Four: Suspicions
Xanny was trying her best not to come across as a seriously uneducated, crude ex-con, but it was hard, considering her surroundings. Mr. Ferarre had asked them to come into his office, and Carl was busy yakking away, talking about how they could help find Augusta, how Xanny had known Seth Gecko personally, and while she was reformed, she was still familiar with his way of doing things.
Mostly, she just kept her mouth shut. It was better to just let Carl go through his act. Mr. Ferarre seemed to be listening with interest, but his eyes kept straying to Xanny, who would look back, too used to stares from her prison life to ignore them.
"Well," Mr. Ferarre said, after Carl had stopped for breath, "this is certainly interesting. Ms. Wallace, I was wondering, would you like to see some pictures of Augusta? I'm sure you would agree that your resemblance to her is more than just passing."
Xanny nodded. "I saw the one of her on the news...I have to admit, I'm curious about the rest of her family. The only contact person we could come up with was you."
"Augusta has an aunt who lives with her. Her father died when she was a teenager, and her mother succumbed to cancer about ten years back. Her aunt's name is Anette. Actually, I would like to call her. She will be interested to meet you."
The was something in the way he said that...as if there was more to those words than just the surface. And the way Mr. Ferarre had utterly switched the conversation from anything Carl had been talking about to talk about Augusta and offers of seeing her pictures...
He produced a small photo album from a drawer in his desk. "Aunt Anette brought this to me for the police to use," he explained, bringing it around his desk and handing it to her. She took it and let it flip open.
Blond haired, blue eyed, and happy, was all that she saw. And rich. Very rich. Always designer clothes, well-styled hair, expensive jewelry in some pictures. This woman, Augusta, was the kind of girl that Seth could potentially use for a lot of money. Although ransoming people wasn't his style. Even if he did manage to figure out that she wasn't Xanny, as he would no doubt eventually, he wouldn't do anything stupid.
Ritchie, however, was a very different story. Xanny felt her skin crawl. She looked up at Mr. Ferarre, who was staring back at her, rather intently.
"I wouldn't worry about your fiancée, Mr. Ferarre," she said in a soft, even voice. "Seth isn't going to let anything happen to her as long as he thinks she's me. And from what I can see here, the resemblance is more than uncanny."
"I know." He paused. They stared at each other, both of them ignoring Carl as he tried in vain to get their attention back into talking about money. After all, he wasn't bringing this look-alike into their midst for free. Still, there was more going on here than he knew...than any of them knew.
Marcos Ferarre...well, Augusta certainly had taste. He was like a model from an Armani add. His suit was perfectly pressed, every part of him perfectly groomed and manicured, and to top it all off, he had cheekbones for days. They were so high and perfect, like he'd been sculpted out of marble by Michelangelo himself. He had an actor's discipline for emotions, keeping his entire profile under complete control, not belaying a single sentiment, in spite of the anguish of the situation. In fact, it was almost enough to make Xanny wonder about the entire extent of his concern for his missing fiancée. Still, he didn't come across as a heartless man. He was a business man, after all. Even if he did vaguely remind her of Christian Bale from the movie "American Psycho."
"Would you two care for some lunch?" Mr. Ferarre said suddenly, standing up. "I'll call Anette, and we can meet at the house. She will want to meet you, Miss Wallace. No doubt she'll be interested, as I am, in your family."
"Now, wait a moment," Carl said, finally recovering the situation. "There is a question of a fee. We are working people, of course...we can't spend our days sitting around and talking when there is work to be-"
"Yes, yes," Mr. Ferarre said dismissively, "whatever your standard fee is for a day, I'll triple it. I want both you and Miss Wallace at my complete disposal until this mess is solved." He was picking up the phone as he was talking, pressing something into speed dial--Xanny heard it clicking. "Anette," he said after a pause, "I'm bringing over guests. Have the chief prepare something for lunch. Yes, I know it's a little early, I have guests that you'll want to meet. All right." He hung up, smiled at them. He had a beautiful smile--utterly aloof, but beautiful. "Please, I'll have them bring the car around. If you'd be so kind as to wait here."
And he left.
Carl looked at her. She looked back. "Not what you expected as a reception?" she asked in a low voice.
"No, can't say it is," he replied.
"They think I have some connection to Augusta," Xanny said. "They think my resemblance is not a coincidence. At lunch, they're going to ask me about my family."
Carl arched an eyebrow. "And?"
She sighed. "I guess I'll be telling them the truth, then, won't I? Especially if they turn out to be right."
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Seth was driving. Ritchie was in the back seat, having graciously offered their hostage shotgun. She had asked, most earnestly, not to be made to ride in the trunk again. It was dark and uncomfortable in the trunk, and she promised to do whatever they said-within reason, she added, none too casually.
They'd hit the Interstate and were headed out toward a small town, where no one would look for them. Seth hated the Midwest--wide open stretches, tiny towns, nothing going on, it made hiding even more difficult. The simple act of walking into a convenience store, looking the way he did, was like a bullhorn, announcing the presence of two dangerous men. The only thing he hated more than the Midwest was the desert, and at least out there they had reasonable speed limits.
She had put the cashmere coat in the trunk, not even balking at the fact that it was already filthy and just getting filthier, but Seth didn't want to leave it behind as a clue. He'd already swept the room for any traces of them, and the worst he'd found was some of her blonde hair in the sink.
Blonde hair...it seemed to suit her. Xanny had always worn her hair so dark, to match the tan that had made itself a permanent part of her skin from so many years outdoors. This woman was as pale and delicate as a hothouse flower. And while the power of cosmetics was great, he was starting to suspect that they weren't that great.
Then there was the way she'd kissed him the night before. Or rather, the way she'd responded to the way he kissed her. Xanny had never, not once in her life, even been able to pretend not to react to his kiss. For all the problems in their relationship, their chemistry was something that held them fast, and only now, after all this time, had it seemed to fail.
It was only ego that made him think that maybe she wasn't who she said she was, he told himself. But after the second time, he was more sure. She didn't feel right. Something was off...even as he looked at her up close, there were flaws in her skin that had never been there before, and flaws he'd memorized completely erased. Was it possible that she really was this Augusta Charlene Baxton? Known as Charlie to those she was familiar with?
In spite of the nagging doubts, there were still other things that argued that she was Xanny. The way she didn't seem to show fear of him was a big one-a pampered little rich bitch couldn't have held herself together that well without some good ugly experiences under her belt. How calm she always was, was another. Even now, she watched the road fly past them, a bit too relaxed, just looking as the world as it whizzed by.
Feeling his look, she turned toward him. Her eyebrows rose into her hairline, a look of question. Even though one of the rules was not to ask questions-then again, a look was not a question, not technically. He could forgive it.
"Ritchie, you got any more of those snacks back there?"
Ritchie replied by throwing up a packet of Ding Dongs, which Seth caught. He handed then to her.
"Hungry?" he asked.
She took them, pulled open the white, translucent plastic, and proceeded to eat. "You're going to ruin my figure," she said softly.
"Well, at the next stop we'll pick you up some granola bars," he shot back wryly.
"Do you know how many carbs granola has?" she asked.
He snorted a laugh. "Oh my God..."
"Beef jerky would be better."
He laughed again, this time louder. "You eat beef jerky?" he asked, incredulous.
"Not usually. Maybe some peanuts, or whatever kind of nuts, would be better, though. Since I don't have a toothbrush. Beef jerky gets in your teeth." She paused. "And a diet coke."
Seth just shook his head. "Why don't you just pick it out the hell yourself?" he said as he pulled off an exit. "We need gas. Ritchie, get me some cash."
They drove into a gas station with a mini-mart. Seth leaned over toward her after turning off the car, as Ritchie got out to fill up the tank.
"You pull any kind of shit on me inside, and you'll be responsible for a lot more than just your death."
She looked at him. "I'm not going to pull any shit," she said. "Scouts honor."
"You were never in girl scouts."
"I was. Ten years. Best damn cookie salesgirl you'll ever meet."
He was stunned to find her smiling at him. Even more stunned to find himself smiling back. But it didn't stop him from showing her the gun tucked into his coat.
"I'm fucking serious," he said, his voice more of a purr than a growl.
"So am I," she sighed. "I won't do anything. If I do, you can cut my pinkie off."
He stifled his response, as Ritchie started knocking on the roof of the car. Seth got out, watched her carefully as she got out of the other side, and let his door swing shut.
"I don't fuckin' like this, man," Ritchie said, and Seth was almost surprised to hear him talk. He'd been so sullen and quiet since the robbery, and Seth knew perfectly well it was because of their guest. Ritchie was usually much more chatty, but not when others were around. He seemed to have a nearly jealous desire for his brother's undivided attention. At times, Seth wondered if he did the horrible things that he sometimes did to their hostages just to get Seth's attention.
He dismissed the thought. "Trust me, brother," he said with a wink and a smile. He and...oh hell, just call her Augusta, it'll keep things straight in his head...Augusta walked toward the mini-mart.
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The shelves were low, but well-stocked. She bobbed through them, picking up things here and there, finally hitting the refrigerator compartments in the back. They didn't have any diet coke, so she substituted a diet Dr. Pepper. Then she noticed that they had her favorite brand of root beer, and picked up a bottle of that, too. She didn't realize how full her hands were until she made her way to the counter and saw the way Seth was looking at her.
"What?"
She glanced down at herself. Then, she went for utterly pathetic. "Come on, please? I'm gonna starve to death."
He sighed, motioned for her to put the stuff on the counter. He muttered to the woman cashier about the gas tab and the rang it up. As he handed her a fifty, her eyes slid over and landed on Augusta, suddenly suspicious.
"Do I know you?" the woman asked, her voice much more nasally than any Augusta had ever heard before. Considering she was about fifty pounds overweight and wearing K-mart knock-offs, the rich little brat inside her was extremely offended at the very thought of the two of them knowing each other.
"No," Augusta said coldly. "We don't."
"You sure? Maybe I seen you on T.V." The woman brightened a little, suddenly excited at the thought of having met a television star. "You on a show?"
Augusta stepped closer to the counter. The fact that Seth had stopped moving completely and was giving the cashier a very unpleasant look suddenly brought out an instinct in her not to let anyone get killed.
"No, I'm not." Then, with a sigh, she put her arms around Seth's waist. "Look, can we just pay for the stuff and go?" she said, pulling close to him, the kind of intimacy that shows the casualness of lovers. "I'm so fucking tired."
The cashier looked back at Seth, who, in his shock at her sudden contact, had dropped them murderous look and exchanged it for an astonished one. But he was fast, and covered it up with a very smarmy grin. "She hates long trips," he said to the cashier, who just shrugged and started to shove their stuff into a bag.
"That was pretty good," he said to her as they approached the car. "What brought it on?"
"Your look alone would have killed her," Augusta said, rooting through the bag that Seth made her carry-after all, it was her stuff. "I didn't want to be responsible."
"We'll, you're lucky you were with me and not Ritchie," he said in a low voice. She didn't know what that meant, and quite frankly, didn't want to know.
Xanny was trying her best not to come across as a seriously uneducated, crude ex-con, but it was hard, considering her surroundings. Mr. Ferarre had asked them to come into his office, and Carl was busy yakking away, talking about how they could help find Augusta, how Xanny had known Seth Gecko personally, and while she was reformed, she was still familiar with his way of doing things.
Mostly, she just kept her mouth shut. It was better to just let Carl go through his act. Mr. Ferarre seemed to be listening with interest, but his eyes kept straying to Xanny, who would look back, too used to stares from her prison life to ignore them.
"Well," Mr. Ferarre said, after Carl had stopped for breath, "this is certainly interesting. Ms. Wallace, I was wondering, would you like to see some pictures of Augusta? I'm sure you would agree that your resemblance to her is more than just passing."
Xanny nodded. "I saw the one of her on the news...I have to admit, I'm curious about the rest of her family. The only contact person we could come up with was you."
"Augusta has an aunt who lives with her. Her father died when she was a teenager, and her mother succumbed to cancer about ten years back. Her aunt's name is Anette. Actually, I would like to call her. She will be interested to meet you."
The was something in the way he said that...as if there was more to those words than just the surface. And the way Mr. Ferarre had utterly switched the conversation from anything Carl had been talking about to talk about Augusta and offers of seeing her pictures...
He produced a small photo album from a drawer in his desk. "Aunt Anette brought this to me for the police to use," he explained, bringing it around his desk and handing it to her. She took it and let it flip open.
Blond haired, blue eyed, and happy, was all that she saw. And rich. Very rich. Always designer clothes, well-styled hair, expensive jewelry in some pictures. This woman, Augusta, was the kind of girl that Seth could potentially use for a lot of money. Although ransoming people wasn't his style. Even if he did manage to figure out that she wasn't Xanny, as he would no doubt eventually, he wouldn't do anything stupid.
Ritchie, however, was a very different story. Xanny felt her skin crawl. She looked up at Mr. Ferarre, who was staring back at her, rather intently.
"I wouldn't worry about your fiancée, Mr. Ferarre," she said in a soft, even voice. "Seth isn't going to let anything happen to her as long as he thinks she's me. And from what I can see here, the resemblance is more than uncanny."
"I know." He paused. They stared at each other, both of them ignoring Carl as he tried in vain to get their attention back into talking about money. After all, he wasn't bringing this look-alike into their midst for free. Still, there was more going on here than he knew...than any of them knew.
Marcos Ferarre...well, Augusta certainly had taste. He was like a model from an Armani add. His suit was perfectly pressed, every part of him perfectly groomed and manicured, and to top it all off, he had cheekbones for days. They were so high and perfect, like he'd been sculpted out of marble by Michelangelo himself. He had an actor's discipline for emotions, keeping his entire profile under complete control, not belaying a single sentiment, in spite of the anguish of the situation. In fact, it was almost enough to make Xanny wonder about the entire extent of his concern for his missing fiancée. Still, he didn't come across as a heartless man. He was a business man, after all. Even if he did vaguely remind her of Christian Bale from the movie "American Psycho."
"Would you two care for some lunch?" Mr. Ferarre said suddenly, standing up. "I'll call Anette, and we can meet at the house. She will want to meet you, Miss Wallace. No doubt she'll be interested, as I am, in your family."
"Now, wait a moment," Carl said, finally recovering the situation. "There is a question of a fee. We are working people, of course...we can't spend our days sitting around and talking when there is work to be-"
"Yes, yes," Mr. Ferarre said dismissively, "whatever your standard fee is for a day, I'll triple it. I want both you and Miss Wallace at my complete disposal until this mess is solved." He was picking up the phone as he was talking, pressing something into speed dial--Xanny heard it clicking. "Anette," he said after a pause, "I'm bringing over guests. Have the chief prepare something for lunch. Yes, I know it's a little early, I have guests that you'll want to meet. All right." He hung up, smiled at them. He had a beautiful smile--utterly aloof, but beautiful. "Please, I'll have them bring the car around. If you'd be so kind as to wait here."
And he left.
Carl looked at her. She looked back. "Not what you expected as a reception?" she asked in a low voice.
"No, can't say it is," he replied.
"They think I have some connection to Augusta," Xanny said. "They think my resemblance is not a coincidence. At lunch, they're going to ask me about my family."
Carl arched an eyebrow. "And?"
She sighed. "I guess I'll be telling them the truth, then, won't I? Especially if they turn out to be right."
%%%%%%%%%%
Seth was driving. Ritchie was in the back seat, having graciously offered their hostage shotgun. She had asked, most earnestly, not to be made to ride in the trunk again. It was dark and uncomfortable in the trunk, and she promised to do whatever they said-within reason, she added, none too casually.
They'd hit the Interstate and were headed out toward a small town, where no one would look for them. Seth hated the Midwest--wide open stretches, tiny towns, nothing going on, it made hiding even more difficult. The simple act of walking into a convenience store, looking the way he did, was like a bullhorn, announcing the presence of two dangerous men. The only thing he hated more than the Midwest was the desert, and at least out there they had reasonable speed limits.
She had put the cashmere coat in the trunk, not even balking at the fact that it was already filthy and just getting filthier, but Seth didn't want to leave it behind as a clue. He'd already swept the room for any traces of them, and the worst he'd found was some of her blonde hair in the sink.
Blonde hair...it seemed to suit her. Xanny had always worn her hair so dark, to match the tan that had made itself a permanent part of her skin from so many years outdoors. This woman was as pale and delicate as a hothouse flower. And while the power of cosmetics was great, he was starting to suspect that they weren't that great.
Then there was the way she'd kissed him the night before. Or rather, the way she'd responded to the way he kissed her. Xanny had never, not once in her life, even been able to pretend not to react to his kiss. For all the problems in their relationship, their chemistry was something that held them fast, and only now, after all this time, had it seemed to fail.
It was only ego that made him think that maybe she wasn't who she said she was, he told himself. But after the second time, he was more sure. She didn't feel right. Something was off...even as he looked at her up close, there were flaws in her skin that had never been there before, and flaws he'd memorized completely erased. Was it possible that she really was this Augusta Charlene Baxton? Known as Charlie to those she was familiar with?
In spite of the nagging doubts, there were still other things that argued that she was Xanny. The way she didn't seem to show fear of him was a big one-a pampered little rich bitch couldn't have held herself together that well without some good ugly experiences under her belt. How calm she always was, was another. Even now, she watched the road fly past them, a bit too relaxed, just looking as the world as it whizzed by.
Feeling his look, she turned toward him. Her eyebrows rose into her hairline, a look of question. Even though one of the rules was not to ask questions-then again, a look was not a question, not technically. He could forgive it.
"Ritchie, you got any more of those snacks back there?"
Ritchie replied by throwing up a packet of Ding Dongs, which Seth caught. He handed then to her.
"Hungry?" he asked.
She took them, pulled open the white, translucent plastic, and proceeded to eat. "You're going to ruin my figure," she said softly.
"Well, at the next stop we'll pick you up some granola bars," he shot back wryly.
"Do you know how many carbs granola has?" she asked.
He snorted a laugh. "Oh my God..."
"Beef jerky would be better."
He laughed again, this time louder. "You eat beef jerky?" he asked, incredulous.
"Not usually. Maybe some peanuts, or whatever kind of nuts, would be better, though. Since I don't have a toothbrush. Beef jerky gets in your teeth." She paused. "And a diet coke."
Seth just shook his head. "Why don't you just pick it out the hell yourself?" he said as he pulled off an exit. "We need gas. Ritchie, get me some cash."
They drove into a gas station with a mini-mart. Seth leaned over toward her after turning off the car, as Ritchie got out to fill up the tank.
"You pull any kind of shit on me inside, and you'll be responsible for a lot more than just your death."
She looked at him. "I'm not going to pull any shit," she said. "Scouts honor."
"You were never in girl scouts."
"I was. Ten years. Best damn cookie salesgirl you'll ever meet."
He was stunned to find her smiling at him. Even more stunned to find himself smiling back. But it didn't stop him from showing her the gun tucked into his coat.
"I'm fucking serious," he said, his voice more of a purr than a growl.
"So am I," she sighed. "I won't do anything. If I do, you can cut my pinkie off."
He stifled his response, as Ritchie started knocking on the roof of the car. Seth got out, watched her carefully as she got out of the other side, and let his door swing shut.
"I don't fuckin' like this, man," Ritchie said, and Seth was almost surprised to hear him talk. He'd been so sullen and quiet since the robbery, and Seth knew perfectly well it was because of their guest. Ritchie was usually much more chatty, but not when others were around. He seemed to have a nearly jealous desire for his brother's undivided attention. At times, Seth wondered if he did the horrible things that he sometimes did to their hostages just to get Seth's attention.
He dismissed the thought. "Trust me, brother," he said with a wink and a smile. He and...oh hell, just call her Augusta, it'll keep things straight in his head...Augusta walked toward the mini-mart.
%%%%%%%%%%
The shelves were low, but well-stocked. She bobbed through them, picking up things here and there, finally hitting the refrigerator compartments in the back. They didn't have any diet coke, so she substituted a diet Dr. Pepper. Then she noticed that they had her favorite brand of root beer, and picked up a bottle of that, too. She didn't realize how full her hands were until she made her way to the counter and saw the way Seth was looking at her.
"What?"
She glanced down at herself. Then, she went for utterly pathetic. "Come on, please? I'm gonna starve to death."
He sighed, motioned for her to put the stuff on the counter. He muttered to the woman cashier about the gas tab and the rang it up. As he handed her a fifty, her eyes slid over and landed on Augusta, suddenly suspicious.
"Do I know you?" the woman asked, her voice much more nasally than any Augusta had ever heard before. Considering she was about fifty pounds overweight and wearing K-mart knock-offs, the rich little brat inside her was extremely offended at the very thought of the two of them knowing each other.
"No," Augusta said coldly. "We don't."
"You sure? Maybe I seen you on T.V." The woman brightened a little, suddenly excited at the thought of having met a television star. "You on a show?"
Augusta stepped closer to the counter. The fact that Seth had stopped moving completely and was giving the cashier a very unpleasant look suddenly brought out an instinct in her not to let anyone get killed.
"No, I'm not." Then, with a sigh, she put her arms around Seth's waist. "Look, can we just pay for the stuff and go?" she said, pulling close to him, the kind of intimacy that shows the casualness of lovers. "I'm so fucking tired."
The cashier looked back at Seth, who, in his shock at her sudden contact, had dropped them murderous look and exchanged it for an astonished one. But he was fast, and covered it up with a very smarmy grin. "She hates long trips," he said to the cashier, who just shrugged and started to shove their stuff into a bag.
"That was pretty good," he said to her as they approached the car. "What brought it on?"
"Your look alone would have killed her," Augusta said, rooting through the bag that Seth made her carry-after all, it was her stuff. "I didn't want to be responsible."
"We'll, you're lucky you were with me and not Ritchie," he said in a low voice. She didn't know what that meant, and quite frankly, didn't want to know.