Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush
sick fucks who held up places like hers late at night, so that kept her from any serious greenbacks.
Still, it was okay. Pretty okay. Kept Jo safe and that was good.
He squinted an eye at the television cable box. If he didn’t pay that bill soon, it would shut off and be over. But for right now, he could read the time: eight-thirty.
So, where was Jo, huh? It was getting damn dark.
“Jo,” he said aloud. And then burned the end of his fingers with the last ember of the doobie. “FUCK!” He dropped it and stamped it out with his foot, waving away the smoke. Lucky for him, his neighbor, Liv, was spooked by about everything so if she smelled anything she wasn’t likely to call the authorities down on him. Like the landlord. Or the police. Or anybody.
Shaking his head, he sucked on his fingers, then ran them through his hair and stepped outside onto the concrete balcony that fronted the parking lot side of the L-shaped building. A wave of August heat burned up from the pavement below; he could feel it rising beneath his bare feet, too. It was just barely dark, but still fuckin’ hot. He could see the faint glimmer of stars above the fir trees at the back of the lot.
And the GMC truck was there. The 2005 one that . . . was kinda like his old one.
Trask blinked. Tried to remember. What was that about? Oh, yeah. The lurking asshole in the hoodie outside Liv’s place who wouldn’t show his face.
He wondered if Liv was home. Maybe Jo was with her?
“That . . . would be . . . unlikely,” he said to the parking lot below, working on the thought to keep it from flying around inside his muddled brain.
But the truck . . . ?
Oh, yeah. The dude. He’d been in a truck like that. Asshole.
Trask lurched along the balcony toward the stairs. Whoa, man. He musta kinda overdid it. Was havin’ a few proble-mos with his equal . . . equality . . . equilibrium. Yessirree. Equilibrium. Maybe he should just talk to that dude? See what was on his mind. Ask him what the fuck he was doing hangin’ around Liv’s . . . place . . . room.
Nodding, he worked his way slowly down the outdoor stairs to the ground level, his soles scraping along the concrete steps. Shoulda put on some shoes, he realized belatedly.
He slipped down the last couple of steps, had to grab the metal rail. Whoa. Head rush. Pulling it together, he strode right over to the truck. “Hey,” he yelled, then was incensed when the bastard fired up the vehicle like he was gonna race away.
“Hey!” Trask yelled again. He pointed his finger at him.
I see you. You fucker. I see you!
To Trask’s surprise, the guy slid down his window . . . and pointed the barrel of a handgun at him.
“What . . . whoa, man.” Trask backed up, holding his hands in the air. Fucker! Geez . . . God.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots. No hesitation.
Pain exploded in his chest. In disbelief, Trask staggered sideways, staring down at himself. “You shot me. You fuckin’ shot me!”
The GMC sped out of the lot with a roar, tires burping on pavement. Through a haze Trask tracked its progress. He lurched and fell to one knee, looked around wildly, then gazed across the parking lot to the line of doors and windows of the apartment building. Silence. No one around. No one busting out of a door to help him.
“Hey . . .” he said feebly.
Wrapping one arm around his chest, vaguely aware this was gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch later, completely in denial that this was anything serious, Trask staggered across the lot and reeled and stumbled his way up the apartment steps.
He made it all the way to Liv’s apartment before he sank down in front of her door and died.
Driving to Hague’s apartment, Liv kept her eye on the speedometer, careful not to drive too fast, careful not to drive too slow. She wasn’t used to Auggie’s Jeep, but she didn’t want to show it on the road. She didn’t want to give any quota-anxious cop a reason to stop her.
She crossed the Willamette and wound down the narrow eastside streets to Hague’s apartment building, passing in front of it once to get the lay of the land, spying the green and yellow neon script of Rosa’s Cantina as she went by. She parked at the end of the block, left her backpack behind the front seat after a moment’s thought, removed the envelope to take with her, pulled down the brim of her baseball cap to hide her face, and headed toward the building’s entrance. She nearly ran into the same woman with the three children from the night before and turned away quickly so the woman wouldn’t be able to see her face.
Up the elevator she went. She hurried to Hague’s door, rapping so hard against the panels she bruised her knuckles in the process.
Come on, come on, come on. Time was running out. She’d left Auggie tied up and if anything should happen, like an unforeseen disaster, like a fire, or . . .
She shook her head. No. She just had to make this quick and get back and—
Della yanked open the door, a sour look on her face. “You.”
“I need to talk to Hague,” Liv said, trying to step inside, but Della was planted firmly in the door.
“He’s not here.”
“What? He’s not?”
“He’s at the cantina. Holding court. I’m about to go down and get him.”
“No, let me. I’ll find him and send him up.”
She laughed harshly. “Won’t do any good. He doesn’t listen to anyone when he’s in one of his moods. He’s talking. Ranting. Telling the whole world that it’s fucked up and he’s not gonna take it anymore. He just has to wear down.”
Liv didn’t care. It was a chance to see Hague without Della. An opportunity. “I’ll do my best.”
“It won’t be good enough,” she predicted, then closed the door with a firm thud in Liv’s face.
She headed back down the elevator, out to the street and to Rosa’s front door, reflecting that Della hadn’t commented about the Zuma killings. She would have, if she’d known about them, because she knew it was where Liv worked. But Della, because of Hague and his fears, stayed away from the news; more government conspiracy, according to Hague. So, at least that was a good sign. Fairly soon, however, if Liv didn’t turn herself in, someone else would.
She just needed a little more time.
Pulling her hat down yet further, Liv entered the cantina and looked around. Jimmy and Rosa were behind the bar, busy on a Friday night, and didn’t notice her arrival.
Hague was seated in his corner and practically bellowing at a small group of people who were sitting nearby, raptly listening. His rant was about government interference in everything, particularly, for some reason, how it was influencing the medical profession. By the sound of it, Liv half-expected him to launch into his theories about secret studies on humans without their knowledge or consent. Hague definitely believed he’d been subjected to tests and drugs at the hands of various mental health professionals over the years.
Liv walked toward the gathering slowly.
“The government plans these things,” one of the men in the group was agreeing with Hague. “They don’t see us as individuals. We’re like crash test dummies. No feelings! No thoughts! Available and expendable.”
“The government keeps a lid on this stuff so we can go about our daily lives,” Hague stated. “But it’s the hospitals you have to worry about.” He wagged his finger at his listeners. “That’s where the mindbenders are. That’s where experimentation takes place. Hi, Livvie.”
She hadn’t thought he’d even noticed her. “Hello, Hague.”
“This