The Traveler

by John Katzenbach

  She doubted, even if someone remembered him, whether they would have any knowledge that was worthwhile. But, as Martin Jeffers pointed out, if they were to locate him, just once, then they would have some sort of idea what direction he was heading in.

  She was skeptical. He was skeptical. But both conceded inwardly that they felt much better doing something—even if it was only creating the illusion of doing something—than it would have been sitting around.

  And both longed for the same thing: some slight contact that would bring them within reach of Douglas Jeffers. It was as if by arriving at the same location that their quarry had been, they would gain a scent.

  Still, Detective Barren felt slightly foolish. She knew the probabilities of any kind for success were very small. But, she thought to herself, you’ve never disliked this part of police work. Some detectives hated the drudgery of asking the same questions over and over, trying to sort through the entire haystack, much preferring leaping ahead somehow. She, on the other hand, realized that much of her success was due to her doggedness, and she could be perfectly happy, indeed contented, asking question after question. He felt much the same; much of his work was devoted to going over and over, repetitively, the same memories, the same circumstances, the same facts, until by dint of persistence they were defused.

  It was late afternoon when Jeffers asked, “Why don’t we try the police station? Just see if he’s gone in there.”

  “I was saving it for last,” she replied.

  “We’re at the end,” he said. “If he’s been here, he certainly hasn’t made much of a fuss about it.”

  “I don’t think he’s been here,” she said. “Which only means that he may show up, anytime.”

  Jeffers nodded.

  “But I’ve still got a job, and appointments waiting for me after an eight-hour drive back to New Jersey. If you want to hang around . . .”

  “No,” she said. She thought: We’re in this together. “No, we’re going to stick together until . . .”

  He interrupted. “Until we get this sorted out.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, the police station.”

  Martin Jeffers looked up the address of the Central Police Headquarters while Detective Barren showed the picture to one more gas station attendant, unsuccessfully. He got directions from the attendant and they drove through a depressing series of city streets, each seemingly more rundown than the next. The police headquarters was in the grimiest portion of the city. Detective Barren noticed the number of squad cars rolling through the neighborhood and thought they must be close. She spied, to their left, a large red-brick building.

  “There,” she said, pointing.

  Martin Jeffers hesitated.

  “That’s not it,” he said. “That’s new. I mean, it’s relatively new. The building I remember was old.”

  He pulled the car up next to the building. “Look at the cornerstone,” he said.

  She turned and followed his glance and read erected 1973 on a gray slab set on the corner of the building. Martin Jeffers parked the car and said, “Let’s go ask.”

  Inside the building was all fluorescent lights and modern design, but slightly scarred with use. They approached a desk sergeant and Detective Barren produced her shield. The sergeant was a corpulent man, probably happy to man the desk, equally as adept at avoiding controversy as he was at dodging a street assignment.

  “Miami,” the man said, pleasantly enough. “My brother-in-law runs a bar in Fort Lauderdale. Once went to visit, but too many kids, if you know what I mean. Whew. And hot! So what can I do for you, detective from Miami? What’s in Manchester that you need?”

  He pronounced the city’s name with a broad a that made Detective Barren smile.

  “Two things,” she said, smiling. “Have you seen this man? And wasn’t there once an old police station in central Manchester?”

  The sergeant looked at the picture.

  “No, can’t say that I’ve seen him. You want me to make some copies and have them distributed at roll call? If this guy’s wanted, we ought to know about it. What d’you think?”

  Detective Barren thought hard and fast about the offer. No, she thought. He’s mine.

  “No,” she said, “at the moment he’s just wanted for questioning and I don’t really have enough for you to pull him in on. I’m just making a few inquiries, you know.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Have it your way,” he said. “Just wanted to offer.”

  “And it’s appreciated,” she replied.

  He smiled.

  “Now,” the sergeant added, “about that old station. There were a couple, actually. Up until the mid-sixties we were like a lot of little cities. We had station houses all over. Then they were consolidated into this new and beautiful spot you see here . . .” He waved his hands about before continuing. “Most were torn down. One got made into a bunch of lawyers’ offices. That’s the one that was closest to the courthouse. I think one was made into a condominium. That’s in the other part of town, the nice side . . .” He laughed. “Sometimes I think that’s what’s gonna happen to all of us when we pass on. We’re gonna be made into a condo. Right up in heaven, I guess.” He laughed again and both Jeffers and Detective Barren smiled with him, each recognizing a certain truth to his plaint.

  “Which would have been the Central Station? The biggest?” Jeffers asked.

  “That’d be the one across from the courthouse.”

  “How do we get there?”

  “Break the law.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just having a little joke. How do you get to the courthouse? Break the law . . . Oh, well, I said it was a little joke. Go straight down this street for six blocks and turn right on Washington Boulevard. That’ll take you there.”

  They thanked the sergeant and left.

  “Let’s roll past,” Detective Barren said.

  Jeffers nodded in assent. “Lawyers’ offices. Seems appropriate. Kind of like recycling trash.”

  She smiled.

  “Another little joke,” he said.

  They found the building without any trouble. Jeffers was silent for a moment, looking up at it.

  “The façade seems the same,” Jeffers said then. She thought his voice had taken on a sudden false determination, as if by sounding strong, he would be. He parked the car in front and stared through the car window. “It was windy and dark and raining,” he said. “I remember that night it looked evil and hopeless, like it should have had a sign over the door: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here . . .”

  Not waiting for Detective Barren, he abruptly jumped from the car and then marched up a broad flight of stairs to the front door. He seized the handle and pulled.

  “Locked. It’s Sunday and the offices are locked.”

  She looked at him.

  “Thank God,” he said. She saw him shudder slightly. “Do you know the sensation of being a child and being alone? Children can adapt wonderfully to specific fears, like a pain, a sickness, or a death. It is the unknown which is truly terrifying for them. They have no fund of knowledge in how the world operates, and so they feel completely vulnerable. Do you know what I remember from that night? Oh, everything is vivid and terrible, but I can also remember that my shoes were too tight and I needed a new pair and I thought I would never be able to get them, and how was I going to grow up with no shoes, ever? I remember sitting, having to go to the bathroom so much it hurt but too scared to say anything to anybody. I just knew I wasn’t supposed to get off that bench, where they put us to wait. Doug took care of me. He knew, somehow. You know, it always seemed to me, when I was young, that he knew what I was thinking before I even thought it. I suppose all younger brothers ascribe such magical properties to their elder brother. Probably I was squirming around so much. An
yway, he took me to the bathroom. And he told me he would take care of me and not to worry, that he would always be close by. I don’t know how much he meant it, but it made me feel safe and wonderful hearing those words. I think I thought I was going to die that night, until he held my hand . . .”

  The sun was starting to fade and Martin Jeffers’ voice slid into the shadows.

  She thought: That’s what childhood is, seeking refuge from one fear after another until you become strong enough and old enough and wise enough to battle the fears away. Only some fears can never be defeated.

  She looked at Martin Jeffers. He was staring up at the building.

  “He’s my brother,” he said. “Now we’re grown up and he’s doing these terrible things and I have to stop him. But he saved my life that night. I know it.”

  Martin Jeffers turned away from the building.

  “Let’s leave now,” he said. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and half-pulled her down the flight of steps. She did not resist.

  “Let’s just go. Go, go back to New Jersey. Now,” he said.

  She did not say anything in reply, but nodded. She could see the conflict and agony returning to his face. For an instant she felt a kind of dual sadness, one for the memory of the abandoned child who continued to seek his lost parent throughout his life, one for the adult torn by terrible knowledge. She thought then, oddly, that it was unfortunate that she had met Martin Jeffers in this awful way, that under different circumstances she probably would have come to like him. And this made her feel sad for herself. But she shook the feeling away rapidly and moved to her side of the car. I’m sorry, Martin Jeffers, she said to herself. I’m terribly sorry, but lead on. Lead me to your brother. This, she knew he would do. But she knew too, right at that moment, as Jeffers turned away from the building, holding his head in such a way that he thought she would be unable to see his tears and threw himself behind the wheel of the car, that he would never betray his brother.

  It was close to midnight, near the end of another wordless journey, when they crossed the George Washington Bridge, passing New York City with its constancy of light on their left and rapidly leaving it behind. Detective Barren’s eyes were closed, and Martin Jeffers assumed she slept in the passenger seat. He maneuvered through the still-thick nighttime traffic. His eyes caught the series of huge green roadway signs directing travelers in a dozen different directions, and he considered the great convergence of people and machines and highways that came together at the bridge: routes 4 and 46 and 9W and the Palisades Parkway and the great ribbon that is Interstate 95 heading north-south and the equally great black rope that is Interstate 80, heading east and west. The lights from oncoming cars blinded him as they sliced through the darkness, a quick rush of brightness, then disappearing. When he looked at the lanes in the opposite roads, he could just barely make out the shapes of the other cars, and the odd thought struck him that his brother was out there. He could be anywhere, he said to himself. He could be anywhere, but I know he’s here. He could be any one of the sets of lights passing. That one, or that one or that one, but he’s one of them. He wanted to call out to him, but was unable. You’re there, he thought. I know it. Please.

  Then he shook his head to clear away the idea, and realized he was silly and exhausted and probably hallucinating as well, and drove on, not knowing that he was also right.

  XII

  ANOTHER TRIP TO

  NEW HAMPSHIRE

  17. He had tied the ropes too tight and the nylon strands cut into her wrists agonizingly. She had given up struggling against the pain, re­alizing that when she pulled or twisted, the cord rebelled, chafing away her flesh. She tried to shut away the throbbing in her arms and find sleep, but when she closed her eyes she saw only the redness of hurt, which was impossible to avoid. So, despite having passed some undefined limit of physical and mental exhaustion, she remained wide awake. The gag around her mouth was giving her problems, as well. She could only breathe through her nose, which he’d bloodied, each breath drawn past clogged blood and mucus with immense difficulty. When he’d gagged her, he had pulled her head back sharply, tightening the knot on the kerchief behind her neck, not paying care to what he was doing. Then he’d slapped a piece of gray gaffer’s tape over her mouth. The tape stank of glue and she was afraid she would gag. This might kill her, she knew; if she vomited now out of pain and fear and confusion, she might drown. She surprised herself by realizing the danger and despite the cloud created by her restraints was struck by how far she had traveled, how much more she seemed to know. This thought reshaped itself into a fear; she felt a unique vulnerability, having lived so far. She shut her eyes to the idea that he would kill her now.

  Anne Hampton did not know why Douglas Jeffers had beaten and tied her this night, but it did not surprise her.

  She assumed it had something to do with the failed murder of the two young women earlier in the day. But he had not been his usual specific self. He had reverted to rage alone.

  In a way, she had known it was coming.

  He had driven fast from the racetrack, sullen, speechless, his silence scaring her more than his usual speechifying. Darkness had crushed them, still he had not stopped until past New York, at midnight, near Bridgeport, Connecticut. He’d found their usual misbegotten accommodations, checking in with a sleepy, unshaven night clerk with hardly a word, paying for the room, as he always did, in cash. Almost as soon as he’d closed the motel door he was on her, pummeling her with open hands, knocking her about the room. She had held up her hands to ward off the first blows, but then had resigned herself and received what he had wanted to dish out. Her passivity may have disappointed him, but the idea had struck her almost as swiftly as his fists that if she were to fight back, she might take the place of the two women. They had lived and she didn’t want to pay for their good fortune right then and there.

  So she slunk down, barely covering herself, and let him flail away.

  The beating had been like a spasm, brief, terrifying, yet over quickly. Then he’d shoved her disdainfully into a corner, wedged down past the sagging twin beds of the motel room. She had not seen him grab the rope; suddenly he’d thrown her down and she’d felt the bonds looped tightly around her, constricting her like some horrid snake. The rope was followed with the violence of the gag around her mouth. She had looked up, trying to catch his eyes, trying to discern what was happening, but she’d been unable. He’d pushed her away with a final, irritated thrust, and left the motel without explanation other than a cryptic promise: “I’ll be back.”

  She was, by far, most frightened of the rope. He had not used it since the first day and she feared that it signaled some terrible change in their relationship. She was back to being his possession, as opposed to, in some unusual way that she could not quite discern, his partner. She had lost identity, lost importance. If she lost relevance, she knew, he would abandon her. Her mind used the word “abandon,” but she knew that it was a euphemism for something else. She recognized her position as precarious and intensely dangerous. She did not think he would kill Boswell. But he could easily murder some nameless, faceless, bound-and-gagged woman who bothered him with her presence and who reminded him of a failure. She searched about the motel room as best she could. She saw an old dresser and a mirror and two beds with brown corduroy covers that were faded and cheap, and she thought it was a horrid and squalid place to have to die.

  She pictured Vicki and Sandi, who’d seemed so reluctant to put on their clothes. She had been confused; Jeffers had emerged from the woods smiling, joking, playful—as if nothing were wrong—yet she knew something had disrupted the plan, which had frightened her even more. He had teased the two about their good looks and promised that they would get a real shot at the mythical photo spread.

  She remembered hearing all that as if from a great distance. She had remained r
igid with expectation; looking up and seeing the gun in his hands a dozen times, only to blink and realize that it was the camera.

  After a few more shots he’d hustled them all back through the woods and into the car. He’d driven to the racetrack, still bantering away with the two giggling women, who had kept saying, “I can’t believe how lucky we are.”

  She would have laughed, had she not been so terrified.

  She thought that the absence of murder was twice as frightening as the act itself. She did not know what had happened, what accident or stroke of luck had saved the two women’s lives. She knew only that he’d dropped them back at the grandstand, given the pair a gay little wave and laugh, then accelerated hard, back to the highway. That false laugh had been the last sign of anything from Douglas Jeffers save building rage.

  Anne Hampton relaxed against the rope’s pain and considered what had happened.

  She determined that when he returned, she would make him free her. She focused on this, saying to herself: Nothing else matters. Nothing else is important. You must make him acknowledge who you are. And he will not do that until he removes the bonds.

  She swallowed hard and felt her stomach pitch like a boat in a storm.

  She bit back the nausea of fear.

  I am closer now to death than anytime since the first minutes.

  Make him need you.

  Make him.

  Make him.

  Force him.

  She waited for him to return, repeating the words over and over to herself, like some nightmarish lullaby.

  Douglas Jeffers drove aimlessly through the dark streets, searching for an outlet for his frustration. For a moment he considered the idea of driving into the inner city and simply assassinating some hard-luck person on the street. He thought of finding a prostitute; they were the easiest of targets, almost accommodating in the creation of their death. The idea of driving into an all-night gas station and simply blowing away the attendant appealed to him as well. That was the occupational hazard associated with taking money for gasoline at night. Every so often, somebody else wanted the money and was quite willing to kill for it. Douglas Jeffers thought all the possibilities had a certain common charm; they were the stuff of everynight police blotters. They would get no more than a couple of paragraphs in the morning paper. They were the urban blighted norm, moments of diminished importance, almost routine. That a life ended was of little consequence, an afterthought of night that faded in the light of morning.