2000 Kisses

by Christina Skye

  Blue cars, red cars, silver cars.

  Tess had always planned to get a car, but had never made the commitment. Now that she had some vacation time coming, maybe a grand road trip was the answer. She could go somewhere hot and colorful with lots of history. She thought about Damien Passard’s cryptic comments and smiled.

  She started toward the filled lot. Not that she actually meant to buy one of those sleek, gorgeous convertibles. Even though she’d always wanted one. No, she would simply window shop and ask lots of questions. Then she’d head for someplace that sold nice, sensible cars with good gas mileage.

  Two hours later, Tess sat behind the leather console of a gleaming Mercedes CLK320 in metallic baby blue with oyster-leather interior. Normally, there was a two-year wait on this particular model, but the buyer had had to leave the country on short notice (translation: the IRS was hot on his heels) and his dream car was up for bid.

  Tess stared at the blinking instrument panel, then at her bags and boxes stowed on the leather seat. Maybe she was getting a little too good at this shopping stuff. Not that she couldn’t afford the car. It had been priced low as a 1999 model already custom designed for someone else. But Tess could live with a custom sound system, and there were all those safety features like four full air bags, emergency roadside assistance, and automatic rain-sensor wipers.

  If she did happen to have an accident, the onboard global positioning system would automatically dial 911. How safe could you be!

  Her checkbook was still burning a hole in her pocket after she’d parked, maneuvered her packages up the stairs, and unlocked her door, laden with shopping bags and the memory of the most excitement she could remember having in her adult life.

  Dumping the bags in her foyer, she walked over to her elderly neighbor’s apartment and slipped an envelope under the door.

  She’d taken a great deal of pleasure in writing this particular check, which she was certain would cover the cost of Agatha Spinelli’s long-postponed operation. What good was money if you couldn’t make someone else happy with it?

  She was certainly happy.

  Now Agatha would be, too—as soon as she had that operation.

  Once she was inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and flipped on the TV news. So far the new millennium was relatively calm. There had been limited power failures, and a few cases of food hoarding in the Northeast. Some graphic footage showed grim survivalists digging in across Idaho and the Southwest. Meanwhile, the Hong Kong stock market was extremely volatile, and a host of European businesses had discovered their Y2K compliance programs were too little too late.

  Tess sat up straighter as a reporter described problems closer to home. A few small banks had experienced liquidity problems, and ATMs across the country were producing flawed information or failing outright. Tess made her first cappuccino, watching the reports stream in and feeling a trace of uneasiness.

  As she sipped her cappuccino, she stared at her bank receipt.

  Had Richard made an error in the amount? Or was this not her bonus at all?

  She saw the bank’s twenty-four-hour information number on the receipt and dialed impatiently, only to be told by a recorded message that full customer service would resume on Monday morning, after the holiday.

  Tess paced the room and considered trying to track down Richard’s accountants, then realized that would also be impossible until Monday.

  With growing uneasiness, she flipped to another TV channel in time to see a report on survivalist groups. Two bearded men in camouflage jackets demonstrated how to kill a snake, skin it, and then toast the remains over a log fire made by rubbing two sticks together.

  Shaking her head, she put Andrea Bocelli on the stereo and wrote checks to two charities. After that came another check to her old college friend whose husband had recently absconded with the contents of their joint bank account, leaving her flat broke. Finished with her spending, Tess dragged out the travel brochures and started making vacation plans.

  MONDAY

  JANUARY 2, 2000

  A night of tossing and turning had left Tess feeling edgy and restless. She put in a call to the office, only to reach the answering machine. A call to Richard’s home was equally useless.

  Tess studied the table strewn with bags and boxes in growing uneasiness. What if the deposit amount wasn’t a simple mistake by Richard? What if it wasn’t from Richard at all?

  She tried to stay calm as she dialed the bank and listed her account information. A customer service agent answered, asked for Tess’s social security number and her banking code, then waited while Tess explained the situation.

  A pause followed. Tess heard the click of a keyboard and a muted hum of voices.

  “Yes, Ms. O’Mara, I have your account on the screen now.” The agent clicked more keys. “I see two recent deposits to your account. One is a check from Mainwaring Services, which appears to be your usual salary deposit. The second …” More keys clicked. “Here it is. One million dollars.” Papers rustled.

  “That’s odd.”

  “What?”

  The agent cleared his throat. “Usually we have an internal code for every transaction, listing the source. In this case the code seems to be missing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The voice grew guarded. “I’m not at liberty to go into detail at this particular moment. I’m going to transfer you to my supervisor.”

  Tess’s hands closed around the telephone as a new voice came on the line.

  “We have checked your account, and there seems to be a missing code, Ms. O’Mara. But rest assured, we will be investigating the deposit to your account thoroughly.”

  Tess glared at the phone. “Is this some kind of Y2K thing?”

  “I’m not at liberty to answer that. We will make every effort to find the source of those funds, but it may take some time.” The supervisor was firm, entirely controlled. She had no doubt been well schooled for just this sort of procedure.

  Tess rubbed her arms, feeling like some kind of criminal. But that was ridiculous; she wasn’t the one who had made the mistake. “How long before you have some answers?”

  “That might be difficult to say. A week. Possibly longer.”

  “A week?”

  “Excuse me, where can you be reached today?”

  “At this number, but—”

  “All day?”

  Tess took a quick breath. “Yes, of course, but how—”

  “Very good. We will contact you when our inquiry is complete. Have a good day, Ms. O’Mara.”

  Tess stared at the receiver in shock. Have a good day? With a million dollars that she couldn’t account for?

  After some teeth grinding and angry muttering, she put down the phone and stood staring out the window. White flakes swirled in little eddies around skeletal trees. Another cold front was expected that night, bringing at least six more inches of snow.

  Tess looked down and realized there were goose bumps all over her arms. Despite her heavy cotton sweatshirt, she was shivering.

  The whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. This wasn’t the Middle Ages, and bankers didn’t work with an abacus and knotted strings. If there was some kind of electronic glitch, they would track it down, and that would be that. Meanwhile?

  Andrew.

  Her competent, practical big brother would know what to do.

  Andrew O’Mara was Harvard ’82 and Wharton ’86, top drawer all the way. Brilliant, witty, and successful, he was everything her parents had always hoped he’d be and they’d never bothered to hide the fact. Andrew had always been stable and cautious, while Tess had been the creative, offbeat one ever willing to take risks. Andrew’s top-level job at the Treasury Department had reinforced all his innate conservatism. Now his frequent junkets took him to Indonesia and Berlin, and Tess seldom saw him anymore.

  But a brother was a brother. Andrew would have answers—assuming that he wasn’t off in the Middle East or South America battling econom
ic crises.

  Tess breathed a sigh of relief when a crisp-voiced secretary finally put her call through.

  “Andrew O’Mara here.”

  “Andrew, it’s Tess.” By now her palms were sweaty.

  “Are you in trouble, Tess? You sound upset.”

  “I’m fine.” At least I think I’m fine. “It’s about my bank account.”

  “You’re overdrawn? I can wire you some money. How much do you need?”

  “I don’t need money,” Tess said tightly. “As a matter of fact, that’s the problem.”

  “I’m not following you here, Tess.

  “Money has been transferred into my account and I’m not sure that it’s mine. I figured that you could tell me what I should do about it.” Tess outlined her conversation with the bank.

  “Sounds simple enough. Give your bank another twenty-four hours to straighten things out.”

  “When I mentioned a possible Y2K problem, I thought they’d reach right through the phone and strangle me.”

  “It’s a sensitive issue right now,” he said guardedly. “Until the dust settles, everyone’s worried about possible litigation.”

  “What am I supposed to do until the dust settles? I have a million dollars in my account that in all likelihood isn’t mine.”

  “Say that again.” Tess heard a chair squeak. “You’ve got how much in your account?”

  “One million.”

  Andrew O’Mara gave a low whistle. “And the bank hasn’t given you any information? They should have a timed transaction code.”

  “The first agent I spoke to said he couldn’t find any code. He thought it was strange.”

  “You bet it’s strange.” Her brother’s voice sounded serious now.

  “I’m expecting a large bonus from work, but Richard took off for Polynesia, and I can’t reach him. Now the bank won’t give me any answers.”

  “Give me the number of your account, and I’ll see what I can dig up at this end. Meanwhile, sit tight. And whatever you do, don’t spend any of it.”

  Tess stared at the phone. “It’s a little late for that, Andrew. I, uh, bought a few things this morning.”

  “How few?”

  Tess did a quick mental calculation. The number was higher than she’d realized. “Not quite sixty-five.”

  “Hundred?”

  Tess swallowed. “Thousand.”

  “What did you do, put a down payment on an apartment building?”

  “I bought a car actually. A Mercedes convertible—and a few other things. I’m not a spendthrift,” Tess said defensively. “I had a huge bonus coming. Richard told me that flat-out.”

  “But he didn’t tell you the exact figure?”

  “No. You know how he can be. He loves playing boss. It’s a control thing they taught him at Wharton. Maximize output by decreasing worker complacency.”

  “Look, just sit tight.” Andrew spoke tensely. “I’ll call you right back. It’s probably nothing, but with an amount that size it doesn’t pay to take chances.”

  It doesn’t pay to take chances.

  Tess rubbed the knot in her neck, watching snow gust over the trees. What had her brother meant by that?

  She paced anxiously until Andrew called back a half hour later.

  “Tess.” Her brother sounded tired. “I want you to listen very carefully.” His voice hardened. “I’ve checked all the activity reports for your bank, and nothing has been entered for your account. That alone is suspicious. I also find it odd that no one else has reported that amount of money missing.” He hesitated. “Of course it could be a simple electronic oversight, or a mistake in the general ledgers. On the other hand, it could be something else.”

  Tess stared at the phone. “What kind of something else?”

  “These might be the kind of people who would find it unhealthy to have dealings with the authorities.”

  “You mean because they’re criminals?”

  “It’s possible. If so, you could be in danger, Tess. Whatever you do, don’t touch another penny of that money until I have some answers. I don’t want to give these people any way to track you.”

  “Track me? You think they’d do that?” Uneasiness veered into panic.

  Andrew O’Mara cursed softly. “Listen, I have a bad feeling about all this. I think you should go away for a few weeks while I run a check on the source.”

  “Go away where?”

  “Someplace isolated. I want you to start packing. Meanwhile, don’t tell anyone that you’re leaving, not even your friends.”

  “I don’t believe you’re actually telling me to go somewhere and hide.” Tess laughed tightly, but Andrew didn’t laugh back. “Andrew?” Her voice was shaky. “You’re joking, right?”

  His silence was worse than any answer he could have given her. Then he bit back an oath. “I’m not joking, Tess. We’ve had a few other reports like this, and there may be a pattern here. Until I’m sure, I want to know that you’re safe.”

  “Andrew, don’t be ridiculous! I can’t go away for a few weeks. I have a new chocolate account I have to get started on …” Then Tess’s legs started to shake. Her brother would never joke about her safety. He might be overcautious, but the work he did gave him good reason to be.

  Tess sank down into a chair by the phone. “What kind of place did you have in mind?”

  “Someplace quiet. I know a spot that’s way off the beaten track. An old friend of mine happens to be sheriff there, so it will be perfect. And I want you to leave now,” he added.

  “Now, like tonight?”

  “Now, like this minute,” her brother growled.

  Tess frowned. “I’ll never be able to get a plane ticket on such short notice.”

  “Forget flying. I want you to get in that new car you just bought and drive.”

  “Andrew, you’re starting to scare me.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to stop being scared until you reach Almost.”

  “Where?”

  “Almost. That’s the name of the town in Arizona.”

  Arizona.

  Something nagged at Tess’s mind, and she glanced down at the scattered brochures from the travel agency. On the top of the pile was a picture of jagged granite cliffs beneath a blinding blue sky. Caught in shadows was a dark outline of ancient masonry walls and jagged wood roof beams.

  Tess stood frozen. There was something familiar about the place. She could almost hear the wind whisper through the cottonwood and mesquite trees, as if she had walked that rocky path and touched those walls of burning stone before.

  Tess shook her head, irritated. Of course the scene felt familiar. She had seen a thousand shots like that in the epic westerns she’d devoured since she was a brat in pigtails. She had cut her eyeteeth on The Searchers, Fort Apache, and Broken Arrow. She could recite all the good lines from Santa Fe Trail by heart. So what? That was no reason to get swept up in some ridiculous flight of fancy.

  Swallowing hard, Tess shoved the brochure back into a pile with all the others.

  “Tess, are you there?”

  “I’m all ears, Andrew.”

  “Okay, I want you to pack up, then hit the road. And for once, don’t argue with me.”

  Outside, snow played over the gleaming hood of the Mercedes. Tess was having trouble breathing. “Do you really believe I’m in danger, Andrew?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t want to find out that you are. Now get your pen and I’ll give you directions to Almost. I just heard there’s a storm front rolling in from Canada, and it could dump two feet of snow before morning. I want you out of Boston before it hits.”

  Feeling an oppressive sense of danger, Tess grabbed a pencil and started writing.

  The temperature had dropped and snow was blowing harder by the time Tess finished packing the car. Suitcases and boxes filled the trunk. More boxes along with books and shopping bags full of her new purchases covered the seats. She held a flashlight and three boxes of batteries, compliments of Mrs. S
pinelli, who swore that Tess would need them sooner or later.

  As she finished stowing the last bag, Tess caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. In her western-style suede jacket, she could have been a complete stranger. But there was something about that stranger Tess liked—the gleam in her eye, the flash of color in her cheeks, and the glint of her hair. She straightened up, her cowboy boots crunching on the dry, new-fallen snow, and took a final look around her.

  The wind rose, scattering a flurry of flakes. Tess was intensely aware of her life as she stood in the snow, aware of this street, this building, this small corner of the harried world where she had lived for seven years. She wondered suddenly why it had never felt like home, only a place to stay.

  All of her memories of this street seemed to be centered on work—fighting deadlines, battling stress, juggling pressures. Without planning to, she had traded in a real life for success. She had worked hard, planned well, and played by all the rules. But suddenly she didn’t like those rules.

  You can’t have it all, a college professor had once warned her.

  Maybe not.

  All Tess wanted was one small part for herself. Now she had to decide which part that was and how much she was willing to give up to claim it.

  She slid behind the wheel and pulled out of the parking spot.

  The road stretched before her, winding past wind-tossed pine trees and snow-streaked sidewalks. Somewhere a tree branch shifted, cracking in the wind. She shivered, already feeling the pull of hot blue skies and burning red stone.

  The dark pavement stretched out against the white drifts, caught in uncertain sunlight, beckoning her to an adventure like nothing else she had ever known.

  With Damien’s strange words ringing in her ears, Tess cranked up Andrea Bocelli and headed west.

  3

  JANUARY 5, 2000

  SOMEWHERE IN THE SONORAN DESERT

  White clouds piled up on the jagged blue-gray spikes of the Chiricahuas. Dust whipped over the foothills to the east.

  Wind picking up. Storm weather coming.