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The name sounded in her mind like an echo from far away, so faint she could barely hear it. Instantly pain shot through her head, but it faded almost before she could begin focusing on something else.
Did this mean … hell, she had no idea what this could mean. She remembered her parents sometimes calling her Lizzy, so that wasn’t exactly a missing memory. In college she’d been Liz, but … somewhere along the way she’d morphed into Lizzy, so had she somewhere along the way morphed back into Lizette? Why couldn’t she remember exactly when?
Because it had been something gradual, something that had just happened, rather than an event. “Lizzy” felt right, though. “Lizette” now felt like a shoe that pinched. Too bad the two were still at war; she knew she needed to do something, but what?
Follow your instincts. They’ve gotten you this far.
She was a target; she knew that. She didn’t know who was after her, or why, but she knew she had to find a way to hide. There would be no going home, no calls to friends, no retrieving her car. She’d never go to work again, never walk or jog around that familiar block. Whoever was after her knew what she looked like, but at the moment they didn’t know where she was. How long before that changed?
On instinct, she swerved into the next drugstore she passed. She smiled at the cashier near the front door, grabbed a basket, and started shopping. Hair dye? No. Her hair was brown, a common color. Hair that was obviously dyed would stand out, and they might be on the lookout for that, they might expect her to go blond or red. Instead she bought hairpins, so she could pin her hair up. That would disguise the length and style, and was preferable to a bad haircut accomplished with a pair of scissors in front of a hotel room mirror.
Scissors might come in handy, though. She selected a good, sturdy pair and put them in the basket. Scissors weren’t as good as the knife she’d left behind, but were better than nothing. The drugstore didn’t stock hunting knives or pepper spray, damn it.
She also got a hat with a wide brim, which would come in handy not only in hiding her face, but in protecting her from the heat of the summer sun. She bought an oversized tee shirt, cheap tennis shoes, and socks. The store didn’t stock any pants, but thank goodness she’d worn pants to work that morning instead of a skirt. They would suffice until she could do more shopping. She also tossed a cheap, oversized purse into her basket, along with some travel-sized toiletries and a pair of too-big sunglasses.
They—whoever the hell they might be—were looking for a frightened middle-class businesswoman on the run. That meant she had to be someone else.
She could do that, she thought with an unusual surge of confidence. She could be someone else.
She’d done it before.
Because he knew where Lizzy was, thanks to the trackers in her wallet and cell phone, Xavier didn’t rush to intercept her. She was okay, for now; she’d be scared and confused, but given the evidence that she was regaining her memory, likely not as much as an ordinary citizen would be. She’d given Felice’s men the slip, and been smart enough to abandon her car, so now they had no way of tracking her. She hadn’t been hurt, and she’d acted decisively. Giving her time to settle down some seemed like a good idea. He’d never hear the end of it if she managed to take him down, too—and she had, in the past; not often, but he knew better than to let his guard down around her.
He had to dump his truck and secure other transportation, and that took time. J.P.’s car was out, because Felice’s people would pick him up again when he went back to the condo. He might get away with leaving from J.P.’s garage instead of his regular unit, but why take the chance when he could get to the motorcycle in the same length of time? On the motorcycle, he could go faster and get into tighter places, be completely anonymous, and the helmet would prevent any facial recognition program from nailing him.
If he knew Felice, the failure of her assassination teams—both of them—would make her double down in her efforts. Whether or not Al had been in on it was debatable; probably not, or outside teams wouldn’t have been used, but with Al it was always best not to assume you knew what he’d do in any given situation. Briefly he thought about calling Al, but in the end decided the call would be a waste of time. Even if Al wasn’t in on the attempts, by now he’d know about them, and what he did from here on out was his call. Whether he was teaming with Felice or not, what he’d say to Xavier would be the same thing in both instances, therefore nothing was to be gained. In any case, Xavier would rather let them worry about the complete lack of contact from him. Felice would be scurrying to beef up her protection, and her daughter’s protection, which would pull some of her resources away from actually locating Lizzy. Good enough. Felice would pay, but not right now. Lizzy was his current priority. He’d get to Felice in his own time.
He checked Lizzy’s location again; she’d been steadily working her way toward downtown, but she’d finally stopped. He tapped a key, zoomed in on
her location. Drugstore.
A big drugstore was kind of like a department store these days. She could pick up any number of items that she’d need, such as a change of clothes, sunglasses, maybe not any kitchen knives but there would definitely be scissors, nail files, things like that. She might change her hair color. There were a lot of possibilities, and he’d taught her most of them, though she’d probably come up with a new wrinkle on her own. Being on the run was tiring; not the physical effort so much as the state of hyper-alertness, watching everyone around you, gauging every move, seeing everything as a potential threat. He himself could go for days, with a little chemical help, but Lizzy was out of practice. She was going to wear out soon, and find a place to go to ground. He watched the two blinking dots that marked her location.
She was on the move again. He’d get his motorcycle, do some reconnoitering on his own to get a solid sense of what Felice was doing; then he’d go to Lizzy.
She couldn’t very well stop and change her appearance in the middle of the street, but she did put on the wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. That would help to hide her face from any cameras she walked past. She was tired, but she had to keep moving. Her legs ached; she’d worked up a sweat, and the adrenaline burn had disappeared, leaving her feeling limp and wrung out. She wanted nothing more than to find a place to sleep.
Buck up, girl. This is no time to be weak. She had to keep her wits, not let her exhaustion lead her to take shortcuts that could leave her vulnerable.
But she did need somewhere to stay, so she focused on her situation. There were a lot of hotels near the tourist attractions, but none that would rent her a room without ID and a credit card. She needed a place that would rent her a room for cash. No hotel would go for that, unless…
Unless she found a place with an impressionable or bribable desk clerk. It would have to be a small place, not the best hotel in town—not even a moderately decent hotel. She needed to find a one-star or no-star hotel that was independently owned, desperate for business. She walked some more, until the area she found herself in was not exactly nice—but not exactly the pits, either. This little cluster of less-than-magnificent motels was maybe five miles from the Mall.
Though she was so tired she was almost stumbling, she still made herself walk around the motels, examining the layout of the rooms, the parking lots, the points of access and egress. None of the places was perfect, but an older, redbrick establishment met most of her requirements. Number one, there weren’t many cars in the parking lot, so they might be amenable to trading cash for discretion. The rooms all opened up to the parking lot; she didn’t want to be stuck in a room with nothing but a narrow hallway beyond her door. And the fact that the place was old meant there were actual windows in the bathrooms. The windows were high and small enough that she’d have trouble fitting through, if it came to that, but if things were desperate enough that she needed to go out the window, she’d do it if she had to strip off and slick shampoo all over herself to squeeze through.
Something else in the motel’s favor: it was here. She was tired, she was hungry, and her arms ached from carrying the drugstore shopping bag. It hadn’t seemed all that heavy at first, but the weight was wearing on her. And the longer she was out in the open looking like, well—herself—the more danger she was in.
She looked in the office window. The desk clerk was a young woman, thank goodness. A woman was more likely to empathize with a hard-luck story, and she wouldn’t expect a blow job in return for a favor. The clerk looked bored and impressionable. Both factors would play in Lizzy’s favor.
She opened the door and took off her hat, heaving a little sigh as she approached the desk.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked, her face brightening at the prospect of an actual customer.
“Yes, I’d like a room. Ground floor, if you have it.” Given the small number of cars in the parking lot, a ground-floor room should be available.
The clerk—her name tag read Cindy—smiled and tapped her computer keys. “How many nights will you be with us?”
This was where it would get tricky. “Just one.”
