What Happened to Lori Read online

She walked away, checking Google on her cell phone to find a cab.

  Grim yelled after her. “Lori had red hair and blue eyes. Be careful, Presley. He’s a killer. And he’s planning something. Something horrible.”

  Presley didn’t turn to look at him. “Eighteen hundred a week. Cash. We’ll use the money drop so I don’t have to see you again. Bye, Grim. Have fun watching me on your phone.”

  Presley raised her middle finger and left, confident that Grim had told her the truth about at least one thing.

 

  GRIM ○ 7:03pm

 

  Grim couldn’t blame Presley for being angry. He blamed himself, for fouling up what could have been a good thing.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

  And yet… that’s what he’d done. He promised to pay Presley three times the amount they originally agreed upon.

  Grim didn’t have the money. And he had no idea where to get the money.

 
 
 

  Grim had pissed away his share. Partying. Womanizing. A brand new Mustang he wrapped around a viaduct. A brand new Ducati he sank in the river.

 

  Grim had laid his life on the line, time and again, and all he had left to show for it was a Ford Bronco creeping up on 90,000 miles and a head full of nightmares.

  But Fabler got a free house, which Lori inherited from Mom and Dad.

  Plus Lori was a successful real estate agent, making six figures a year.

  Plus he had the fat payday the state handed him for spending a couple of years in prison.

 
 

  Grim Ubered it back to his Bronco. The Jeep was gone. Presley had either gone back to Fabler, or been abducted by the Turks.

 
 

  But as he drove home, he couldn’t stop fantasizing about Presley getting kidnapped, and him busting into the room to save her. In her teary-eyed gratitude, she’d forgive him, and they’d fall in love and get married and have two kids and on their fiftieth wedding anniversary she would confess that even though they were both elderly she still loved giving him blowjobs.

  Also, Fabler would get struck by lightning so badly his face would melt off, and he’d only be able to eat through a tube, causing agonizing pain whenever he swallowed.

  “A guy can dream.”

  There were no fish in the Bronco, so Grim said it to himself.

  When he got back to his house, the Osmonds still lived, swimming around in the tub, three of them upside-down. He added some fresh water, fed them brine shrimp, double-checked the stopper, and then stared at his phone, afraid to look, afraid to not look, finally breaking down and opening the app, peeping inside Fabler’s house and seeing—

  Presley.

  Kissing Fabler.

  Anger overtook Grim.

  Anger at himself.

  Anger at Fabler.

  And some anger at Presley, for doing it.

 
 
 
 

  But Grim didn’t storm over there.

  He shut off his phone and began to search the house for whiskey.

  PRESLEY ○ 7:48pm

  The same poor judgement that convinced Presley it was okay to drive home after drinking also convinced her that she could handle Fabler.

 

  After parking his Jeep, Presley marched up to Fabler’s front door, almost knocked, realized there was no need because the lunatic had removed the knob, and stepped inside—

  —staring into the barrel of a forty-five caliber KRISS Vector rifle.

  Her beer goggles instantly focused to 20/20, and Presley realized she’d made a horrible mistake.

  “Don’t shoot me.” She raised her hands over her head.

  Fabler stood as still as if he’d been carved out of wood. His eyes far away. A horrible moment passed where Presley could practically feel the bullets stitching through her torso, tearing through skin and sinew and muscle and bone.

  But, thankfully, he lowered the weapon.

  “I fired you.”

  “You need help.” Presley meant it in every conceivable way. “You know you won’t find anyone as good as I am.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Drinking. And thinking.” Presley was proud of how clever that sounded, especially so soon after staring death in the face. “You were right. I don’t trust you. But I think I can.”

  “How?”

  Presley hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Put down the rifle and come over here.”

 

  But after staring for a few more seconds, Fabler set the KRISS on the sofa and walked up to her.

  He looked sad. So very sad.

  Presley had an argument in her head, simmering in tequila shots.

 

  Presley answered her own thought.

 

  Back.

  Forth.

  Back.

  Forth.

  Back.

  Forth.

  That hemisphere of her brain won, and she placed a hand around Fabler’s neck and craned up, kissing him on the lips, hoping it hurt Grim and at the same time feeling like a mean teenager.

 
 

  As soon as she made the move, Presley regretted it.

 
 
 
 
 
 
  Fabler placed his hands on her shoulders, his grip like leather straps. Then he slowly pushed Presley away, holding her at arm’s length.

  “Don’t.”

  Fabler’s face still had the emotional range of a milk jug, but his eyes had gotten glassy.

  Presley’s maternal instincts kicked in.

 

  Then her military training replied.

 

  Empathetic.


  Aggressive.

  Consensus.

  “Do you like me?” Her practiced, husky voice came out a little slurred.

  “I like you.”

  “Do you find me attractive?”

 

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “You do. I can tell. So you like me, and find me attractive. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m married.”

  Then Fabler released her shoulders and turned his back to her.

 
 

  Presley began to formulate an impassioned argument about continuing to work for Fabler, even though she still had no idea what the work actually was, but he interrupted her train of thought.

  “You can stay. We’ll start training again at 0600. Don’t try to kiss me again. Understood?”

  “Okay.”

 
 

  Presley wondered if it was a self-esteem thing. Her success rate with men averaged above ninety-eight percent, yet two guys on the same night had rejected her.

 

  After weathering a few seconds of ear-burning humiliation, Presley walked around Fabler, into the kitchen, and busied herself with preparing a sandwich. She thought about making one for him as well, considered that he might not accept it, which made her both sad and angry, and stuck with the one. Quietly, sheepishly, she brought her food to the living room.

  Fabler watched a Vin Diesel film, one she hadn’t seen before.

  Presley sat in a chair, away from him, staring at the TV, eating her food, sad and lonely and pathetic and missing Brooklyn and wondering how she’d gotten to this point.

  After a while, she lost herself in the narrative of the movie.

  “So Vin is the villain in this one?”

  “Keep watching.”

  “He’s a convict and a killer and everyone is afraid of him.”

  “You want me to spoil it for you?”

  Presley shook her head and kept watching. The plot involved aliens that came out at night. As the story evolved, Vin became less and less like the bad guy. You thought he was evil for the first half of the film, but then he turned out to be the hero.

 

  The movie ended, and Fabler popped in a Milla Jovovich DVD, which turned out to be really scary, to the point that Presley got up to leave.

 

  Fabler paused the film. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t like this one. It’s disturbing.”

  “It’s only a movie.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t you like movies?”

  “I like movies.”

 

  “I’d like you to stay for the end. Part of the job.”

  Presley stayed.

  When the movie ended, she went to her room and spent a minute looking for Grim’s camera. She found it hidden above the dresser, on top of the vanity mirror.

  Presley gave it the finger, then pulled it off the wall and took out the batteries and shoved it under the bed.

  Then she took her meds, removed her contacts, and wondered how this whole mess was going to turn out.

 

  THE WATCHER ○ August 5, 2017 ○ 9:39+pm

  Within the unlimited boundaries of infinity, timing is everything.

  The Watcher has one chance to get it right.

  He cannot miss the chance.

  The cost is too high.

  Time is too precious.

  So many depend on him.

  So much is at stake.

  The Watcher glances at the cage on the wall. Then he turns to the bank of monitors and reviews the video footage.

  Stares at Redhead Number 63.

  “You are what we need.

  “Your blood is the answer.

  “Soon, you will be mine.”

  The Watcher smiles.

  Redhead Number 63 doesn’t have a clue what’s about to happen.

 

  FABLER ○ August 6 ○ 5:24am

  “Lori!”

  Fabler tried to get to his wife, but she’d been taken by an explosion. Hurricane winds. Blinding light. Intense heat. He dug his toes into the ground, keeping his head down, muscling forward and holding onto a rope, step-by-step, hand-over-hand, grabbing her arm and pulling her to him—

  —and discovering…

 
 

  Fabler’s eyes flipped open and he jackknifed into a sitting position.

  His sheets clung to him, drenched with sweat.

 

  Not a pill that knocked him out. He had to stay alert.

  He needed one that stopped the nightmares.

 
 

  Fabler swung his feet over to the floor and stretched. Standing, he walked naked over to his bedside clock and checked the time.

  <0525. Too early for my morning jog.

 

  Fabler considered showering, decided to do it later, then put on some sweat pants. After making his bed, he padded into the kitchen, the floor cool under his feet, and took the mason jar from the fridge. Among the many changes Presley had instituted in the household, Fabler appreciated the cold brew coffee the most. A gallon container, a pound of coffee, and water. Let it sit overnight, then pour through cheesecloth into a cup.

  Strong as espresso, smooth as chocolate milk. Presley mixed hers with half water.

  Fabler drank his straight. He brought a mug to his computer desk, removed a piece of typing paper and a pencil, and closed his eyes, remembering the last time he saw his wife.

  Then he began to sketch.

  PRESLEY ○ August 8 ○ 5:13am

  “Wake up! Hooah, soldier, on your feet!”

  Still half-asleep, the dim twilight peeking through the curtains barely allowing her to see, Presley sprang out of bed, her heart accelerating like an Indy car, and she reached for the football girdle on the floor, sliding it on over her yoga pants, then strapping on the ankle holster with the DoubleTap.

  Fabler stood next to her, staring at his stopwatch. “Six seconds.”

  Presley slipped on the canvas shoulder rig, which contained holsters for the semi-auto Glock under one armpit and the Pitbull revolver under the other, and then pulled the football shoulder pads over her head, adjusting the epaulettes, snugging the ties tight.

  “Twenty-two seconds.”

 

  She grabbed the sunscreen on her nightstand and slapped and spread and rubbed the zinc oxide cream on her face and arms, then picked up the leather hernia belt and buckled it around her waist, making sure the steel ring stayed on the right side.

  “Thirty-one.”

  Presley quickly shrugged on the backpack, pulled the welding goggles onto her forehead, tugged the football helmet on over that, moving smooth and fast and picking up time, grabbing the KRISS Vector rifle next to the bed and lowering it to an indoor ready position, and finally fitting the goggles over her eyes, the room immediately going dark.

  “Time?”

  “Forty seconds.”

  Presley squealed, delighted. “I did it!”

  Fabler had been pushing for forty seconds. He’d been drilling her on hitting that time since she came back to work.

  “C
lock is still ticking.”

 
 

  “I’m wearing goggles. You can’t even see my eyes.”

  “Forty-five seconds.”

 

  Presley pushed her goggles back onto her forehead and pawed for the contact lens case on her nightstand.

  “Fifty seconds.”

  She managed to get one in, but her right eye, still crusty and dry from sleep, refused to accept the second lens, which kept sticking to her finger.

  Each second felt like five.

  “Sixty seconds.”

  Presley snapped. “Dammit, Fabler, quit telling me the time.”

  “These are timed exercises, Presley.”

 
 
 
 
 

  “Let me have a time-out.”

  “Life doesn’t give you time-outs.”

  “What’s the point to all of this, Fabler? I mean, c’mon.” Presley slapped her padded leggings. “The uniform. The zinc oxide. The welding goggles that I can’t see anything out of. You got a football game scheduled on the surface of the sun?”

  “Seventy seconds.”

  She blew out a breath. “How about a do-over.”

  “Life doesn’t give you do-overs, Presley. Seventy-five seconds.”

  “Why do I need contact lenses under my goggles? Why do I even need the goggles?”

  “Eighty seconds.”

  Presley threw up her hands. “Dammit, Fabler. I’m done.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  “I need a minute.”

  “Sometimes life doesn’t give you a minute. Sometimes you don’t even get a second, when a second would have made all the difference.”

 

  Her stress levels were almost as bad as they’d been in Afghanistan. Presley could feel her blood pressure rising, her pulse pounding in her eardrums, her heart a caged animal trying to get free.

 
 

  “Please leave my room, Fabler.”

  “You said I could come into your bedroom to do these drills.”