13

            Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Anthony hurried across the parking lot and to the concrete staircase that led to the upper level of the parking deck.  As he ascended, he had the distinct sense that someone was watching him, a sensation like a feather lying against the back of his neck.

            He glanced over his shoulder.

            A stunning Latina woman was climbing the stairs, too.  Dark hair pulled away from her golden, porcelain-smooth face, she wore a black tracksuit, black sneakers, and a lightweight cream-colored jacket.  She held a cell phone to her ear and was speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.  

            She noticed his attention, and smiled.       

            But it was a smile that said only, yes, I know I’m gorgeous, and I know you like what you see, and I’m acknowledging your existence because it’s the polite thing to do, but sorry, I’m not really interested in you, so please keep moving.   A smile that beautiful women paid to men a dozen times a day. 

            But something about her bugged him.  Gut instinct.

            He reached the top of the stairs and went to his Tahoe.  At the driver’s door, he acted as though he was fumbling for his keys in his jacket, but he stealthily moved his right hand to the butt of his Beretta.

            In the corner of his eye, he watched the woman stroll past.  She was still on her call, gesturing excitedly, but then she looked in his direction.  It was intended to be a meaningless, oh-there-he-is-again look, but he felt as if he had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet.

She’s one of them, too.  She followed me up here to see what car I was driving . . . maybe to check my license plates . . .

            He whirled to face her.  “Who are you?”

            Ignoring him, the woman put away the phone and rushed back to the staircase. 

            “Hey!” he said. 

            Quickly, she descended out of sight. 

            Cursing, Anthony hustled behind the wheel, slammed the door.  He slipped the Beretta out of the holster.  The weight of the pistol calmed him, but only a little.

            He took the Bible out of his jacket pocket and thumbed through it.  Various passages were highlighted with multicolored pens.  At the front of the book, on a page that stated, “This Bible Belongs To,” a name he didn’t recognize was inscribed in girlish handwriting.

            He placed the book on the passenger seat, leaned toward the windshield, and scanned the parking lot below.  He didn’t see Bob or the short guy with the tinted glasses, and the Latina woman had vanished as if she’d been only a figment of his paranoid imaginings. 

            But his nerves crackled like live wires.   

            Setting aside the gun but keeping it within reach, he backed out of the parking space and took the ramp to the lower level.  He exited the lot via a rear entrance.  Hitting a side road, he fed the gas and blew through the night.

            Trouble was on the way, the nature of which he didn’t yet fully understand.  But he had to get home, and quickly.