The green canvas awning hanging over Sally's Diner flapped violently in the wind like a grossly overweight bird attempting to take flight. The neon OPEN sign, protected from the heavy rain by the diner's plate-glass front window, blinked a sad welcome.
Inside, out of the weather, occupying his usual spot at the counter, was Michael St. John. One of only two customers that night, he had stopped off at Sally's on the way home after scouring the city in search of Aaron.
To Michael's left, an angular old man in a gray wool suit read a coffee-stained copy of yesterday's Times through tired eyes enlarged by thick lenses. Long white hair flew wildly about his head, suggestive of Albert Einstein. A glazed donut on a saucer before him bled cherry jelly.
Michael's swivel perch afforded him a panoramic view of the kitchen.
The cook, his face shiny and swollen from the heat of the grill, concentrated on the job at hand. Beads of sweat balanced on his bald head as he worked his spatula, flipping burgers in a shimmering pool of grease that splattered the front of his distended T-shirt with every turn. Bits of decaying lettuce clung to his shoes as he walked over and gave the empty order wheel a spin. He refilled Michael's coffee then returned to the grill as several roaches scurried to safety.
With one hand Michael held a novel; with the other he pulled sugar packets from a ceramic bowl and stacked them into a precarious tower.
If only I'd called the police that first night, he thought, maybe I could have helped him. But in his heart he knew it may have made things worse.
He added another sugar packet to his tower then returned to the top of the same page he had reread several times before.
– Ashley's rumpled Nova slowed and parked out front behind Michael's Aston.
She checked her watch. 6:25 p.m.
Through the downpour the diner door was a ghostly apparition. It called to her — as if it wished to devour her.
She drew in a tight breath of air, then picked up the gun lying on the passenger seat, pausing to consider her options. But she was incapable of putting a rational thought together, so she placed the gun in the glove box and stepped out into the rain.
– The diner's front door swung open, ringing a small bell and rattling the blinds. Michael's sugar tower fell.
He turned and saw a slender, attractive young woman walk through the door. She removed her damp, faux-suede jacket to reveal a simple, short sundress, hemmed a hand's width above the knee, that hung lightly over the curves of her breasts and hips. Inexpensive and a bit inappropriate for the current weather, he observed, but clean and very flattering. She wore simple eyeglasses that made her large eyes even larger. Michael's beloved wife, Jennie, had worn glasses, and he had always thought they added an innocence that he found enchanting.
Visibly anxious, the woman smoothed her dress with hands both delicate and strong. She removed her glasses, and as she leaned down to dry them using the hem of her dress, Michael couldn't help noticing the little price tag hanging from the zipper down her back. She wore a simple wedding band, but on her right hand.
She was obviously in some kind of trouble: her mascara was smudged, the area below her right eye bruised. Still, Michael could see the clear light of intelligence in her eyes, and found himself completely enamored of her.
– Ashley pulled strands of damp brown hair back from her face and looked cautiously around the room.
The diner was dimly lit, cramped, and hot — the air hanging heavily over the mismatched booths and tables like the breath of an old troll.
To her left, a rabbit-eared TV struggled to maintain a failing image amid dusty, burned out beer signs. To the right, on the far side of the large front window, hung a full-wall mosaic of the American flag, its red, white, and blue tiles surprisingly intact considering the condition of the rest of the diner. Cut into the mural below the field of stars was a door upon which the unisex restroom symbol had been crudely painted in white enamel.
Toward the back, separating the dining area from the smoke-filled kitchen, was a long, Formica counter with aluminum edging and a row of stools — each with its pitted-chrome base bolted securely to the floor, the cracked red-vinyl seats mended with rough duct-tape patches.
Her heart stopped when for a moment she thought she saw Johnny Souther sitting at the counter. She looked again and was relieved to see that it was just a handsome stranger.
She limped over and took a seat a couple of stools to Michael's right. She set her purse on the counter and laid her jacket next to it.
Michael tried his best to be discreet, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her, and when she repositioned herself — irritated, no doubt, by the cracked vinyl against the soft, smooth skin of her thighs — he felt weak.
Ashley checked her watch again. 6:28 p.m. She glanced at Michael then looked away so he wouldn't see the despair on her face.
He leaned in her direction and spoke in a low, comfortable voice. "You know… you're putting your life at risk eating here."
"Is that so?" Ashley said, pausing to check the front door.
"If I were you, I'd run like hell." He laughed to himself and started a new sugar stack. "I haven't seen you in here before. Do you live nearby?"
"No," she said, clearly distracted.
"I eat here all the time," Michael said then thought of how that must have sounded. "Not that I'm proud of it or anything."
"Good for you." Ashley said, wishing this guy would just leave her alone.
Michael swiveled back toward the kitchen, his attempts at humor clearly under appreciated.
"Hey, chef!" he said. "My dinner?"
The cook flipped him off, but Michael only smiled. Over the years he had formed a quasi-friendship with the cook and he'd grown accustomed to his stiff-finger-salute.
He decided to give the woman another go. He marked his page and slid over to the stool next to her.
"I'm Michael," he said, offering his hand. "Michael St. John." At close range she smelled wonderful.
Ashley looked down without shaking his hand and folded hers in her lap. "I'd rather be alone, thank you."
Michael stood and raised his hands slightly. He was disappointed, but remained cool. "I've got no problem with that," he said pleasantly.
He sensed that the woman had been quite fun and playful when she was younger but had no doubt suffered terrible misfortunes over the years, and he could see a deep sadness in her eyes. But he knew that the playful girl must still be hiding inside her somewhere, and to him that made her even more captivating. He smiled politely then returned to his original stool, where he picked up his paperback and flipped to his mark.
Ashley's eye's moistened — she hadn't intended to take her frustrations out on him. "I'm sorry," she said, dabbing her nose with a tissue. "You seem like a nice enough guy, and under normal circumstances I'd be flattered."
She paused… it had been a long time since she talked to a man in that way — and it felt good. Then, on a wild impulse, she shared a piece of her dangerous secret with him.
"The truth is," she said, "I came down here to this rat-hole to save my son."
Michael dropped his book and looked at her. "Hold on a second," he said, then paused — this would be too wild a coincidence. "You're not Ashley Quinn by any chance — are you? You're not Aaron's mom…"
Oh my God, Ashley thought, her hand to her throat. She stood, her face filled with astonishment. "How did you… I mean — "
"It's okay," Michael said quickly, sensing her panic. "I met Aaron the other night. We're friends. I've been looking for him, too."
Ashley was dumbfounded, then frightened as she remembered Johnny Souther's orders and shot a glance at the door. "I–I can't be seen talking to you," she said, stepping away from the counter. Then she grabbed her purse and ran to the restroom.
Just then the cook delivered Michael's burger. "Choke on it
…" he said, anticipating a retort.
But Michael only looked at him, dazed.