Day 63, Chapter 63
“Welcome to the mystery tour,” the killer told me.
|Let’s rock this bitch.|
Thanks for all the encouragement yesterday, everybody, both online and in the real world – I really just needed a breather from the JPatt ocean I’m drowning myself in. There is no quit in me, have no fear. Even though one reader felt the need to tell me she was “abandoning me to my own personal hell,” I’m keeping my frickin’ chin up and I’m ready to rock this bitch.
So Lindsay is still driving around the city in the stolen Impala, wearing a cellphone around her neck so WCF can see what’s happening around her through the phone’s camera. (Although, how a cellphone would be able to broadcast a live video feed is beyond me. Technological advancements available only to billionaire bestselling authors, I suppose.) The single police officer that had been following Lindsay from the beginning of this farce has long ago been ditched on the subway. I ask you, if the police are planning to trap a murderer in a ransom bait-and-switch deal, do you only put one dude on the money? Don’t you have, like 50 undercover agents watching from every angle? Nope. Even Lindsay realizes that their plan was pretty stupid.
Since our genius “follow the money” plan had been canceled by the killer, my brain was on overdrive…
Her drive takes her through the Tenderloin district – an area Lindsay reminisces about as she passes through. She begins to space out a little, thinking about:
I felt tears gathering in my eyes, not from the hoops the killer was making me jump through but from the nostalgia, the aching memories of times with my good and beloved friends, and from the feeling that I was visiting streets from my past for the last time.
Remembering being a strong woman in a “man’s world” makes her cry. Interesting. Try the end of this chapter on for size if you think that’s bad. At a stoplight, WCF has Lindsay take the phone off and hang it around the rearview mirror, facing her.
“Take off your blouse, sweetmeat.”
Yeah, this is going there. She thinks he’s checking to see if she’s wearing a wire. Hang on, everyone.
I took off my blouse.
“Throw it out the window.”
I complied. Not one of the skeezy pedestrians looked up.
“Do the same with your skirt.”
“The light is green.”
“Pull over and park. That’s a smart girl,” the killer said. “Take off that skirt and toss it. And now your bra.”
I felt sick, but I had no options. I unhooked my bra and dropped it out the window as directed. The killer whistled, a wolf call of appreciation, that sicko, and every part of my psyche hurt from the degradation. Not the least of which was that this murdering, child-killing woman hater had boxed me in and outmaneuvered the entire SFPD.
Right. You’re sitting topless and wearing only your underpants in a Chevy Impala and you’re upset over your job success rate?
“Good girl, Lindsay. Very, very good. Now, hang the phone around your neck and let’s get going. The best is yet to come.”