The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,29
The fenced-in backyards of single-family houses along one side. Lots of trees there, too. Too-tall grass slaps against my jeans. The whole thing seems smaller than I remember, the rises on either side shorter. But that’s always the way.
The pathway near the end isn’t as well trod anymore, but the grass conceded defeat a long time ago. Beneath my feet, brittle weeds crunch and pebbles scatter. A small animal scurries away on my left. The field smells caustic and biting with cat spray, and I weave around several piles of dog feces hardened into brown-black fossils. I keep my shoulders squared, steps purposeful, but as I get close to the base of the hill I slow, searching the ground until I find a hefty stick.
I think I’m in the right spot. Or close enough. I kneel, stab the ground with the end of the stick, cutting free a tiny, hard clump. I try again. Another clump. A third time, but it’s not the hoped-for charm. The stick is useless, the ground rock-hard. Ankle creaking, I rise and survey the field with fresh eyes. The earth is undisturbed, so the secret it holds is still safe. Somewhere beneath me is a knife.
Becca, are you here, too?
I fingertip a temple, but there’s nothing. She has to be, though. I couldn’t have carried her much farther. Not without being spotted.
Back in my car, on the road, radio turned up. Generic pop. Four-beat rhythm. Female voice, midrange. My thoughts tentacling in all directions, but not flailing. Searching for my next move. Rachel’s house isn’t far from here, and the likelihood of running into two nosy neighbors has to be slim to none. And I’m here. One quick drive, one quick look.
Except Rachel’s there, getting into a silver Audi SUV, cell phone to her ear. Hair pulled back into a French twist, not a strand out of place. Black slacks, ivory cardigan. Purposeful steps. Chin raised.
Could the timing be any more perfect? A U-turn would be conspicuous, so I keep going, music off, counting on her distraction. She drives in the opposite direction; I do a messy three-point turn, finishing in time to see her making a right.
The movies make following someone look easy. It’s not if you don’t want to get caught. I let cars in between us, happy I’m not in something small and low. Rachel nears a shopping center. My guess, the grocery store, Target, or maybe Bed Bath & Beyond. But she passes all three. I hang back too far and move my head like a dodging boxer. For a few panicky seconds, I’m sure I’ve lost her, but a flash of silver as another car turns right proves me wrong. But I’m too far back and the road curves in fifty yards. She’ll be out of sight. Plenty of places to turn off.
I blow through two lights I pretend hadn’t switched from yellow to red, slowing so I don’t get left behind at the next, which is very definitely red. Rachel scoots to the right lane and takes the on-ramp to 695, one car between us, and I cut off a Honda to make it in time. The driver taps the horn. I wave.
Now I’m thinking White Marsh. The Avenue is a popular spot. Open-air shopping. But she zooms by the exit and merges onto 95 South. Stays right to merge onto 895. The same route I take home. Maybe she’ll take an exit off 895.
She doesn’t.
When we hit the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel, I’m three cars behind. Once I read an interview with Stephen King, who passed through the tunnel while here on a bookstore visit, and he commented how creepy it was. The tunnel, not the visit. I’ve driven through it so many times I don’t think much about it, but he’s right. The ceiling is low, the lanes narrow, and the roar of moving engines fills every square inch. Even with the windows shut and vents closed, the thick stink of all the trapped exhaust is impossible to block.
After the toll plaza, Rachel keeps going straight, toward Annapolis. The speed limit’s sixty-five, which means most folks go eighty-plus in the left lane. She drives in the middle, keeping with the flow of traffic. I’m four cars back. I keep waiting for her to switch to the right lane and take an exit, but it doesn’t happen. I clench the steering wheel so tight my knuckle bones are mountains about to split the skin.