Page 53 of Swerve
WE SIT IN silence for the next thirty minutes. Helmer has moved the Jeep farther down the street. We’re hidden in the shadows, but we can see the storefront. At nine o’clock on the nose, the store lights shut down, and a last customer straggles out the door and walks down the street, bag in hand.
Just then, a Range Rover swings into a spot in front of the store. Madison walks out, looking right, then left, and quickly heads for the vehicle, climbing inside.
“Who do you think is picking her up?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It could be her boyfriend. But let’s follow anyway.”
I buckle my seat belt and sit back as he pulls the Jeep onto the street and follows the Range Rover a few car lengths behind. It stays at the speed limit, makes complete stops at intersections. “Whoever it is,” I say, “they seem law-abiding.”
“Maybe a little too much so,” Helmer agrees.
We drive a good ten minutes until we reach a neighborhood in Georgetown. The Range Rover pulls into an empty spot. We drive on by, and I resist the urge to look back and see if I can get a look at the driver. There aren’t any spaces available farther down the street, so we have to circle the block. By the time we get back around, the lights are off, and the vehicle is empty.
“Damn,” Helmer says.
“Now what?”
He aims his phone at the back of the Range Rover and takes several photos of the plate. “Let’s see how long her visitor stays and what he or she looks like when they come back out.”
“Or they could be planning to stay the night.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he says, looking directly at me.
Neither do I.
~
I’M SETTLED DOWN in the seat, expecting that we’ll be waiting a while, if the person even comes out at all. It’s a little shocking then, when a door to one of the buildings opens and a man walks out and heads straight for the Range Rover.
“He’s wearing the baseball cap,” I say. “It’s him.”
“Stay cool,” Helmer says, placing a hand on my arm. “We can’t draw attention to ourselves. We’ll follow him.”
The vehicle starts and begins pulling out of the parking spot, just as Helmer’s phone rings. He glances at the screen. From my seat, I can see it’s Madison’s number.
“Why would she be calling you?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but here, answer it,” he says, handing me the phone and pulling onto the street. “I’ll follow this guy.”
I slide the answer button on his screen. “Hello.” There’s no reply. I press the phone to my ear. “Hello.”
“Help.”
The word is so low I think I might have imagined it. “Madison?”
“Please. Help me.”
“What is it?” Helmer asks, looking at me with a frown.
“She’s asking for help,” I say. “I think she’s hurt. We have to go back.”
“If we let him get away, we might not find him again,” Helmer says.
From the other end of the phone, I hear Madison say, “I’m . . . dying. Please.”
“We have to go back!”
Helmer hits the brakes and swings a U in the street. He guns it back to the apartment, pulling off the street without bothering to properly park. We both run for the building. I glance at the mailboxes just inside the front door, spot her last name and the number 208. We take the stairs two at a time.
