For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,46

I’m not doing anything with.

“Why not?” Got to keep her talking. If I could just reach that box of cassettes. . . got one!

“I don’t want to be found. . . just yet,” the voice said. I raced back to the desk, trying desperately to take the wrapping off the blank tape package. Finding a corner on one of these things was like finding a compassionate literary agent in Hollywood. You could do it, but it took a hundred times more work than it should.

“Don’t you want everyone to see you’re all right?” I asked as I finally slammed an unwrapped cassette into the recorder. I pushed the button and thanked all the spirits in the room that at least the batteries in the recorder were functional. The tape started to turn.

“That’s why I called you,” she said.

And then she hung up.

Intermission

Madlyn hung up the phone and lay back on the king-size bed, sighing contentedly. Now maybe this reporter guy would stop bothering everybody, and she could enjoy her vacation a while longer. Maybe for good.

In retrospect, almost getting killed by a minivan had been exactly what she’d needed. When she fell back to avoid a collision, over the little metal divider and down the hill, she’d thought she was going to die. But she hadn’t even been badly injured—just a couple of cuts and bruises.

It had made her think, though. You don’t have any guarantees. You can’t put off your own happiness and expect to pick it up again when you have the time. What if you don’t have the time?

She had gotten herself up from the base of the ridge beside her house, right next to the creek that ran to the river. She’d inspected her bumps and cuts, decided they were unimportant, and started walking.

Madlyn had no intention whatsoever of returning to the house that night. Keeping that place together and keeping the boy in line was more than a 24-hour-a-day job. It was a career she hadn’t studied for in college. So given this unexpected opportunity, she turned her back on the house.

By morning, she had reached the highway, and a little before noon, drawing stares because of her outfit (and obvious lack of underwear), she’d found a convenience store and called her husband, collect.

He pretended to be distraught, but she’d done this before, and he knew the drill. She expected a number of things from him, beginning with a limo to pick her up and take her wherever she wanted to go, a credit card in her name on Gary’s account, and his presence as soon as possible.

When he arrived on the second day, everything was the way she wanted it. The sex was amazing, and if a married couple can’t get away and remember what their dating days were like, then what was left of the American Dream?

She had stayed here the whole time, but they couldn’t always be together. The pretense that she was missing had to be preserved to save everyone a lot of embarrassment.

The very thought of it made her feel lightheaded. She was watching the door closely now. Gary had called about 20 minutes ago from the car with the update. She should expect to see that door open any minute, and to feel again the things she’d dreamt about all week long.

Part Two: Finding

Chapter 1

I had spent a good portion of the past week staring at the phone-set in my hand, and here I was, doing it again. Only one sentence uttered by the “Mystery Woman” on the phone, and then silence. Hell, Westbrook could have done that well. At least Gary Beckwirth would be able to tell from that short clip if it was his wife’s voice. That would be the “cheerful news” he had requested—Madlyn was still alive.

I was supposed to find Madlyn Beckwirth, but she had found me. “They” had told her I was looking for her, and she had called me to put an end to my search, and to get me to leave her alone. And she had done a hell of a job, too. She’d managed to get her message across without directly answering a single question. Madlyn should have been running for office herself, not getting someone else elected.

Feeling stupid, I was about to hang up the phone when a nagging little feeling in the back of my mind leapt to the front, and instead, I hit the flash button.

“Dave?”

“Well waddaya know,” came back my editor’s voice. “He did remember there was