Driven Read online

  She smiled again. “I like that name. And your number?”

  “I’ll call you.” He could feel a drip of sweat running down the back of his neck. “And I’ll be looking forward to your sister’s quick recovery.”

  Amy nodded, then looked at her sister for a long moment. She didn’t get teary and sorrowful, as Gavin would have expected, especially from a twin. Instead, her steeled profile glowed with a different emotion even easier for him to identify with right now: hate.

  13

  Karianne Stordal was still shaken. Her legs felt rubbery as she walked the Long Beach boardwalk. Twenty-nine, she’d been a flight attendant for Globe Airlines for the past six years, and only once before had she ever encountered air turbulence as bad as today’s.

  After a bad flight, a walk on the boardwalk was usually enough to settle her down. The offshore breeze carrying the salty scent of the Atlantic Ocean reminded her of pleasant times with her parents at the beach. Thoughts of her uncomplicated childhood were always welcome and usually soothing, but today was different. Today she found herself considering additional help—the kind of help she so often ministered to nervous passengers: a drink. Not much. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to help her already pleasant surroundings ease her tension.

  Her thought of leaning on such help was not a simple one. She had not had a drink in over five years. As a recovering alcoholic, she’d done great. The fear of sliding backward into a repeat of past years of abuse had always overcome any serious temptation to drink… until today. For the first time in five years she felt like she had a good enough reason. Actually, she had earned it—deserved it. Any human being that had just spent the last hour in a glorified tin tube fifty thousand feet over the ocean, bouncing in and out of five-hundred-foot invisible air pockets and smiling while collecting half-full vomit bags deserved a drink.

  The idea of a little liquid comfort had first come just minutes before setting foot on real ground and, as usual, had been immediately dismissed—or at least suppressed. But after going home to her Long Beach apartment she had still been trembling.

  “It’s over! You’re fine,” she had said to her image in the bedroom mirror as she slid her hairpins out and let her thick blonde hair fall to her shoulders. “You just need a hot shower.”

  But when a shower and change of clothing—into her ever-comfortable cut-off shorts and tank top—failed to help, the thought had returned. Very uncharacteristically, she now allowed the thought to linger at arm’s length as she pondered it, trying to rationalize everything. Soon, the idea began to take on a logical, even friendly, feel—a sharp contrast to the addiction that had chased her for so many years. But that was then. Now she was stronger, more mature.

  Her gait was as casual as a window shopper’s as she passed by the stores and food stands that lined the boardwalk. She strolled by the Seahorse Tavern with barely a glance, reinforcing her ability to pass it if she wanted to. After all, she could easily have had a drink on the plane, or brought one of those little bottles home with her.

  She leaned on the long pipe railing that protected passersby from falling to the sand six feet below and looked out to the ocean, shaking her head at the sight of approaching rain clouds. The weather forecast had mentioned the possibility of a late thunderstorm. The last thing she needed was more instability in her atmosphere. She held out her hand to see if she was still shaking. She knew she would be, but held it out anyway as if to show her strength to the eyes of another—her conscience. Then she looked over her right shoulder at the Seahorse Tavern, its grayish driftwood siding draped with old fishing nets. She could probably watch the clouds just as easily from the other side of that picture window…

  She considered passing the tavern by again as she neared the door. Maybe another test was needed to show it was really she who was in control, and not her addiction. But, no. She’d already passed that test. And she could just as easily leave whenever she wanted, and would do just that—after one drink.

  The wall of cool air brought immediate relief as she entered. To her left were a dozen tables, all but one empty. Two men in suits. They looked at her and smiled. She reflexively smiled back, but then, realizing her casual attire might appear a little too inviting, she turned away. She didn’t want conversation; she wanted to unwind. Getting to know two guys whom she had never seen before didn’t sound very relaxing.

  To her right stood a long saltwater fish tank. Through its waving plant life and colorful fish she could see the bar. She could also see the seat she wanted—the last one next to the window. She passed the tank and caught the eye of the bartender, who was watching the TV mounted high on the wall.

  “What’ll it be?” he said with a friendly smile.

  She looked to the ceiling as she took her seat, as if she wasn’t sure. But she was. “Let’s try a Bloody Mary. It’s been a hard day at the office,” she said, feeling the need to offer some explanation.

  “One tomato and potato comin’ up,” he said, reaching for a bottle of top-shelf vodka.

  She watched intently as the bartender made her drink. The clear liquor filling the gaps between the ice cubes and rising along the curved wall of glass sent a cold tremor through her chest. This was her drink he was making. She had a sudden urge to leave some money on the bartop and tell the man to forget it.

  “Enjoy,” he said with a wink, placing before her a tall red mix with a fresh leafy celery stalk planted in it. He went back to his stool behind the bar and continued to watch his golf game… like nothing had happened. But something had.

  Karianne stared at the glass. Well, just drink some, girl. It’s not as if it were Eve’s apple. Lighten up. One drink in five years. Her salivary glands tingled with anticipation as her mouth remembered the taste of the liquor. She took hold of the wet glass and brought the cold rim to her lips, allowing the aromatic vapors to fill her sinuses. She looked at herself in the smoke-tinted, marble-grained mirror behind the bar. The reflected world was void of color, like a black-and-white TV. Her decision seemed anything but black and white. She closed her eyes and drank.

  After her first swallow she looked left. She could see the bartender still watching the TV. In the mirror and through the fish tank she could see the businessmen chatting. Nobody cared. As she lifted the glass again she glanced to her right. She could see the clouds had suddenly arrived. They were so dark they appeared dirty, like the charred, billowing smoke of a huge oil fire. The coming storm had so dimmed the light she could see an eerily transparent reflection of herself in the window, her long Norwegian-blonde hair framing her face… and her blood-red drink at her lips. Bright, silver swords of lightning stabbed down at the ocean, further illuminating the unwanted reflection of her shame. Thunder shook the air and a fat droplet of rain smacked the windowpane. She continued to drink as other droplets followed, melting away her ghostly image and the reminding portrait of her sin.

  TWO HOURS AND MANY DRINKS LATER Karianne was still sitting at the bar. Her shakes were gone. They’d left around the same time the tomato and potato became straight potato on the rocks. She leaned back and drained the glass again, allowing the ice to rest upon her lips until she was certain the cubes were dry. In her peripheral she saw a large black shadow walk by the window. She turned, but it had already passed. All she saw was wet darkness, the only light coming from a lamppost on the boardwalk fifty feet away.

  “How ’bout just one more on the house, Sam?” she said, fishing clumsily through her black-leather fanny pack for money.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” the bartender said. “I’ve already bought you two. Besides, you’ve had enough.”

  Karianne didn’t agree. She continued to look through her pack, but the only thing she could find of any worth was a football ticket. Giants vs. Bears, September seventh. It had been given to her by one of the players—a placekicker who had taken a liking to her on his way back from vacationing with his family in Norway. She wasn’t much of a fan, but she’d been looking forward to congratu
lating— or consoling—the guy after the game.

  She pulled the ticket out and stared at it, then brought it close to her face, hoping the words would come into focus. They didn’t. She turned it over. He had signed the back: Norman Sorenson. She looked at her empty glass. Then, plastering on her never-failing smile and batting her bloodshot powder-blue eyes, she called again to the bartender. “Oh, Sam. Do you like football?”

  “I do,” said a deep voice behind her.

  Karianne looked into the mirror and suddenly felt very small. The owner of the deep voice was standing behind her. He was huge. He wore an unbuttoned black leather shirt with cut-off sleeves and his blond hair was short and thick on top and shaved on the sides. Even in the gray-smoked reflection his gaze was intense, aimed boldly into her eyes. Something about his stare was instantly familiar. But the man himself was a total stranger. She found herself gaping and broke eye contact, regrouping as quickly as her intoxication allowed. Then she turned in her chair.

  Again he locked onto her eyes, seized them with his own— wild, silver, hungry… and somehow familiar. But how? She would definitely have remembered if she’d seen him before; his tremendous muscle-laden body and ruggedly athletic face were not ones she was likely to forget. She noticed both his high cheekbones and chin were reddened, as though he had been in a fistfight. She also noticed he had a newspaper folded in his hand. A copy of the Post. On the front page a man’s face had been circled in red.

  Suddenly Karianne felt a chill flood her insides. It came from deep within, so deep the stirring shiver felt like it was touching her very soul. What was it?

  “Give her another drink—a double. I’ll take the same, whatever it is,” the stranger demanded while continuing to hold her gaze.

  The bartender hesitated, but quickly and clumsily submitted when the stranger shot him a look.

  The newcomer was more menacing and dangerous in appearance than anyone Karianne had ever laid eyes upon, but to her surprise she didn’t feel the least bit afraid or intimidated. On the contrary, she felt drawn to this monster of a man. And it wasn’t simply his looks. Though he had spoken but a few words to her, she sensed a strange camaraderie. Maybe the alcohol was confusing her. His abusive attitude and demanding arrogance embodied what she naturally despised. She was nothing like that and she hoped she never would be and therefore shouldn’t be feeling what she was.

  The bartender placed the drinks and moved away, keeping an eye on the stranger as he did. He did not resume his relaxed position by the TV, but instead stayed close to a phone near the cash register.

  “Drink,” the stranger said in bold invitation as he took hold of the vodka placed before him. The tumbler appeared as small as a one-ounce shot glass in his giant hand. He poured his drink down in one motion, then slammed the glass down on the bartop. Even the ice was gone.

  Karianne laughed, then drained her own glass, less the ice, and slammed it down in the same manner. The stranger said nothing. He just stared blankly at her.

  “What? Do you think I’m going to do the same? Swallow my ice cubes? I think you’ve mistaken me for an old drinking buddy,” Karianne slurred.

  The stranger laughed. “You are an old drinking buddy.” He reached into the front pocket of his faded jeans, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and slapped it on the bar. “Two more,” he yelled, his attention remaining on Karianne, apparently confident his command would be followed without question. He took the seat to her left, his back to the bartender, and put his newspaper on top of the bar.

  Karianne smiled, running her finger along the rim of her glass. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the magic word?”

  “Now,” he yelled.

  “That wasn’t the magic word I had in mind,” she said, shaking her head. “By the way, do you have a name?”

  “Krogan,” he said deeply but softly enough that only she could hear.

  “Krogan? That’s it? Just Krogan?” She gave in to a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to set her hand on his thigh.

  “Krogan.”

  “Okay… Krogan. As long as you’re buying, I’ll drink with you. But I think you’ll find more your type a little north of here … at the Bronx Zoo,” she said, slurring her words terribly.

  “Tonight we have a date,” he said.

  “A date? Getting right to the point, aren’t we?”

  He leaned toward her. “Shadahd,” he said.

  Karianne frowned, but before she could ask him what he was talking about, another deep, cold rush filled her. She dug her fingers into his leg to steady herself. The bartender delivered the drinks and quickly left again. She stared at Krogan. “Shah-what?”

  Krogan grinned and again poured the entire contents of his tumbler down his throat. “Drink,” he said, the command more instructional than celebratory this time.

  Karianne picked up her drink, wondering what kind of wild animal she was spending her time with—and enjoying. She brought the glass to her numb lips. She could no longer taste the vodka; she might as well have been drinking tap water. As she drank she peered over her raised glass and saw he was still grinning at her. Why? What did he see?

  “Oooh!” she said, as another rush swept through, this one more intense than the others. She almost fell over. Krogan’s smile grew. What was happening? He knew. Somehow he knew. What did he expect?

  The room began to move. She thought she was going to pass out. She heard a crash. Blearily she looked down and saw her tumbler was no longer in her hand. Her head was spinning. The room was getting darker. She couldn’t focus and wasn’t sure she was sitting in her seat anymore. She shut her eyes tightly.

  “Shadahd,” he said.

  She moaned as another rush swept through her like electricity. His foreign word echoed through her mind. She opened her eyes and saw he was still there, his elbow leaning on the bar, seemingly enjoying her weakness. He hadn’t repeated the word, but she could still hear it echoing in her mind, louder and louder, until she could no longer keep it inside—

  “Shadahd,” she said. It just came out.

  Suddenly the spinning stopped. Her vision was still blurred, but she was no longer dizzy because of it. The room seemed darker than ever, but she didn’t mind; in fact, she liked it. Preferred it. She looked at Krogan. He hadn’t moved, still intently watching her. She felt very different, and somehow Krogan knew that, too.

  “Two more,” she yelled, grinning widely. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way, but somehow she knew she had—many times. Maybe she was dreaming. She didn’t care. If it was a dream she was going to enjoy it. Really enjoy it.

  The bartender brought over two more drinks, looking at her oddly, but didn’t say anything.

  “What’s the matter, Sam? You don’t get many interesting people in here?” she said sensually, locking her eyes on her old friend, Krogan.

  The bartender didn’t answer. He just retreated back to his usual distance.

  Karianne and Krogan picked up their drinks together. She clinked her tumbler against his and poured the contents down… ice included. The cubes barely escaped getting caught in her throat and the pain that followed was so sharp the numbing alcohol in her bloodstream could do little to combat it. She grabbed at her throat and started to fall forward. Krogan caught her and pushed her back into the chair with a laugh.

  “Maybe next time you’ll take a body that can handle a little more abuse. This one’s the best ever,” he said, and pulled open his loose shirt, exposing his massive, muscle-ripped torso.

  Karianne felt schizophrenic. Half of her knew what he was saying while the other half had no idea. Regardless, she didn’t care. She was totally drunk and for some reason had plenty of energy. She reached up with her right hand and grabbed the thick hair behind his neck, then pulled his head toward hers and kissed him. Still holding his hair tightly, she pulled his head away and stared into his silver eyes. “Let’s party.”

  “What kind of car do you have?”

  “A new Jeep
Grand Cherokee,” she slurred.

  “Shadahd?” he said, picking up his newspaper as he rose from his seat.

  “Yes!” she said, suddenly knowing exactly what he meant.

  14

  Gavin pushed through the worn wooden door of the homicide department. Homicide 242 was a depressing hole in the wall. The carpet was so old, visiting retired detectives, some of whom were World War II veterans, could point to specific coffee stains and reminisce. The standard joke was that the local historical society had blocked the way for a new carpet.

  The supervisor’s office was partitioned off in such a way that no windows were available for ventilation or natural light. So as not to burden taxpayers or elected skimmers, an oscillating fan, powered through a creatively routed extension cord, was set upon a tall filing cabinet to assist a noisy, undersized air-conditioning system.

  Chris was at his desk talking on the phone. He turned and held up an index finger. Gavin waited impatiently.

  “Right… right… yeah,” Chris was saying while rolling his eyes and motioning that whoever was on the other end of the phone was on a needless verbal roll.

  On Chris’s desk lay a large white blotter decorated with data and doodles. Next to it sat a comic strip one-a-day calendar and one of those chrome toys that defied the physical laws of perpetual motion. Gavin usually made a point of stopping it whenever he walked by.

  Gavin had no such entertainment on his own desk, just ten feet away—just a writing pad and photos of his parents, grandparents, and the girlfriend who hadn’t lived long enough for him to marry. He was a jinx and the memorial on his desk was proof of it. Chris’s desk also had photos, but they were all of living people—mostly people Gavin didn’t know very well, which is why he figured they were still alive.

  “Uh-huh… super. Thanks again,” Chris said, then hung up.

  “So?” Gavin said.

  “That was your buddy, Detective Rogers from Brooklyn. He wants this guy almost as bad as you do.”