Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush
. . . disorganized and . . . unfocused.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”
“I didn’t know him well at all. But I knew that much about him.”
“He could have been into drugs,” he suggested. “Or, something that got him caught up with the wrong people.”
“No. Aaron smoked some weed, but that’s it. Nothing else.”
“The fact that you liked him isn’t a reason to take him off the list. You don’t know—”
“I do know! This isn’t about Aaron. I don’t care what you say! And, it wasn’t about Paul de Fore, either. Paul was . . .”
A tool.
She couldn’t bring herself to say what she’d thought of him in life, now that he was dead. The image of his sprawled body was imprinted on her brain. Finding herself suddenly close to tears, she turned away from Auggie’s scouring gaze and said diffidently, “He was too into the rules.”
“A rules guy. The kind that gets on top of you. Controls you. Forces his way.”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t the way you make him sound. Not like that, anyhow.”
“Then, how?”
“I don’t know,” she expelled in frustration. “He was pissy about it.”
“Ahh. Petty. Into small victories.”
“That sums him up pretty well,” she had to admit.
“It’s not a crime to not like people,” he said after a moment of watching her.
“I don’t know why I’m talking to you.” She got up and paced to the other side of the room, pulling at the curtain and looking outside the bedroom window.
“I know you believe the Zuma shooting was about you. I don’t want to totally piss you off, but couldn’t this attack be about something else? I mean, can you entertain that idea, for just a few minutes? Maybe get a dialog going?”
She lifted her hands and tossed them back down. “Go ahead.”
“It’s Upjohn’s company. That’s where the money is. Chances are the killer was after him.”
“I suppose.”
“It doesn’t really sound like you’re agreeing with me.”
“I just want you to stop talking,” she said. “Stop theorizing. It makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Like this is simply an exercise. Like I’m not . . . I don’t count.”
“You count,” he said.
She threw him a look, aware that he was just humoring her, trying to get on his captor’s good side. Wasn’t that what all hostages did? “Shut up,” she told him.
He opened his mouth to argue, then pressed his lips together, as if physically holding back his next comment. She marveled that this was the guy she’d chosen to take hostage. Why hadn’t she taken a woman? That might have worked better.
But then, it wasn’t like she’d planned any of this.
Walking back from the window, she perched at the end of the bed again, aware of his feet in their dark socks just inches away. “You said you’re a fisherman. From Canada.”
“Fishing guide,” he corrected. Then, “Oh, sorry. You wanted me to shut up.”
“So, where’s all your stuff?” Liv asked, ignoring the jibe. “There wasn’t anything in your garage. Nothing.”
“It’s all with the boat. Some’s still in Canada,” he clipped out. “You want to know about me? Here’s the short version: my wife left me, so I moved to Canada. Had to come back to sign the divorce papers and decided I wanted to stay. Saw this place for rent. I’ve been here exactly thirteen days. And now I don’t have a wallet or any ID and lucky me, I’ve got you.”
Liv stayed silent for the lack of something to say. She didn’t like the fact that he was making sense. She didn’t like arguing about it. She knew she was right. But all this talking, talking, talking, made her head hurt.
“What about the woman?” Auggie asked. “The employee that went to the hospital? Believe it’s all about you, if you want, but let’s work through it. The woman that was shot . . . what’s her name?”
“Jessica,” Liv said with an effort. “Maltona. She’s the receptionist. She’s . . . benign.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re benign, but . . .” He inclined his head toward her. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to close her ears, but he went on, “Maybe this Jessica was having an affair with Upjohn or your friend, Aaron.”
“Jessica has a boyfriend. An artist. Anytime I talked to her about anything, she brought him up, almost like a compulsion. It was one of the reasons I avoided her,” Liv said, realizing it for the first time. She opened her eyes again.
“How about a disgruntled employee? Somebody Upjohn screwed over. Or, a customer who was taken for a ride.”
“I got this package, okay?” she finally burst out. “Lawyers sent it to me by special messenger at work. It was from my mother. Who’s been dead for almost twenty years. That’s what happened. That’s what started this. That’s why he came for me!”
Auggie’s attention sharpened. “Who? Who came for you?”
“Him.”
A pause. “Him, who?”
She jumped to her feet and moved to the open doorway. “I don’t know. The bogeyman. The one you see out of the corners of your eyes.”
He gave her a long look. “Could you be a little more specific?”
“This is why I can’t go to the police. They won’t believe me any more than you do. They probably already think I shot the place up! They’ll look into my history and there it’ll be: Mental problems. A year at Hathaway House. Crazy as a loon!” She glared at him. “Have you ever been in therapy?”
He slowly shook his head.
“You’re just too squared away, right? Fishing guide. I bet you’re good with people. People like you. Trust you. That’s why you want to talk me off the ledge. You’re trusting and compassionate and willing to really go that extra mile to make sure the crazy lady thinks she’s being heard!”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“Well, I am,” she snapped back. “And I’m through talking.”
“Where are you going?” he demanded when she stepped through the doorway.
She was heading to the couch in the living room, such as it was. “Somewhere else,” she said aloud.
“What happened when you went out?” he called after her. “Did you get done what you needed to do? Where’d you go?” He sounded desperate to keep the conversation going, but she was deaf to him now. She needed to get away.
“Livvie?”
She flopped down on the couch, burying her face into the dusty cushions, closing her ears to him. She wished she had a gag, too. Auggie was like a devil on her shoulder, talking, talking, talking. Confusing her.
“Go to sleep,” she yelled at him, her voice muffled by the cushion.
“I can’t.”
“Figure it out!”
With that she clapped her hands over her ears and blocked out all sound. Everything. She needed sleep, though she doubted she would find it. But she was through discussing anything more with him.
The call on her cell came in a little after nine P.M. September was at home, curled up on the sofa beneath a