One Last Scream. Kevin O'Brien
Friendly Fajita had been open for four months, and it was floundering. Moses Lake didn’t need another Mexican restaurant. Besides, the food was mediocre and overpriced. And if that wasn’t enough to drive customers away, Stan had the same two Herb Alpert CDs on a continuous loop for background authenticity. If Kristen never heard “The Lonely Bull” again in her life, it would be too soon.
Maybe she could flag down a cop car, or a good Samaritan. Kristen ducked back into the Probe just long enough to pop the hood and switch on the hazard lights. She figured that would make it easier for passersby to see that she needed help. Of course, she was also making it easier for the wrong person to see that she was stranded.
It suddenly occurred to Kristen that someone might have sabotaged her car. Just a little sugar in the gas tank—that was all it took. She’d read that before he started killing, the young Ted Bundy liked to screw with women’s cars, so he could later watch them when they were stranded and vulnerable.
He just watched them. It turned him on.
Kristen wondered if someone was looking at her right now as she stood beside her broken-down car in front of the darkened restaurant. Maybe he was across the street by the flower shop. He could be hiding in the shadows behind those bushes, studying her through a pair of binoculars.
Or maybe he was even closer than that.
She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “Stop it,” Kristen muttered to herself. “You’re perfectly safe. There aren’t any serial killers in Moses Lake.”
Still, she reached inside her purse and felt around for the pepper spray. She wondered if it even worked any more. She’d bought the little canister over two years ago while a junior at Eastern Washington University in Cheney. She’d majored in graphic design, and planned to move to Seattle. But Brian got a job as the golf pro at one of Moses Lake’s courses. It was a big resort town. Kristen had decided to put Seattle on hold, and stick with Brian for a while. There wasn’t much need for a graphic artist in Moses Lake. So, here she was, dressed up like a Mexican peasant girl and stranded outside The Friendly Fajita at 11:30 on a cold Wednesday night.
Kristen kept the pepper spray clutched in her fist.
One car passed the restaurant, and didn’t even slow down. She waited, and then gave a tentative wave to an approaching pickup, but it just whooshed by. Kristen glanced at her wristwatch—only two cars in almost five minutes. Not a good sign.
She noticed a pair of headlights down the road in the distance. Kristen stepped toward the parking lot entrance, and started waving again, more urgently this time. As the vehicle came closer, she noticed it was an old, beat-up station wagon with just one person inside. It looked like a man at the wheel. He got closer, and she could see him now. He was smiling, almost as if he’d been expecting to find her there.
A chill raced through her. Kristen stopped waving and automatically stepped back.
The station wagon turned in to the restaurant parking lot. Warily, Kristen eyed the man in the car. He was in his late thirties and might have been very handsome once, but he’d obviously gone to seed. His face looked a bit bloated and jowly. The thin brown hair was receding. But his eyes sparkled, and she might have found his smile sexy if only she weren’t so stranded and vulnerable. Right now, she didn’t need anyone leering at her.
He rolled down his window. “Looks like you could use some help.” The way he spoke, it was almost a come-on.
Kristen shook her head and backed away from the station wagon. “Um, I already called someone and they should be here any minute, but thanks anyway.”
“You sure?” the man asked, his smirk waning.
“Positive, I—” Kristen hesitated as she noticed the beautiful little girl sitting beside him in the passenger seat. She had a book and a doll in her lap. The child smiled at her.
“Wish I knew more about car engines,” the man said. “I’d get out and take a look for you, but it wouldn’t do any good. Want us to stick around in case this person you called doesn’t show up?” He turned to the child. “You don’t mind waiting, do you, Annie?”
The little girl shook her head, then started sucking her thumb. She glanced down at her picture book.
The father gently stroked her hair. And when he smiled up at Kristen again, there was nothing flirtatious about it. “Would you like us to wait?” he asked.
Kristen felt silly. She shrugged. “Actually, it’s been a while since I called these people. Maybe I should phone them again.” She nodded toward the center of town. “I think there’s a pay phone at this tavern just down Broadway. Would you mind giving me a lift?”
“Well, if you live around here, we can take you home.” He turned to his daughter again. “Should we give the nice lady a ride to her house, honey?
Breaking into a smile, the girl nodded emphatically. “Yes!” She even bounced in the passenger seat a little.
Kristen let out a tiny laugh. “I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“Nonsense,” the man said, stepping out of the car. He left the motor running. “We’ve taken a vote and it’s unanimous. We’re driving you home.”
He touched Kristen’s shoulder on his way to the passenger door. He opened it, then helped the girl out of the front seat. “This is my daughter, Annabelle,” he said. “And her dolly, Gertrude.”
“This isn’t Gertrude!” the girl protested. “This is Daisy! Gertrude is home with—”
“Oops, sorry, sorry,” her father cut in. He gave Kristen a wink. “I’ve committed a major faux pas, getting the names of her dollies mixed up.” He opened the back door for his daughter. “C’mon, sweetheart, climb in back and buckle up. And hold on to Daisy. Let’s hurry up now. This nice lady is tired, and wants to go home.”
Kristen hurried back to her car, switched off the blinkers, locked the doors, and shut the hood. Then she returned to the station wagon. “I live on West Peninsula Drive,” she said, climbing into the front passenger seat. The man closed the door for her.
The car was warm, and smelled a little bit like French fries. She noticed an empty Coke can and a crumpled-up Arby’s bag on the floor by her feet.
The man walked around the front of the car, then got behind the wheel. He pulled out of the parking lot.
Kristen looked back at her broken-down Ford Probe. She’d call the tow company in the morning. Right now, she just wanted to get home and take a shower. She turned to the man and smiled. “I really appreciate this.”
Eyes on the road, he just nodded. He seemed very intent on his driving.
Kristen glanced over her shoulder at the little girl. “Thank you for giving me your seat, Annabelle.”
“You’re welcome,” the child said, her nose in the book.
“So, how old are you, Annabelle?”
The girl looked up at her and smiled. She really was beautiful—a little girl with an adult face. Kristin had seen photos of Jackie Kennedy and Elizabeth Taylor when they were around this child’s age, and they had that same haunting mature beauty to them.
“I’m four years old,” she announced proudly.
“My, you’re almost a young lady!” Kristen turned forward again. “She’s gorgeous,” she said to the man.
But he didn’t reply. Another car sped toward them in the oncoming lane. Its headlights swept across his face. He had the same strange, cryptic smile Kristen had noticed when she first spotted him.
She squirmed a bit in the passenger seat. Moses Lake was an oasis. Just three minutes outside of the bright, busy resort town, it became dark desert, with a smattering of homes. Kristen and Brian’s town house was in the dark outskirts.
“Um, you need to take a left up here,” she said, pointing