screen, hardly able to believe what she was seeing and hearing. Never had she heard Peter sing. Not once. Not even in the shower.

  What the hell?

  His voice was magnificent, and when he finished, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. The video jolted to another singer, but this time whoever was behind the camera was focusing on one of the dancers, rather than the singer. The woman taking all the camera’s attention was young—in her early twenties, Charlene guessed. She was beautiful, with flawless olive skin, silky auburn hair, and gorgeous dark eyes rimmed with long lashes.

  The camera zoomed in, and Charlene’s breath caught in her throat.

  She paused the video and studied the woman on the screen.

  It could be the woman who’d plunged the knife into Peter’s chest.

  She was much younger, though, and she was smiling and happy—the complete opposite of the woman she’d met. But Charlene’s heart raced all the same. It’d all happened so quickly, she couldn’t be sure. The picture wasn’t perfect either.

  She pressed play again and watched the video to the end. It was about twenty minutes long, and once it went to fuzzy gray static, she rewound to the beginning and watched again, looking for the woman.

  The video was the first clue she had to the killer. Yet she was still no closer to working out who she was.

  The door cracked open, jolting Charlene from the footage. She fumbled with the remote, trying to stop it.

  “Oh, that looks wonderful. Is it your parents?”

  The screen had stopped on a couple doing a duet. Peter was the man, but she didn’t know who the woman was. Charlene cleared her throat. “Yes.” She lied. It was easier than saying it was the man who’d kidnapped her and not a relative at all. Charlene nearly chuckled at the absurdity of it. If what she was going through was in a book or movie, it would be regarded as fanciful fiction.

  “How nice that you found this. Now . . . would you like some tea?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” Charlene stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  It took some convincing to get Louisa-Ann to allow her to leave, but Charlene eventually made it downstairs into the courtyard again. But now she was also carrying a take-away container filled to the brim with Louisa-Ann’s famous shrimp gumbo.

  Instead of going home, she headed toward Bourbon Street. It was the street that never slept. Glitzy lights flashed and twinkled, trying to lure people into overflowing bars and crowded fast-food joints. Everyone around her seemed to be in a state of alcohol-induced euphoria. It was wonderful to see, yet instilled in her a deep sense of jealousy.

  These were the types of experiences that she and Peter had lived for. Every town had something unique to offer, often surprising both of them.

  Like the time they’d arrived at Chincoteague Island. It was the day before the annual pony swim. Neither of them had had any idea of the festivity until their landlady at the time had mentioned it.

  She’d been looking forward to coming to New Orleans. Most of the towns they’d lived in were tiny in comparis
on. Many didn’t even have a movie theater. Their destinations were always chosen out of a necessity for work. But as she thought about it, she realized that might not have been Peter’s major motivation to move. Not when they both found work so easily.

  Peter moved because he wanted to. Not because he needed to.

  The more she thought about it, the more she considered that he was running from someone. And each time that video had come with them.

  She couldn’t understand why he’d hidden the videocassette. It didn’t show anything incriminating. Not that she noticed, anyway. And he couldn’t have been embarrassed by it; his singing was excellent. She contemplated showing it to Chapel. It would be the smart thing to do. But she quickly dismissed that thought.

  There was obviously something on the video Peter didn’t want her to see.

  She just had to figure out what.

  Halfway along Bourbon Street, she turned into a side street, nodded at the security guard standing at the front of the brightly lit shop, and then entered Second Treats, a pawn shop she’d walked past when she was handing out her résumé. After a quick glance around, confirming that she was alone, she strode to the counter barricaded behind glass, and waited for the man to stop watching a television set up high on his desk. She was certain he was ignoring her, yet she gave him a moment to redeem himself. It was at least a minute before he looked her way.

  “Oh, sorry. You must have snuck in.” When he smiled at her, her initial opinion of him changed in a heartbeat, and she was annoyed with herself. She normally gave people the benefit of the doubt. Finding out about Peter’s deceit and lies was changing her, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  She grinned at the man as she waited for him to hobble up to the other side of the glass. “Hello. Do you sell video players?”

  “You bet ya. Got a dozen or so over there. They all work. I’ve checked ’em out myself.” He moved back, and assuming he was coming out from behind the barricaded gate, she held up her hand.