John Locke - Saving Rachel

The “policeman” isn’t as friendly. He gives me a bored look and continues staring at me as if trying to place me from somewhere. I wave my hands at him like I’d done earlier this morning, when I thought he was a real cop. He makes the connection and shouts, “Get him!” and laughs.

“That’s me,” I say. “Limo Schlub.”

It’s clear someone is royally fucking with me because these are definitely the people I saw this morning. But are they fucking with Karen too? Did they use a body double of her “policeman” friend to spook Karen? If this guy is her close friend, why would he allow it? And why have I automatically assumed Karen’s been kidnapped? Maybe she heard a noise before I got there and ran to a neighbor’s house. She might be back at her condo by now.

Of course, if she were home, she’d have called me by now.

I don’t have time to think about it because the scene has started. It plays out exactly the same way mine did, except the “Schlub” looks nothing like me, the limo is different, Mr. Clean is different, and the car that peels out after the two shots are fired is not a red Audi R8, but a tricked-out Camaro.

When the Schlub starts running back to the limo, I start backing up, out of the scene. I keep a close eye on “Mary” and the “policeman,” who continue to lie where they were “shot.” I back up across the track, and … shit! I trip over a picnic basket and fall to the ground. I get up, embarrassed, hoping I didn’t get caught on film and realize there’s no one watching me. I’m well out of the scene. I’m on Reece Street now, half a block west of “Mary” and the “policeman,” and they’re still down. I duck behind a pickup truck, sit on one knee, and watch them.

Two minutes go by, and finally, a camera truck drives to the corner where the Camaro had been parked. Some cameramen get out and start fiddling around with equipment, and I can see they’re about to start filming from that angle. I’m on the street side of the truck, which means I’ll be part of the film unless I move. I stay low and scoot behind the pickup as a group of “policemen” rush to the “crime scene” to tend to “Mary” and the “policeman.” They’re on police radios, barking out codes, with guns drawn, looking very “movie-ish.” A moment later, an ambulance roars up behind me, continues past my position, and comes to a stop beside the victims.

The EMS guys jump out of the ambulance and get to work. They put “Mary” on a stretcher and load her into the ambulance. As for the “policeman,” they shake their heads. The cops start overacting to the point I’m certain this scene will be scrapped during the first edit.

Now I’m completely convinced the movie scene is genuine, and I was kidnapped and forced to be in it. Someone placed a Mary look-alike in the cast so I would witness her pretend murder. They also inserted a body double of Karen’s friend into the scene, and maybe these are the warnings I should be concentrating on instead of the “K” and “V.”

I watch the EMS guys climb back into the ambulance, put it in gear, and roar past me. I turn my head to watch and see them fl y past a line of parked cars that includes a blue 2004 Toyota Celica—like Mary drives.

I stay put until I hear the director yell, “Cut!” Then I get up and start walking toward Mary’s car. Two coeds are rushing toward me, curious about what’s going on in the park behind me. As they approach, one says, “Any big-time movie stars here?”

“None that I recognized,” I say.

“Told you!” she says to her friend. To me, she says, “Have a nice day,” and they hurry past me toward the film crew. I suppose for Louisville, this is a major event despite the lack of big-time movie stars.

Looking through the windows, I’m positive this is Mary’s car because of all the junk inside. I now know that Mary wasn’t in the fi lm, so why’s her car here? I look around to make sure no one’s watching me as I reach up into the wheel well, feel around a bit, and finally extract the magnetic key box. I retrieve the key, slide it into the door lock, and enter the car. I’m in no rush to check the trunk. I’m hoping to find some evidence that she’s not in the trunk.

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, looking around. Mary’s car is as messy as her garage. There are papers and envelopes and fast-food wrappers all over the seats and floor. It would take an hour to sift through all this crap, and anyway, I doubt there’s anything here that will help make sense of the last few hours.

So the car looks like Mary’s, and it had a key in the wheel well like Mary’s. I open the glove box, and the insurance registration confirms what had seemed so obvious: it’s definitely my sister-in-law’s car.

So where’s Mary, in the trunk? I laugh at the thought.

I shuffle a few items around but can’t find her purse, which means she’s probably having lunch at the Rock Creek Diner.

I wonder if Mary came to see the film shoot this morning because someone told her the actress filming the scene could be her twin. Or maybe she was never here at all this morning. Maybe she showed up for this final shoot because someone called and told her she looked like the actress who’d been at Seneca Park all morning. She might have only been here a half hour or so. Maybe she was one of the park extras just now, one of the people chasing “Limo Schlub!”

I’m feeling much better about the day. Sure, the whole gangster thing was nutty, but they were obviously actors. I’m not as happy about the trick someone played on me with Rachel and the bra thing. Someone obviously found out about my tryst with Karen this morning and wanted to make me squirm. And they’re making Karen squirm about it too, by subjecting her to a fake body.

Maybe that’s why Karen disappeared. Maybe the warning worked, and she wants nothing to do with me now.

I’m not happy one of the actors rendered me unconscious and stole my car this morning, but it all fits in with the theme. I just have to rack my brain and try to figure out who has the motive and means to fuck with me like this.

On the bright side, it turns out Rachel’s okay. No one molested her or tied her up. Someone did pretend to be her and ruined one of her bras trying to make some sort of sick point about my affair, but it’s clear that Rachel doesn’t know about Karen—not yet, anyway. And as far as I can tell, Mary’s safe.

Look in the trunk!

I get out my cell phone and call Karen’s home phone. It rings eight times, and I hang up. I’m sure she’s fine, but I’m worried she might be planning to end things without ever speaking to me again. If so, I’ve got an ace in the hole: her driver’s license. I might be able to parlay that into a discussion about getting back together.

What about her purse? What woman would go off and leave her purse and wallet lying on the floor?

I can only think of two scenarios that ring true: either she’s been kidnapped or she’s part of the hoax.

Part of the hoax? Doubtful. She was too frightened. No one could act it out that convincingly. Her screams were sincere. Maybe the guy in her trunk wasn’t her friend, maybe he wasn’t dead, but she was definitely convinced. And she’s gone, at least for now.

I exit the car and look up and down the street. On the far side of the park, away from me, the film crew and most of the extras are still hanging around. On this end, still a distance from me, people are walking their dogs, flinging Frisbees, and jogging down side streets. I pull out my cell phone and dial Karen’s number again.

I try to remember her office number, but can’t quite conjure it. I give up, dial information, and have the operator put me through. I’ve spoken to Dana, the receptionist, before. She answers, and I tell her it’s me.

Dana says, “Hi, Sam, Karen’s not here yet. Would you like to leave a message on her voice mail?”

“No, that’s all right,” I say. There’s a long pause before I realize I’m still on the line.

Dana notices too and says, “Karen called in sick this morning, but she called back at—” She pauses. I hear paper rustling. Dana’s found her notes. “Karen called at eleven fifteen to say she was feeling better, said she’d be here after lunch.”

I check my watch. It’s nearly one thirty. “You haven’t heard from her since?”

“Not a word,” Dana says. “You think something’s wrong?”

I think something’s definitely wrong! “No,” I say. “She probably had a recurrence. I’m sure we’ll both hear from her soon.” “If she calls or comes in, I’ll have her call you,” she says. “Thanks, Dana.”

I end the call and try Karen’s home phone again and her cell phone, for good measure. Her cell phone prompts a factory-installed voice message: “The cellular customer you’re calling is out of range or out of service at this time. Please hang up and try your call again.”

I end the call and look around the area again but still don’t see Mary. I don’t want to hang around waiting for her. I want to go home and see if I can find a throwaway phone. I’m sure Mary’s okay, and anyway, if she were to show up, what on earth would I say to her?

Hi, Mary, I thought you’ d been killed this morning, so I’m snooping through your car looking for evidence of your death. Oh, and also, I’m wondering if you know anything about my affair with Karen Vogel or if you know who might have kidnapped me this morning, put me in a movie scene, stole my car, wrote some initials on your sister’s bra, and placed it in my laundry hamper, and—oh yeah, while we’re on the subject—do you know anyone who looks just like Rachel that might want to be tied up to the floor of our kitchen and photographed seminude?

I place Mary’s spare key back into the magnetic key box. I’m about to place it into the wheel well when the voice in my head screams, Check the trunk!

I slide the little key box open for the second time, take out the key, place it in the trunk lock, and turn till it clicks. I can’t say if the car has been in the sun for hours like I originally thought, but the metal is hot against my fingertips as I slowly lift the lid of the trunk.

Though widely considered a sports car, the 2004 Toyota Celica has an astonishing amount of trunk space. Mary’s two-door, four-seat model contains seventeen cubic feet of cargo space. Enough volume, it turns out, to hold my sister-in-law’s dead body.

Chapter 14

I’m grounded, but the world around me starts swirling at an insane speed, like I’m stuck in the eye of a tornado, only there’s no flying cow. I want to vomit. I want to fall to the ground and pound my fists and scream until this crazy day ends. But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t do them because—all the madness notwithstanding—I seem to have gained enough clarity of focus to consider that three hours ago, I’d been completely fooled by a photograph of someone I thought was my own wife. So, although this definitely appears to be a dead body, it’s within the realm of possibility that the woman in the trunk isn’t dead or if she is, she might not be Mary.

Keeping my head above the trunk, I reach my hand in and poke her body with my finger. If she’s faking, she’s good. I feel around wondering if what I’m about to do will keep me out of heaven. I do it anyway. I poke and prod the body until I find one of her boobs. I pinch it as hard as I can between my thumb and forefinger until I know the woman in Mary’s trunk is not pretending to be dead.