ONE CUP (Part 16)
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59
Mike Prescott
I hurried down the stairs, past Fredericka, to Kayla’s Escalade. I started the engine and, even though I was trying to remain calm and deliberate, I peeled out, burning rubber in all the excitement.
I drove to a nearby all-night pharmacy and parked. With shaking hands, I retrieved my cell phone and called Lou Brannigan.
“Lou, It’s me, Mike,” I said. “I’m in deep shit!”
60
I swear to God I never meant to hurt anyone. It started out . . . I can’t say innocently . . . but, it seemed harmless enough. One thing led to another, things just got out of control, and, now this.
I’m a normal guy. Growing up in California, all I ever wanted to do was play baseball. I chose to go to college rather than sign a pro contract right out of high school. I wasn’t your stereotypical college jock. I hit the books and graduated with a degree in economics. During that time we won two College World Series championships and I was named Collegiate Player of the Year as a senior.
I was drafted in the first round, received a substantial signing bonus, and went straight to the Triple-A New Orleans Zephyrs. While there I met Kayla, my wife. Long story short, we both lost our fiancées, and that brought us together. As far as baseball went, it was all so much easier, so … fun … back when I was getting started in the pros. After only a year and a half at New Orleans, I was called up. I’ve been in the major leagues ever since. You no doubt have seen my face on the cover of numerous sports magazines, and on dozens of television commercials. I’ve even tried my hand at acting, doing a couple of walk-on roles with only a line or two on a couple of sitcoms. So, it begs the question: How did I find myself standing over a girl lying unconscious in a pool of blood?
Her name, at least the name I know her by, is Mistress Fredericka Palomino. I met her a few months back at the marina where I keep my boat. It was an off day following a long road trip, and Kayla and I planned to go out for a cruise on the lake, eat lunch on the water. Kayla called last minute and said she couldn’t make it. Something to do about a production meeting at the station. Kayla’s a talk show host here in Indianapolis. She’s hoping to be nationally syndicated soon, so for her, the career comes first.
I thought about taking the boat out by myself, but then decided to just forget the whole thing and go home. On the way back to my car, I noticed an attractive woman in the parking lot. The hood of her BMW was up, and she was standing there, next to my Corvette. She had one hand on her hip, looking at the engine. I’d have to say the thing that really attracted me to her was her aura of cool. She was totally in control, even when she wasn’t. It was as if she somehow knew whatever she needed was on its way to her. And, there I was. “Having problems?” I asked as I hit the clicker to unlock the Escalade.
“Nothing that can’t be dealt with,” she replied without so much as glancing toward me. The thing was, she didn’t seem to be the least bit frazzled, certainly not helpless. In fact, she seemed to be in complete control. Most women would have been distraught. Most men, if they weren’t mechanically inclined—very few really are—would have been either cursing or scratching their head. I myself tend to be one to curse and kick tires, maybe even throw things sometimes.
I was about to ask if she was a member of an auto club, and suggest she call them to come render assistance, when she walked over to the passenger side of my car, put her hand on the door handle and said, “I live about ten minutes from here.” There was nothing flirtatious, nothing suggestive about it. Nor was it a request. She lived ten minutes away, and I was driving her. It was what it was, a statement of fact. So it began. And now, it had come to a horrible end.
61
Kayla Prescott
I couldn’t believe my eyes when Michael knock the girl down the stairway. She hit hard, and I gasped. Then, to my further surprise, Michael just left her there. No concern for her at all.
I waited a couple minutes after Michael left, then grabbed a flashlight from the console, got out of the car and walked over to Fredericka. I knelt beside her, and placed two fingers lightly on her neck, checking for a pulse. At my touch, she stirred slightly.
I gently stroked her face. “Honey, can you hear me?”
She mumbled something, incoherently. I noticed a key fob on the ground next to her. I took it, and placed a hand behind her head. “Come on, Honey, let’s get you up on your feet.” I knew I should not be moving her. I should be calling for help.
She was groggy, disoriented. “What . . . what happened?”
“You took a nasty fall. Can you sit up?”
“I think so,” she said, and together we got her into an upright position, leaning against the framework for the stairway railing. She looked up to me, trying to understand where she was.
“Do you know who you are?” I asked.
“Fred . . . Fredericka. No, . . . Whitney, I mean, ,” she replied.
“Uh huh. Good,” I said. “Do you know who I am?”
She looked at me, long and hard. She nodded “Kayla? Kayla Prescott?”
“Do you know what happened to you?” A moment ago, she was asking, so maybe—
“Michael did this,” she said. “He—”
“That’s enough, sweetie,” I said. “Don’t talk anymore.”
“But, you asked.”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“Now let’s get you up on your feet and get you some help.” It required a great deal of effort, but we got her up. And then, it hit me. The reality of the situation. She had a nasty gash on her head, and dressed as she was in her leather corset and mid-thigh boots, what would we say to the EMT’s and the police when they arrived?
I could say I happened by, and found her like this. But then, what was I doing there? They would want to know what happened, right down to the last detail. I seriously doubted Fredericka would feel any sense of loyalty toward me. People these days only look out for themselves.
And let’s face it, I couldn’t afford for Michael’s secrets to be made public just yet. The threat of it would work for me, but exposure too soon would work against me.
No. I couldn’t be there with her when help came, nor could I trust her not to talk if I left her alone. I’d hoped I’d never have to do it again, but she had to die. Just as well. It would have been too risky to hope she wouldn’t remember any of this.
I aimed her key fob in the general direction of the parking lot and pressed the unlock button. A white BMW’s lights flashed. With her left arm over my shoulder for support, we were able to move slowly toward it. As we approached the BMW, I hit the trunk release button on the key fob. “Let’s stop here for a minute,” I said.
Gently, so as not to alert her of impending danger, I turned her around and slipped behind her. Then, with full force, I struck her head with the flashlight. She collapsed, falling as I guided her so that her upper torso was hanging over the lip of the trunk. I lifted the limp weight, dumped her into the trunk and slammed it shut.
A black pickup truck with magnetic signs advertising an appliance repair business was backed into a corner spot. The truck bed was covered by a hinged, folding top to protect its contents from weather damage or theft. Apparently, though, the owner had not noticed the tailgate was down when he left it there unattended. I glanced inside to see if there was anything I could use.
A typical thief would have been overjoyed to see all the tools in the back of the truck. A cordless drill, screwdrivers, wrenches, and an assortment of other hand tools I didn’t recognize. What appealed to me, however, were the heavy-duty plastic cable ties and the duct tape. I scanned the parking lot and the apartment buildings. No one was watching. I helped myself, and went back to the BMW. A minute later, Whitney’s hands and feet were secured by the cable ties, her mouth taped shut.