Chasing Victoria

PrologueThe phone rings on the nightstand awakening my senses to a warm breeze fanning my hair, and a snug weight anchoring my legs and waist. Then I remember everything from the passionate beginning in my foyer to this entangled moment. The instant I turn my head to his breath's rhythmic rise and fall, the phone disturbs the silence and the sleeping man beside me again. “The phone…babe, you awake?” “Mmm-hmm,” I grumble, annoyed someone's calling so late. Removing his arm from my waist, I grab the mobile and squint at the caller I. D., displaying anonymous caller. I accept the call and answer, “Hello.” Rapid breathing, footsteps, and city noise overshadow the caller's voice. “Hello.” A woman's voice sounds muted through the phone. I can't hear you. Can you speak louder.” I jump when his lips graze my neck, then tense and arch my back to silence an excited breath. “Vicky, it's me, Kayla.” “Kayla? What time is it?” I ask, and squint at the time on the mobile. “It's one in the morning. Where are you calling from?” “I'm sorry for calling so late, and I don't have time to explain.” A door creaks open and shut. Muted restaurant clatter replace city din. “Kayla, where are you? And why are you whispering? I can barely hear you.” “I can't talk any louder. Vic, I need to see you. Can you meet me at the park in the morning?” The distress in Kayla's voice stiffens me further. Concerned, I ignore his lips igniting my spine. “Are you okay?” “Excuse me,” a man interjects in the background. “Sorry,” Kayla mumbles. A door creaks and muted voices and clinking utensils grow louder then fade to silence as Kayla moves to another space. “Kayla, what's going on?” “I can't explain on the phone. Did you find the disc in your bag?” “Disc?” “Vic, I have to go, but please, wait for me at Engineers Gate at five o'clock, I'll explain everything.” “Okay. Kayla?” I stare at the silent phone a second then return it to the nightstand. “That's odd,” I mumble. Before I can voice concern, his lips find mine and thoughts of Kayla suspend for the moment. * * * Four hours later, I throw on my running clothes and tiptoe toward the bedroom door. I turn and stare at his sleeping, sheet-shrouded figure and deliberate jumping back in bed. But I can't, not after that troubling phone call. “Damn it, Kayla,” I grouse and close the door. When I step from the apartment, I realize this is the first time I've allowed a man to remain in my condo. I'm surprised how soon I've abandoned control in this incipient affair. November's fog blankets the city a buoyant, ghostly white. Only a block from my condo and beads of mist already coat my vision. I shiver, not so much from the crisp autumn air, but Kayla's fearful voice. Was she trying to elude someone? And why couldn't she talk on the phone, why the park? What's going on Kayla? I pull my jacket sleeve over my fingers and rub my arms to generate heat. With a brisk walk, I begin a jog toward Central Park's Engineers Gate. My sports watch confirms it's five o'clock sharp, but there's no sign of Kayla. She's always punctual. Something's wrong, I've sensed it for days. Uneasily, I stroll inside the park toward the water fountain, disturbing a homeless man asleep on a bench. On the northern end of the gate, a biker zooms into the park. A woman appears through the fog, and I believe it's Kayla. I sigh and walk toward her. “Kayla, I was… oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else.” The woman smiles and starts a jog toward the reservoir. Growing anxious, I release my mobile from the armband. Kayla's phone rings several times before going to voicemail. “Kayla, I'm at the park. Where are you? I'm worried about you. Well, it's five o'clock. I'll wait a few more minutes. If I miss you, I'm on the roads running.” After ten minutes, impatient and itching to run, I comb the entrance one last time before taking off on Central Park's running loop. Worry seizes my mind. Kayla would never get up this time of morning unless it's serious. Kayla, what have you done? Instead of crossing the 102nd street traverse to the western side of the park, I continue toward steep, rolling hills on the wooded northern end. Dense fog blurs slick leaf-covered roads, so I slow my stride, wary of slipping on dangerous footing. Eerily, taillights emerge through swirling mist. Alarmed, I slow to a stroll, scrutinizing Connecticut license plates and Greenwich Little League Baseball sticker surfacing on a black Lincoln Town car parked near the wooded ravine. The interior light illuminates a man behind the steering wheel. I stop, wary of the wide-open back door, and search for the ever-present police cruiser always present this time of the morning, but it's nowhere in sight. Paralyzing fear grips my body when muffled voices, crunching leaves, and scuffling arise in the wooded ravine. Through sparse tree limbs, a murky trenched-coated man pushes a blurry figure to the ground. My instincts warn, flee! But I'm transfixed by the chilling scene. The man threatens, “We warned you b***h to stop snooping.” “No, please…” the woman pleas and struggles from a fatal position. The man pushes her forward on her hands and knees. “Please don't do this. I won't say anything,” she squeals with audible tears. “We know you took the file. Where did you hide it?” “Please, I told you, I don't know what you're talking about.” “We saw you take it. Now, one last time, where is it?” “I don't know…” Before it registers in my mind, the g*n pops and her body falls into the ravine. It's Kayla! I jump, suppressing a scream. No, it can't be Kayla. No—no—no, not Kayla! The man behind the wheel, steps from the car. I turn and speed uphill in terror, hoping he hadn't seen me. The steep, leaf-covered incline thwarts momentum, sending my feet slipping, sliding, and tumbling. I catch my fall in a downward dog, glance under my arm, and notice him looking in my direction. “Hey, you!” He yells. I scramble off the ground, speeding uphill with the force of adrenaline, driving me faster than I've ever run. I glance back and notice the man gaining speed. My heart thuds faster when I see the g*n in his hand. This can't be happening! An instant sting brushes my leg. He's shooting at me! I pick up speed and run onto a dirt path. Weaving between trees, I stop and hide behind a wide tupelo tree. Peeking sideways, I find the gunman doubled over and heaving for air. Straightening his stance, he places the g*n in his jacket and retreats in the opposite direction. Uncontrollable shivers claim my body as I watch him disappear down the hill. I drop to my knees, examine blood-ripped running tights, and graze from the bullet on my calf. Waves seize my chest, escaping in choppy sobs. The image of Kayla falling into the ravine finally registers. She's dead! I grasp the tree and breathe deeply. When my mobile vibrates in the armband, I glance over catching Kayla's face on the screen. Terror snatches my breath again. Apprehensively, I press accept, knowing it's not Kayla on the other end. The callous voice from the ravine menaces. “Ms. Powell, I know who you are and where you live.” He knows my name! In my periphery, the blue and white police cruiser winds the curve. With flailing arms, I race in its direction, pointing toward the ravine. Words escape in jagged breaths. “Kayla … My friend…” And the words to follow, unreal as they are, sound like someone else's words. “They killed her!” * * * At the ravine, the trench-coated man scours the area around Kayla's body, taking precautions to erase evidence of his presence. Kayla's reddish tresses, immersed in the shallow ravine, ripples with the stream. A beep buzzes from her pocket. With his foot, he turns her body sideways like discarded garbage, retrieving the beeping cell phone. A picture of a smiling woman with a voluminous mane of brownish curls and full heart-shaped lips displays with the name Victoria A. Powell. He presses play, and her voice echoes through the ravine. “Kayla, I'm at the park. Where are you? I'm worried about you. Well, it's five o'clock. I'll wait a few more minutes. If I miss you, I'm on the roads running.” He taps the photo and a number and address displays. “Well, well, well, Victoria Powell … Wrong place, wrong time,” he says with a chortle. He gazes at Kayla's body, shakes his head, and whispers under his breath, “What a waste.” Placing the cell phone in his coat pocket, he struggles up the muddy ravine, just as the other man makes his way back to the car. “She got away, Sir.” “Don't worry. She couldn't have seen our faces with this fog.” He removes the cell phone from his pocket and waves it like a prize. “I retrieved this from Kayla's jacket. I believe I know our intruder.” As the car starts its descent, the man dials Victoria's number. The phone rings twice then dead silence greets him. She's listening, waiting for a voice, perhaps Kayla's. A grin skews his face, picturing her holding the phone to her ear like a cornered mouse. “Ms. Powell, I know who you are and where you live.” Holding the phone to his ear, he listens to her quiet fear as the car creeps down the hill, out of the park, and onto Manhattan's dawn-lit streets. PART ONE