Karen Olson: The Missing Ink

He nodded. “Yes, on that thing.”

I shook my head more violently. “I don’t ride bikes. I can’t.” The tremble in my voice caused him to hesitate, peer into my face. “I really can’t,” I whispered, memories flashing through my brain like a slide show: motorcycle, asphalt, blood, exposed bone.

My fear must have registered with him, and his face changed slightly.

“Tell me why,” he said.

I swallowed hard, but the fear still stuck in my throat.

Finally, he nodded, the veins in his neck pulsating, causing the wings to move. “We’ll take your car. But I’m driving.”

I looked around to see if anyone was nearby, but the line for the drive-up window was on the other side of the building, and it wasn’t exactly lunchtime, so there was a distinct lack of customers. As I pondered screaming-not even sure I could because my mouth was so dry-he shoved me into my car after grabbing my bag and finding my keys.

He’d started the car, and we were peeling out of the lot when I realized he hadn’t shown a gun or knife or anything. He was just there. Big and imposing. I found my voice.

“Where are you taking me?”

He glanced at me, then looked back at the road. “Where is it?” he asked.

I forced myself not to touch my pocket. “What?”

“You were saying you found it.”

“My keys. I found my keys. I’d lost them.”

“You said you’d found what ‘they’ were looking for. That doesn’t sound like your keys.”

Give the guy a gold star. He wasn’t stupid. Even though he might look it.

“I misspoke.” I sounded like one of those politicians making excuses for saying something truly stupid.

“No, no, I don’t think you did.”

“Where’s Elise? What have you done with her?”

“Don’t worry about her.”

“Why not?”

“What did you do with it?”

Back to the diamond again. This guy was getting a little tiring. I studied the eagle on his neck for a second.

“Coleman does a nice tat,” I muttered. “Even if he likes flash.”

“It’s not flash.”

“What?”

“My sister designed it.”

“Kelly?”

“She was good.”

“I saw she worked at that shop in Malibu.”

He gave me a quick glance before looking back at the road again. He didn’t speak for a long time as we headed west on 215, and abruptly he got off the highway, turned onto Charleston toward Red Rock Canyon, through Summerlin. The housing developments on our right clashed with the brown desert on the left. Everything was brown here; it was the hardest thing to get used to after the greenness of the East Coast. But after a while, I saw past the brown to the touches of green in the banana yuccas, the Joshua trees, the bright blooms of the desert in the winter, the red rocks that crashed into a bright blue, cloudless sky.

“She loved him at first,” Matthew finally spoke, and I took “him” to mean Jeff Coleman. “She was grateful for what he did. I was grateful for what he did. But she got restless. And she was pretty once she got cleaned up, really pretty. Coleman kept her in that shop; she needed to go.”

I knew how she felt.

“Who killed her?” I asked.

He slammed on the brakes, the car skidding across the road and over into the breakdown lane. When we stopped, he twisted around in the seat, his left arm draped across the steering wheel, his right looping over the top of my seat. His fingers grabbed my hair and yanked me back.

“Don’t worry about that.”

There were a lot of things to worry about now, and he was right: Kelly Masters’s murder wasn’t exactly at the top of the list for me at the moment.

“I was just making conversation,” I tried.

He let go of my hair and turned back to the wheel. My fingers found the armrest and crawled over to the door release latch. I had to get out of here. The guy had beat up Ace, trashed my shop, and who knew what else?

I yanked at the release just as the car started to move. My door swung open, and before he could register it, I threw myself out of the car, rolling along the dirt by the side of the road. When I came to a stop, I saw the car was next to me, idling, and Matthew was getting out.

I scrambled to my feet, hoping the Tevas would find purchase in the slick desert sand, happy when they did, and I took off toward a subdivision entrance just a few feet away.

The sign proclaimed it Desert Bloom. A lovely name for rows and rows of red-tiled roofs over caramel-colored stucco. I could hear Matthew’s feet pounding the pavement but didn’t turn around for fear of losing ground. I dashed around one of the town houses, skidding a little on my Tevas as I rounded the back of it. My chest heaved as I panted, sucking in air as quietly as possible. The dry heat filled my lungs, and I wanted to cough in the worst way.

I peered around the side of the house and saw Matthew almost straight ahead, bent over, his hands on his knees. He was breathing heavily-I could hear him, the air was so still. I was lucky I was just wearing a tank and a light, billowy skirt. He had on jeans, a T-shirt, and the jean jacket with the sleeves cut off. Too much clothing for a run. I didn’t wish bad things to happen to most people, but right then, I wanted him to pass out in the worst way.

I had a feeling Sister Mary Eucharista would be okay with that.

I had nothing that could help me except the heat and the sun. No phone. No people around. Too late I realized this development was still under construction, and no one had moved into this section yet.

I was alone out here with Matthew, a sitting duck. He could kill me and either leave me here or dump my body in the desert just across the street, and I wouldn’t be found until the next batch of houses were going up.

It was not the most reassuring thought.

Matthew straightened up again, and I ducked behind the house again just as he swiveled his head around, searching for me. I held my breath, waiting to see him pop around the corner, but nothing. I risked peering out and saw him running in the opposite direction.

I had a plan.

He was going away from the road. I would go toward it. I sneaked around the backs of the houses, furtively zigzagging from one to the next. I felt a little like John Belushi in Animal House when he’s sneaking around the women’s sorority house.

When I got to the last house, I didn’t even stop. I made a mad dash around the fence and out the entrance and turned the corner. My car sat where I’d left it and Matthew.

He hadn’t even turned off the engine.

I didn’t have time to think. I had no idea where Matthew was, but I wasn’t going to check. I ran to the car, throwing open the driver’s door, and jumped in. No time for seat belts; I just slammed my foot on the clutch, threw it in first, and pressed down as hard as I could on the accelerator. The Mustang shot off onto the road like a Bullitt.

Matthew was in the rearview mirror, getting smaller and smaller as I drove. I’d hung a U-ey and was now going toward downtown on Charleston.

About three miles later, my heart stopped pounding like it was going to come through my chest, and I managed to slip on my seat belt. My bag was on the floor in front of the passenger side, all its contents strewn about. It looked sort of like the way I felt: all discombobulated, shaken up.

He hadn’t had a gun. Or a knife. At least not one he’d shown me. His ultimate weapon was his size and how overpowering he was.

I was trembling, holding on to the steering wheel for dear life, because if I let go, I’d come apart.

For a second I thought about going up back to Red Rock, despite the heat, just to get a little of that chi balancing effect that it always managed to give me. I couldn’t risk it, though. Matthew was in that direction, and Red Rock would be a worse place to get stuck alone when a murderer was after you.