“You think that whoever killed Benoit is out to get me?”
“Do you know anything for sure about all this? Until you do, you can’t go chasing around after who knows what.”
“And what if it’s Megan?”
He shrugged. “You think you can just go up there? I’ve been up in that area. It’s really bum fuck Egypt. Not like the country. Not like the ski resorts we’ve been to in the White Mountains. No one lives up there. It’s near fucking Canada.”
“I know that.”
“You need to know what you’re doing before you go off and get yourself killed.”
I stood up and began pacing. “What else can I do? I can’t call the cops and let them know where Eileen and Megan are. I can’t hire a private detective for basically the same reason. If I do, that I could get them arrested or maybe even killed, if whoever the mystery killer is finds out where they are.”
“What mystery killer?”
“I don’t know! The one who killed Benoit. One of the Chapter and Verse Killers! Maybe they’re the same people for all I know. Why did Megan send this last postcard to McDonald’s instead of my house in Bardstown, like the rest? Maybe whoever killed Benoit is…maybe things have gone off the rails and she and Eileen are in danger. Don’t you find it frightening that Benoit gets killed and then Megan takes a risk by sending me a postcard at a McDonald's? With her name on it. And she doesn’t send it to my house?"
“I repeat: you can’t be sure it’s her. This is stupid, Mike. You’re going to ask questions and attract attention.”
“I have to do something. She’s asking for my help.”
He sighed. “You don’t know who she is either. Even if it is her, how can you be sure that writing her name or 4-5-1 on a postcard means she’s in trouble? Think about it. Everyone has been jerking you around for months. You don’t know who anyone is. What makes you think you can be sure what this means?”
“The handwriting looks just like...”
“Mike! How many times did you see Megan’s handwriting?”
“A couple of times. I think it was on the postcard that Benoit stole.”
“You think he stole it.”
“No, damn it! In that case, I know he did.”
“Okay. I’ll concede that one. Do you really remember what her handwriting looks like?”
“I think so.”
We stared at each other for a while. When we got tired of staring, we both huffed.
“Would you let this go if you were me?” I asked him finally.
He stopped huffing and looked sorry. “I’m not sure I would. I can’t blame you for the way you feel, but the deck is stacked against you. You have no idea what you’re doing or even who sent you those postcards. Someone’s been killed and, despite the fact that the one who was killed was one of the people who threatened you, you have no idea whether you still have enemies or not. Don’t you think this is a little over your head?”
“Probably.”
“So?”
“And if something happens to Megan and her mother and I find out I could have prevented it…” I let the thought hang between us like a neon sign.
Dennis began dry washing his hands. “I…I don’t know Mike.”
I had been ready to come back to Manhattan and start over. I was ready to leave the bad dream that Bardstown had become, way behind me. I had been ready to come back and eat humble pie.
I could have been satisfied with that. Here was something I couldn’t ignore. What could I do about it? I couldn’t call the cops. For a time I still considered hiring a detective, but I was afraid that he’d just attract attention from the police; if he found out where Eileen and Megan were, someone else could find out from him. For all I knew Dennis’s phone might be bugged or someone might be watching me. I knew it sounded paranoid and yet I’d entered a world where paranoid fantasies could become real.
That left going to find them myself, something that, despite my bravado for Dennis’s sake, I was not ready to do. After all I’d been through the last thing I wanted was to throw myself into the hands of whomever had been tormenting me all these months. Maybe I’d just get myself killed when I was trying to save two people I loved.
I’d been stewing for a couple of days when I found another alternative. Oddly, it came from Barbara who I would have thought was the last person on earth who’d want to help me. She had taken me under her wing again, seeing me as a lost soul, and that gave her the sense of superiority she needed to deal with me again. We were sitting in this small Middle Eastern place that I loved, and I found myself telling her about the alternatives I had.
“Okay,” she said, putting on her best woman of action face. “You’re right. You can’t go to the cops. You can’t hire a detective. Well you might do that, but you wouldn’t know what the result would be. You can’t just go rushing up to these places and asking where they are. But you’ve left out one alternative.” She smiled.
“I have?”
“Who got them to where they are now?”
“What?”
“Don’t be stupid! She’s somewhere. Maybe in one of those places in one of your postcards. Who brought her there?”
“The Railroad or at least I think so.”
“Exactly.”
I was becoming frustrated. She was enjoying some triumph at my expense. “What are you saying?”
“If you need to try to find her or get someone to help her, who would know how to do that?”
It hit me. “The Railroad! But why would they talk to me?”
“They would probably at least take your information. If they thought she was in danger, they might be able to move both of them, or try to help them.”
“What if they won’t?”
“It’s a shot Mike.
“I guess you’re right.”
I started calling organizations that worked in the area of protecting children from abuse. They were either too well established or conservative to be connected with anything like The Railroad or they were horribly suspicious of my motives. No luck there.
So I moved on to more radical organizations. The Coalition for Women’s Alternative Options seemed to be interested in my call at least. In the end they said there was nothing they could do to help me. The International Disenfranchised Population Caucus just hung up on me after I’d uttered two sentences. On down the list of organizations
despite their lofty name tags, I didn’t fit in with their overall political agenda, which seemed basically theoretical in nature.
In the end, it took me a couple of days to find the right people. I finally stumbled across a group in Iowa called Women and Children’s Support Network. By that time I had my patter down. I informed the young lady at the other end of the line that there was an emergency involving someone who is currently underground and I had to get a message to the people protecting her. She was obviously young and frightened, but didn’t seem willing to dismiss me out of hand. “Give me a number where I can call you, please,” she asked me.
An hour later I got a call back. This woman was older and seemed a lot more hostile toward me. Still, she was willing to talk.
“We’re not a messenger service, Mr. Dobbs. We have serious problems we’re handling here.”
“I understand that,” I told her. “I don’t want to waste your time. I’m not trying to find her. I just want the people who might be helping her to get a message.”
“Tell me what the message is.”
I gave her the whole story, feeling stupid as I spoke; what reason did this woman have to believe anything other than the fact that I was crazy or dangerous. I mentioned the questions Megan had asked me through the McDonald’s manager to make sure I was who I said I was. I heard myself telling her about Billy Bear, knowing that I must have sounded insane. In the end it took me fifteen minutes to get the story out.
She was silent once I stopped talking. I realized that, if I kept her on the phone that long without her hanging up, I had a chance.
&
nbsp; Finally I told her about the postcards; about what I thought that Megan was trying to tell me and how she and Eileen might be in danger. And that I hoped they could be found and that I’d be there to help if they needed it, even if it involved just sending money.
“I can’t send your message. I might know someone who … who might be able to pass it along. I give you no guarantees.”
“I don’t expect any. Here, let me give you my number.” I pulled out my newly bought cell phone. In Bardstown, I hadn’t had much use for a cell phone, being an alcoholic and a hermit. I really hadn’t had much use for a phone, period.
I read her the number and hung up, willing something to happen.
*
The next night I was back in the City View, eating moussaka, when my cell rang. I practically dumped my food in my lap scooping the phone up from the table; there were only a few people who knew the number.
“Hello,” I yelped. Several heads turned to look at me.
“Is this Mike Dobbs?” A woman’s voice, quiet and ordinary.
“Yes.”
“I hear you’d like to send a message.”
“That’s true.”
“What is the name?”
I froze, wondering if I wasn’t setting off some horrible chain of events that would hurt the two people I loved most in the world. I knew I had only seconds to make a decision. I weighed the possibilities and, in the end, went with my instincts. “Benoit,” I heard myself say. “Eileen.”
“The message is to be sent to her friends.”
“Yes.”
“I’m told the message is that you have received a message from the girl and that it might indicate that she’s in danger of some kind?”
“Yes. Please.”
“You can be called at this number if necessary?”
“Any time.”
She hung up I stared at the phone wondering what I’d just done.
*
I waited two more agonizing days. I had begun to tell myself to let the whole thing go, that I’d done what I could and that people who knew where Eileen and Megan were would be in a better position to help them. Barbara seemed to be taking more of an interest in me as I slid slowly back into my old life. Dennis didn’t seem to mind me being in his place, but I had started to feel like a little boy, uprooted and directionless. I began to look in the papers for an apartment again.
I got a call as Dennis and I were watching a documentary on Patagonia. I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket absently, assuming it was Barbara. “Mr. Dobbs?” I heard a strange female voice say.
“Yes.”
“Your message can’t be sent.”
I jerked up; Dennis stared at me. “What?”
“I’m calling to tell you something. The purpose of telling you is so you won’t be trying to contact the people you’ve been trying to contact. It’s not a good idea. It was thought that if you knew that, you’d stop making phone calls.”
“Knew what?”
“You’re friends aren’t with us. There was an attempt at contact, but they never showed up. We never saw them.”
“Oh god.”
“I’m sorry. Now, if you want to go on helping, don’t make any more calls to find us.”
And then she hung up. Just like the last one.
*
Barbara and Dennis’s reactions were predictable. They were sitting across from me at a Thai restaurant I’d always loved, their faces red. If Barbara didn’t hate screaming so much, she would have been shouting her voice raw.
“You’re insane!” she hissed at me.
“I know what you’re thinking. But did you hear what I said? I’m the only one who can help them now.”
“You don’t know that they need help,” she countered.
“And if they do?”
“And you’re going to die to find out?”
“Oh shit! Barbara. They’re people. I spent time with both of them. They aren’t just problems to me!”
Her face got redder and I thought she might just lunge at me. “You know what. Fuck you! You want to save the world? I’ll tell you what I didn’t want to say before. She married that asshole. It was her that caused all of this shit. You’re just getting sucked in because you want to be a knight in shining armor.”
“She told her husband to abuse his own daughter? She asked to be beaten?”
“Don’t you think she must have seen what he was like when she met him? Or at least after a few months? So she goes and marries him and then she has a kid with him. Do you think she was asleep all that time? Do you think she didn’t notice something before she started to run?”
“Are you saying that she let him do that? Are you fucking nuts?”
People had started to turn to look at us but I didn’t care. She had gone too far, as she always did when she had a point to make. She was about to shoot a salvo back at me when Dennis intervened.
“Okay, boys and girls!” he half shouted. “No more of this. Barbara, you’re being an asshole yourself. Do you think Eileen wanted this to happen? Why do you think she’s running now?”
“Why are you taking his side? Don’t you know that he’s going to go out there and get himself killed?”
“Barbara, I don’t know what he’s going to do. He’s a grown man. You can’t stop him.”
“Then why don’t you try to talk him out of it instead of supporting his fucking delusions of grandeur?”
She’d screeched the last bit and I saw the owner walking toward our table. I held up my hand. “We’re leaving,” I told him.
We paid the bill and left. Barbara stood red-faced and shaking the whole time I was paying, and then she stalked out ahead of Dennis and me. When we got to the street she just stared at me. Then her jaw tightened and she turned and walked away.
*
Two days later Dennis saw me to my car in the parking garage around the corner. He looked like a little boy as he followed me, silently carrying one of my bags. We walked up to the car and put all my stuff in the trunk. He hugged me just before I got in the car.
“I want to be mad at you,” he told me. “I want to tell you that this is just more of the same shit that happened after the towers went down. Maybe it is, but maybe I can’t protect you anymore. If I stopped you from doing this, you’d hate me.”
I just nodded.
He shook his head. “Don’t do anything stupid. Use the cell phone and don’t go…don’t enter any building if you get a funky feeling. You’re not equipped to handle anything violent. Do you understand?”
“I do. Don’t worry. I’ll probably be back in a week because I doubt I’ll find anything. But I have to try. If I can even get a message to her…”
“I know. Just leave the message and just come back. Don’t let it stretch out. Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” We exchanged forlorn looks. “Dennis, I’ll be back.”
“Yeah. I know.” He took one more look at me and walked down the ramp.
Chapter Seventeen
It had occurred to me that I could short circuit the whole postcard chain and just go straight to place that was featured on the last one I’d been sent. This would be done on the assumption that that was where Eileen and Megan had ended up, but that would be too simple. For all I knew they’d changed locations ten times since then. It seemed best that I check at all the addresses in the slim hope that I might find someone who knew where they were or could get in touch with them.
So it would be Boston first. I’d spent very little time in Boston and knew almost nothing about it. I decided to leave early because it could take me hours to find the address once I’d gotten to the city.
Boston was as I remembered it: grittier than New York in the outlying areas, cute and very white in the upscale urban parts of town. I remembered walking in the gentrified areas when I was a teenager and wondering what was missing. I’d finally realized it was ethnicity, in the people, the restaurants. There was little variation. If anything it had become more �
��yuppified.’
It took only an hour and a half to find the return address from the postcard. To my relief it wasn’t in a bad neighborhood; I’ll admit that my recent experiences had made me more of a chicken than I’d been back in my rough and ready Wall Street raider days. 470 Pensacola Street was in an older middle class section of the city. The houses had that strong feeling of “otherness” a New Yorker encounters when he comes across architecture that’s vastly different from New York. There was a porch with oddly shaped hexagonal columns. You could actually see a good part of the living room from outside the house through the bay window.
The bell made a deep resonant bong as I rang it, setting two dogs to barking. A middle aged woman opened the inside door and stared at me through the screen.
“Yes,” she said warily.
I looked through the screen and saw some children’s toys on the floor. In the back, against the wall, were some bowling trophies and
some pictures of children with a black Labrador Retriever. The house looked homey and lived in.
I hadn’t really considered what I was going to say and I knew at that moment that that had been a mistake. If this woman knew anything about Eileen and Megan, she wouldn’t be likely to trust me and I had no story prepared. Some detective.
“Hi,” I said, testing the waters. She didn’t seem to find my friendly greeting reassuring so I pushed on. “I’m sorry to bother you. I got your address from some friends of mine. I’m wondering if they’re here.”
She made no move to open the screen door. “What friends?”
I sighed. “Look, I don’t know how to come out with this.” I pulled out the postcards and shuffled through them until I found the Boston one. “This is the postcard I received. I believe it’s from a little girl who wanted me to know where she was.” I held out the card.
Just then a man came out from the kitchen and did a good job of glaring at me. “What’s this about, Susan?”
Susan didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were glued to the postcard. “This man’s got a postcard.” She didn’t say anything else; she just looked at him.
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