Illusion of Luck 21

“We should check for another chapter.” Greg was sitting on the side of the bed, still groggy from the three hour nap.

“I’m on it.” Rebecca already had her laptop open at the table.

Sandy had not bothered to sit up yet. “Anybody hungry?”

“I thought for sure we’d find his car if we checked all the apartments,” said Greg.

“Well, they’ve got some fancy ones,” said Sandy. “Must be nothing but rich people living around here. One place even had garages. At first we wondered where all the cars were.”

“Yeah, I ran across one of those, too,” said Greg. “Did you go into the office and ask if they had any new tenants?”

“Yeah. They had a woman who moved in this morning, so I figured it couldn’t be them.”

“But what if he made Cynthia do it? You should have gone to the apartment and checked it out.”

“Oh, we did.” He nodded at Rebecca. “Miss Private Eye insisted.”

She didn’t even look up from the computer. “I don’t take anything for granted.”

“So, we met the woman and her five cats,” said Sandy.

“Single, huh?” said Greg.

“Oh yeah,” said Sandy.

“No new chapter,” said Rebecca. “But we’ve got more com­ments. This Chaucey woman is still after him.”

“She’s gonna be plenty sorry if she ever catches him,” said Sandy.

“He’s got a couple of lines of that Old English junk we saw in his last comment. Then he’s got this weird poem.”

Such a rare treat, I dare not waste it:
From yonder tree a delicious cherry.
Come forth and meet in the woods to taste it;
If you believe, make it one for three.

“The guy is nuts,” said Sandy. “But he thinks he’s some great poet.”

“Most great poets are nuts,” said Rebecca. “Actually, most of them are dead.”

“But maybe it means something,” said Greg.

“So?” Sandy yawned.

“There might be some clues in there somewhere,” said Greg. “He does mention woods in the poem. Hopefully that means they are here in The Woodlands.”

“Where? We’ve already checked all the apartments,” said Sandy.

“We could try the hotels.”

“Yeah, but in the book he said he rented an apartment,” said Sandy.

“Oh, this is interesting,” said Rebecca.

“What?” said Greg.

“I googled a line from this Old English stuff. It’s not Old English—it’s Middle English.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” said Sandy sarcastically.

Rebecca ignored him. “It’s from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.”

“And her name is Chaucey,” said Greg.

Sandy sat up. “Okay, that’s pretty weird—but I don’t see how it helps us.”

“Let’s see…that particular passage is from The Franklin’s Tale: a feast in the garden.”

“Wait,” said Greg. “Now we’re getting somewhere—I think. In Larry’s poem, he talked about meeting in the woods. The woods…a feast in the garden…a garden feast woods…a feast in the garden woods…”

“Oh, wow,” said Sandy. “You’re right, Buddy. Now we know their exact location. They’re out in the garden woods having a feast. And, of course, we know from the poem that they’re feasting on a single cherry. Yum—delicious.”

“Yeah, that’s it, I think,” said Rebecca. “And Cynthia is the cherry.”

“What?” said Sandy. “I was joking.”

“And he wants Chaucey to join them, to share the cherry,” said Greg. “He wants to have a threesome. That stinking per­vert!”

“Garden woods—weren’t there some apartments with that name?” said Rebecca.

Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out his crumpled list. “Yes. Gardenwoods Luxury Apartments. I remember that place. It was the one with the garages.”

“But you went into the office and checked, right?” said Rebecca.

“Yeah. And there was a guy who moved in this morning. But the lady said he was foreign. She could barely understand him. She thought he was from India or Pakistan.”

“What was his name? Did you write it down?” said Rebecca.

“No, but it was…Reebo…or Reelo…or—“

“Reevo?” said Rebecca.

“Yeah, that’s it—Reevo.”

“Do you remember the first name?” said Rebecca.

“Uh…”

“Was it Enim?” said Rebecca.

“Yes—I think it was,” said Greg.

“How in the world did you know that?” said Sandy.

“Think about it,” said Rebecca. “Enim Revo. Now turn it around backwards.”

Greg thought for a few seconds. “Mine…over.”

“Good. Now swap the two words so that everything is back­wards,” she said.

“Over mine,” said Sandy.

“Get it?” said Rebecca. “Over mine…Undermine?”

“Barry Undermine,” said Greg.

“This guy really loves to mess with your head,” said Sandy. “He thinks he’s smarter than everybody else.”

“And so does Chaucey,” said Greg. “They think they’re so smart that they can say whatever they want because we dum­mies don’t have the intelligence to decipher it.”

“But we did. And now we know everything but the apart­ment number,” said Sandy.

“Hold on,” said Rebecca. “I think he might have even given us that. He had to tell Chaucey so she could join him, right? Listen to the last line of his poem.”

If you believe, make it one for three.

“We thought he was referring to a threesome, and maybe he is,” she said. “But it could have a double meaning.”

“Make it one for three…” said Greg. “Make it 1-4-3. He gave her the apartment number: 143!”

“Right,” said Rebecca.

Sandy jumped up. “Let’s go get him!”

**********

They had decided to take one car—Greg’s red 1965 Pontiac Bonneville convertible. Sandy had suggested Rebecca ride in front with Greg. But he wished the Bonneville didn’t have bucket seats. He would have preferred sitting up front, with her in the middle. Although, if his arm or leg had touched hers, he might have gotten a hard elbow to the nose. Or maybe she would have grabbed his head in both hands and planted a huge kiss on him.

“Why didn’t he just get a hotel room instead of an apart­ment?” said Sandy. “I mean—what’s he using for furniture?”

“Gotta be a furnished apartment,” said Rebecca. “They’re great for business people that need to hang around for a month or two—doing consulting or whatever.”

“So, what is he thinking—that he’s going to set up house­keeping with Cynthia?” said Sandy. “Surely he didn’t think he could kidnap her and then make her want to be his live-in girl­friend or wife?”

“He’s a wacko,” said Greg. “How knows what he’s think­ing.”

“Well, apparently he’s decided he needs more than just Cynthia,” said Rebecca.

Greg was quiet for a moment. “Unless…”

“What?” she said.

“Unless he doesn’t have Cynthia anymore,” said Greg.

“No, I’m sure she’s okay,” she said.

“But he killed your partner,” said Greg.

“Yeah, but Cynthia is different. He loves her,” she said.

“In his own sick way,” said Sandy.

“Here it is,” said Greg.

“Why don’t you drop me off at the office,” said Rebecca, “and I’ll go in and make sure apartment 143 belongs to Mr. Revo. Y’all go watch the apartment and make sure he doesn’t get away.”

“Okay,” said Greg.

Good thing this was an expensive place, Rebecca thought. At a typical complex, the office would be closed at night.

“Excuse me,” said Rebecca.

The woman behind the counter gave her a look that said, ‘You must have gotten lost, Lady, because you certainly don’t look like you belong here.’ “May I help you?”

Rebecca realized how awful she must look after spending all night and most of the day in a car and then sleeping in her clothes. “Yes. I came to see a friend of mine, but I’m not sure about the apartment number.”

“Well, why didn’t you just call her and ask her?”

Rebecca wanted nothing more than to jump over the coun­ter and bludgeon the snooty woman. “It’s a guy. And my cell phone is—it’s a long story. His name is Enim Revo. I think he said he was in 143. I just wanted to be sure.”

“Ma’am, I’ve never heard that name before. And I’ve been working here for nine years.”

“Well, he just moved in this morning.”

The woman looked over the top of her glasses. “I see.”

“Could you just check it, please?”

The woman worked at her computer a few seconds. “Yes. Here he is. Apartment 143.”

Rebecca rushed out of the office, not bothering to thank the woman or to wait for an apology. She spotted Greg’s Bonneville in the parking lot, and walked over to it. “Okay. Greg, why don’t you wait here while Sandy and I go in?”

“Oh, no way. I’m going in.” Greg opened his door and got out of the car.

“Okay, then. Sandy, you get in the driver’s seat and watch his garage door. If he tries to escape, block him in with Greg’s car.”

Under normal circumstances, Greg would have strongly objected to the idea of his car being used as a bulldozer.

When they reached the apartment, Rebecca said, “I’ll knock. He doesn’t know me. You stay back.”

She rang the doorbell.

And again.

Then she knocked.

No response.

Greg whispered. “Now what?”

She led him around to the side and checked the windows. They were all locked. So, she took off a shoe and used it as a hammer to break a window. Then she unlocked and opened it.

Greg wanted Cynthia back more than anything, but he wasn’t sure about breaking and entering. Were they absolutely sure this was the right apartment? The right tenant? What if they were wrong and they guy had a gun?

“Give me a boost,” whispered Rebecca.

Greg helped her climb in and then waited for her to come back.

He saw a light come on inside—followed by a gunshot!

Greg hit the ground.

Was Rebecca dead? He couldn’t budge. He was frozen in the stone cold silence.