Seventeen

“Library, my ass.”

Lola spoke over the haughty tones of the Directions Bitch, who was steering her back toward Pioneer Park, where she hoped to find Malachi and quiz the crap out of him. She’d used that lame library excuse during her own high school years. Luckily, her mother had never picked up on the scent of weed that clung to her clothing after her own supposed study sessions. More likely she’d chosen to ignore it.

Now that Lola herself was a mother, she appreciated the wisdom of choosing one’s battles. She had never cut classes, pulled down A’s and a few B’s in school, didn’t get pregnant, and avoided the principal’s radar. Her rebelliousness was of the furtive variety. At best, she hoped for the same from Margaret, although given her daughter’s confrontational manner, she doubted she’d be so fortunate.

The Directions Bitch claimed her attention. “Your destination is on the right.”

The first time she’d gone to the park, it was twilight. Now it was full dark, and the garish floodlights illuminating its deserted pathways with slashes of white only intensified the surrounding blackness. She strode toward the spot where she’d first met Malachi, trying to ignore the deeper shadows moving beneath the trees, the hushed voices there, the gurgling bottles.

Rounding a corner near a small building housing the toilets, she came upon two men in the shelter of the entrance, faces close, bodies entwined, words of love amid the gasps.

“We shouldn’t—”

“Shut up. I had to see you—”

“I know. But what are we going to do?”

“This. We’re going to do this.”

“Oh. Oh.”

Not a casual hookup, apparently. Or maybe an encounter with someone skilled at reading his clients’ emotional as well as physical desires, and reaping the benefits in cash.

Lola’s money was on the former. I had to see you. No matter the danger posed by a church that had ramped up its stance against anything it considered unnatural. Even love. She lingered in the shadows, unable to look away, a voyeuristic flare, a stab of envy for the eroticism that had fled her life. No. It hadn’t fled. Charlie’s killer had stolen it from her.

Charlie. So close she could hear him breathing, harsh, urgent. She spun toward the sound, reaching, aching to pull him close—and saw only a man in a parka mere steps behind her, cap pulled low over his face, melting into the shrubbery. Jesus. In her moment of distraction, she’d allowed a pervert to creep right up on her.

Charlie, closer still, his worry palpable as her own.

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled to him as she took another path, fleeing both love and its twisted variation, keeping an eye peeled for the latter. But the creeper in the parka had vanished, probably because of the person now approaching. A cop.

“Jesus.” Aloud this time.

“That’s how you use the Lord’s name?”

Great. Even the cops were LDS. “You scared me.”

“You should be scared. You must not be from here. This is no place to be looking for business. These guys are only interested in what they can pour down their throats or stick in their arms. And don’t get me started on the degenerates.”

The cop had the smooth skin and self-righteousness of the young. Lola wondered how long he’d been on the beat, how long it would take him to acquire the seen-it-all weariness that on his worst days had even affected Charlie.

He folded his arms across his chest, apparently awaiting some sort of explanation.

“Exactly what kind of business do you think I’m in?” Lola stepped around a large stick that lay across the path and stood beneath one of the lights so that he could take a good long look at the jeans and turtleneck (clean, at least) she’d donned for her dinner with Munro. “Do you honestly think I’m a hooker?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Whatever brings you here, it’s not a good place to be.”

Lola huffed, trying to approximate outrage. “I was just trying to get some exercise. I saw the park from my hotel. It looked nice.” She jogged a little in place, hoping he wouldn’t notice how even that slight exertion left her short of breath. And who went for a run in jeans?

“Which hotel?”

So he wasn’t as callow as he looked. Lola tried to remember the various hotels she’d passed. Damned if she’d tell him the right one. She recalled a giant M. “The Marriott.” Moments ticked past. She had to get rid of him.

“Speaking of degenerates—” She paused. Was she really about to do this shameful thing? “Over by the restrooms. I saw—you know. Two men.” Charlie bellowed his rage, so loud Lola wondered at the cop’s failure to hear it.

The cop’s head snapped up, his own anger flashing across his face. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ll take care of it right now. Oh, and the Marriott? It’s that way.” He jabbed a thumb to her left. “You should probably go back there. This park isn’t safe—as, unfortunately, you’ve seen. Next time you want exercise, stick to the streets around your hotel.”

Lola jogged backward a few steps. “Appreciate that. Thanks.” She turned and headed where he’d pointed, looking back over her shoulder. He marched away, straight down the middle of the path. Lola hoped the gay couple was long gone.

As soon as the cop was out of sight, she ducked onto a path that cut into the heart of the park. She ventured a few more steps before reason prevailed. She could no longer see the main walkway. This track was narrower than the other, overhung with tree branches that probably made for pleasant shade during the day, but now rendered the darkness complete. Better to return tomorrow, maybe right after school let out, and find Malachi then.

She turned. A low voice hailed her from the darkness, devoid of the eagerness that might have warned her.

“Are you lost?”

She hesitated, just long enough to be puzzled at the swish of the stick that caught her behind the knees, knocking her off her feet, realization too late, coming even as the hand covered her mouth, stifling her scream.

Her attacker fell atop her, pressing something sharp to her throat.

Lola grabbed at his arms, which were clad in something slick and puffy. A parka. The creeper. He’d found her. She managed to wrestle the knife hand away from her neck. He was a wiry bastard but strong, writhing atop her now, spreading his arms wide, trying to break her grip. The woolen cap scraped at her face. She smelled after­shave and hair product. She opened her mouth, searching for purchase. Clamped her teeth on an earlobe. Tasted blood.

A hand jerked free. A fist landed against her jaw. Oh, thank God. Not the knife hand.

“Hel—!”

A shoulder ground into her face, cutting off her cry for help.

Charlie, Lola screamed into it. Charlie.

The knife hand went back, breaking her grip. She tried to roll away, but sharp knees pinned her down. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed something shiny, flashing high.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

A scramble and her tormenter was gone, vanishing into the trees. She could breathe. But her scream was spent, escaping only in a choking sob.

A man loomed above her, a mere silhouette against the shadows. Lola scuttled backward, scream rising anew.

“Whoa, whoa.” He raised his hands and moved into the light. Layers of hard-used clothing—not a parka—wrapped his body. The grime on his face and hands probably provided extra protection from the elements. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice slurred. “Not trying to hurt you. But somebody did. You okay?”

No. I’m not okay. But couldn’t make the words come out.

“You’re bleeding.” He touched a finger to his stubbled chin.

Lola brought her hand to her own face. Her fingers came away dark and wet. The ear. She’d must have bitten it bloody. Good. Then there’d be DNA. Guys who jumped women usually had a history.

“I’m fine. I have to go. And, um, thank you.”

She should have offered something more tangible, money for booze. But she had to find that cop. She staggered toward the main path, knees gone rubbery with the fear that follows adrenaline. The path stretched long and empty before her. She forced her legs into a jolting run. She went back over the attack, trying to fasten down the facts. It wasn’t unusual, she knew, for assault victims to be scattered in their recollections, especially immediately after a crime, something defense attorneys often used to undermine them in court—if a case even got that far. Prosecutors sometimes took that natural response as proof a victim was changing her story, and might deem the case unworthy of pursuing.

Not this guy. He’s going down. Even as her footsteps slowed.

The cop would wonder why she’d lingered in the park. He’d remember that she told him she was registered at the Marriott. He’d check it out. Not only would she need an excuse as to why she was still in the park, she’d also need one for why she’d lied about her hotel.

He’d want a description of the man who’d attacked her. But it was pitch-black under the trees. She’d never seen his face. All she knew was a parka—she couldn’t even remember the color, only something light. Blue? Green? Yellow?—and a cap with a face-obscuring brim. That she’d seen him just a few minutes earlier. That he smelled good, of something old-fashioned—bay rum?—unlike the park’s typical denizens. Maybe some suburbanite who drove into the city to get his twisted jollies. Because it had to be the creeper. The way the man ground against her had been somewhat sexual, even though—her mind snagged on a detail—she hadn’t detected the expected hardness. Nothing added up.

The trail jogged to the left. Far ahead, before yet another bend, nearing the restrooms, she finally saw the cop. She lifted her hand. Started to hail him. Stopped.

He’d bring her back to the police station for questioning. It could take hours and, in the end, they might not believe her. They’d ask what she’d been doing in the park. Would they search her? Probably not. No reason, no warrant. But the pills—wary of losing them again, she’d divided her stash in half, some back in the hotel room, the rest in a pocket, a different one, one with no holes, where they rubbed guilt into her thigh. What if, somehow, they found them?

The cop rounded the far turn. Lola’s arm fell to her side. Better to go back to her car. There, within the safety of locked doors, she could think clearly. Decide what to do.

She’d only gone a few steps when a man’s gargling howl ripped the darkness wide open.

Lola spun toward the sound, fumbling for her phone as she ran, hardwired to get a photo of whatever had happened, forgetting for the moment that even if it was a story, it wasn’t her story. Shoot first, ask later, was her motto when it came to photos. You could delete a useless image, but you could never recapture one you’d missed.

A slight figure, also moving fast, stepped out onto the path beside her, so close that she put out a hand to keep from crashing into him. They locked eyes, the recognition such a shock that Lola stumbled. He grabbed her arm to steady her. She jerked away.

“Malachi?”

“Miss Wicks?”

A quick scan. No parka, no cap, just the usual hoodie. “What are you doing here?”

“What happened to you? You’re bleeding.”

Running again, both of them, Lola lengthening her stride to keep up with him.

“I heard—” They rounded the bend and nearly fell into one another in their haste to stop.

The cop lay in the middle of the path, sprawled on his back, arms flung out, hands opening and closing as though trying to grasp the life rushing from his body. Eyes wide, staring unblinking into the cruel streetlight above. Blood burbled from the gash across his neck.

Lola and Malachi exchanged a last long look. Then, as though they’d reached some unspoken agreement, they turned and sprinted like hell in different directions.