Jeff Abbott - Fear

The Mercedes in front of him pulled away from the order window, revved out into the traffic along the loop of Paseo de Peralta.

Miles didn’t walk forward to claim his order.

The pickup’s horn blared. ‘Hey! Move it along!’

Miles stayed still. Andy, next to him, said, ‘What’s your damn problem?’

‘Retard! Move it along!’ Another long honk. The bumper edged into his leg again, forcing him to take a step. Laughter.

Slowly, Miles walked up to the order window. Luisa, the owner, worked the window and she filled a plastic bag with Miles and Joe’s meal, beef and chicken tacos wrapped in thin foil, cups of beans and rice.

‘Hey, there,’ she said. ‘How are you? What’s all this honking?’

‘Just kids,’ Miles said.

‘Asshole!’ Beauty Queen leaned on the horn. Now Miles looked at them; the football player grinned. ‘Move it along, Two Wheels,’ the boy called.

Miles handed Luisa the money, in exact change. He noticed she kept the napkins, the salt, and the homemade salsa packages and the sugar packets on a shelf.

‘Just a second, Luisa, and I’ll be back,’ he said, grabbing several sugar packets and a straw. He walked around the pickup, shaking the sugar packets at the football player and Beauty Queen.

He popped the gas cap open and wedged the first sugar packet in place to shove it inside when the driver’s brain cells clicked in unity and his door flew open, the kid staring at Miles in shock.

‘I’ll beat your ass into the ground!’

‘Not another step,’ Miles said, ‘or you’ll have one sweet ride.’

The football player stopped. ‘Don’t, man!’

‘Then drive off,’ Miles said. ‘Why do you want to be an asshole?’

‘What’s the matter?’ Beauty Queen pushed on the boy’s broad back. ‘Just go beat his ass.’

‘Sugar in the tank. Ruins the car,’ Football Player said to her in a low, strained voice.

Miles suspected it wasn’t enough sugar to do real damage, but Football Player didn’t know that. ‘Etiquette lesson for today, be nice to people who don’t have a car. I dump the sugar, the no-car group includes you.’

‘Smack his ass, Tyler,’ Beauty Queen yelled.

‘Yeah, Tyler, try to smack my ass. Maybe you’ll win or maybe I’ll show you how to respect your elders. But one more step, it’s definite you’ll be truckless.’

Tyler froze with indecision, stuck between Beauty Queen’s braying enthusiasm for violence and a sureness that Miles would poison the gas tank before Tyler reached him.

‘Tyler. Kick his ass!’ Beauty Queen screamed.

‘Tyler, use your brain.’ Miles started whistling ‘Sugar, Sugar’. He saw DeShawn’s sedan wheel hard into the lot, pull into a parking space.

After a pause of five seconds, brain won. Tyler got back into the truck, peeled away. Miles could see the girl hollering and gesturing at the boy.

Miles walked back to Luisa’s window, put the sugar packets and the unopened straw back on the counter. ‘I cost you their lunch business,’ he said, sliding her an extra twenty. ‘Please accept my apology and this as payment. And three Cokes, too, please, Luisa.’

She got him his food and the Cokes without a word.

He walked a bag of tacos over to Joe, who stood with hung head and shamed frown.

‘Here you go,’ Miles said.

‘Thanks,’ Joe said. ‘Sorry I left you alone. Them kids. I just can’t take it. The meanness.’

‘No worries. They’re gone. You come see me at the gallery if they bother you.’

‘I set foot on Canyon Road, the fancy-asses call the cops.’

‘Not if you come see me, okay?’

‘Thanks.’ Joe took the bag of food and the Coke, gave a polite nod, and walked down the street.

Miles got into the Ford sedan and handed the taco bag to DeShawn. Pitts was a big-built guy, an ex-college football player, with a shaved-bald head. The sedan fit him like a too-tight suit. He wished he’d read Allison’s note before he called DeShawn, because he wouldn’t have asked the inspector to have lunch with him.

She wants your help. Not anyone else’s, so keep your mouth shut. Don’t bring DeShawn into this. You can be the man you once were. Help her, on your own.

‘Thanks, man. But feeding bums and fighting with kids?’ DeShawn said. ‘You know, bud, the idea is to not draw attention to yourself.’

‘Good to see you too.’

DeShawn handed him a chicken taco, snagged a beef one for himself. They started to eat. DeShawn demolished the first taco, wiped his mouth clean. ‘First things first, Miles. I did a quick check. There’s not a psychiatrist or a medical doctor or a psychologist licensed in New Mexico named James Sorenson.’

Miles swallowed soda. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Maybe you got his name wrong.’

‘I… must have. I haven’t been sleeping good, I must have misheard.’ He didn’t know what else to say. ‘I tried to call Allison back this morning, to find out more about the program, but she’s not answering her phone.’ That part was truth; he’d tried to reach her, repeatedly, after getting her note. But he’d only gotten her voice mail, and he just asked her to call him back. But Sorenson wasn’t a doctor – why had she introduced him as such?

Why had she lied to him? Why had she let Sorenson lie to him?

Because Sorenson had forced her to lie.

I’m in real trouble.

DeShawn chewed on his beans, sipped at his Coke. ‘Therapy must not be sailing smoothly if she’s bringing in a backup shrink.’

Miles was now frantic to get back to Allison. He stuck his unfinished lunch back in the bag.

‘What’s your rush?’ DeShawn asked.

‘I’m not in a rush… You don’t have to worry about my therapy, I’ll be ready to testify, DeShawn.’

‘Man. The first go-round in court wasn’t your finest moment, but you’re going to be aces for Big Man Barrada’s trial. I have faith in you.’

‘Don’t say that to me if you don’t,’ Miles said suddenly. He had broken down twice on the stand when cross-examined about the shooting, about the deal made with him to testify. The defendant – a junior Barrada member the feds had chosen to put on trial first in hopes of cutting a cooperative deal, which the guy refused – got a reduced sentence because Miles hadn’t appeared, to the jury, to be an entirely reliable witness. ‘I need people to have faith in me.’

I need your help… I’m in real trouble.

‘Miles, m’man. Total faith from Big D. You not seeing folks who aren’t there, not hearing voices again, right?’

‘Right,’ Miles lied. ‘Only in my dreams, and everyone should have a crazy dream now and then, right? I’ll get this doctor’s correct name for you.’

‘All right. But I want to know details of this program, Miles, before you agree to anything.’

‘Sure,’ said Miles. ‘I don’t work this afternoon. Would you mind dropping me off at my apartment?’

Miles hurried into his building with a quick wave to DeShawn. He ran upstairs, retrieved a tool he figured he might need. He ran down the stairs, thinking, You take this step, you can’t go back. He headed toward Allison’s office.

‘I’m not going on Oprah.’ Celeste Brent put the small razor back under the computer mouse pad, where she kept it. She didn’t need to feel the blade against her skin right now. ‘I can’t handle… being on television again.’

Victor Gamby’s voice boomed from the speakerphone. ‘I understand your hesitation. But think of the people we could help, sharing our stories with millions.’

‘You sound like a commercial.’

‘I’m selling an idea, Celeste. Being back on television might get you past your fears.’