Kill Me

by Stephen White

  “I don’t know what that means. Bleached.” I thought, Adam would know. Adam could tell me.

  “It means we’re good. And we’re careful.”

  I wasn’t surprised.

  She went on. “The entire company fits in the trunk of a Town Car with room to spare.”

  “If you don’t count the employees.”

  “Yeah, cramming all of us in, that would be tight.”

  I nodded at the yogurt. “Want something else to eat?”

  “You went out this morning, didn’t you, to get this food?”

  “I went out, yes. Coffee and raspberries. The yogurt? It spent the night.”

  “Don’t do that again; don’t go out alone, without me. If it turns out that they do know where we are, and if they do know we’re together, they’ll hesitate before they kill us in the same place at the same time.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Appearances. The company philosophy is to arrange deaths that draw no suspicions about foul play, that cast no aspersions on the reputation of our clients, and that leave no recognizable connections back to the firm. If they were to kill us together, they would run the risk of embarrassing your memory with your family by killing you in the company of a strange woman who is not your wife, and they would run the risk that someone could tie me—and thus you—back to them. I guarantee that they would prefer not to kill us when we’re …”

  The last word seemed to be difficult for her to say. “We have to stay together? Really?” I said. I wondered why I bailed her out.

  “Yes.”

  “Thea might have some objections. I need this time with her. And with the girls.”

  “Noted.”

  “Noted?”

  She reached across the table and touched me the same way she’d touched me that day in Papaya King. “Thea’s about to be a widow. She’s preparing herself for that. She knows how much you want to find your son. You’ll have to convince her that’s the most important thing right now. I suspect she’ll have some feelings, but she’ll understand. You picked a tough, resilient woman. It’s one of the most attractive things about you.”

  I did marry a strong woman. I said, “Okay,” feeling dutiful, and not liking feeling dutiful.

  “She doesn’t have to know we’re … working on something. I’m not going to tell her,” Lizzie said.

  “I’d like to talk to Dr. Gregory once more,” I said. “Is that risky?”

  “You never know. That’s the whole point. Can you call him? Talk to him on the phone? We’ll get a fresh cell.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he know about us? The pact you’ve entered?”

  “I’ve alluded to it. But no.” The first sentence was the truth. The second? Almost the truth.

  “He knows about Adam?”

  “Everything.”

  She pulled the robe tight and covered the triangle of flesh on her chest below her neck. “Why do you want to find him so badly? Adam?”

  “To tell him I love him, I guess. To tell him that if there was any way I could extend my life to be with him, I would. I can’t let you guys kill me before I get a chance to let him know that.”

  “He doesn’t want to hear it?”

  “I think he does want to hear it. I’m not sure he’s able to believe it. He’s been wounded. He needs to hear it from me.”

  “Where is he? Right now?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew. I have detectives out looking. They can’t find him. He’s left no trace since his last night at Brown.”

  She narrowed her eyes, then looked away. Almost casually, she asked, “What does your gut tell you? Where do you think he is?”

  “He may be here. Colorado. Watching me from a distance. He may be someplace close to his mother. She’s in Cincinnati. He’s a brilliant kid. Street smart, too. Resourceful.”

  “He could be anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound convinced that he’s here or in Ohio.”

  “I guess I’m not.”

  “Where else then?”

  Without any hesitation, I said, “Maybe New Haven.”

  I could hardly have been more surprised by my answer.

  “New Haven?” she said. I could tell she wasn’t as surprised as I was.

  “Adam got really attached to his uncle Connie before he died. That’s where Connie lived. That’s where they got tight. He felt comfortable there.”

  “Connie’s the brother with ALS? Why would Adam go back?” Lizzie asked.

  “I don’t know that he would. I don’t know why I said it, why I thought it. It just came out. You asked for a gut reaction. That was it.”

  “We’ll go with it,” she said, leaning forward toward me. “What else are you thinking? Right now.”

  “I’m thinking maybe I should find Felix,” I said. “My brother’s caretaker when he was ill, before he died. Felix. He’s from Guatemala. A Mayan. He’s a sweetheart of a guy. If Adam’s in New Haven, he’d be in touch with Felix.”

  “You’re sure Felix is still in New Haven?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “New Haven’s not far from Brown, is it?” she asked.

  “Right down I-95.” I allowed a moment for reality to settle. “I’m probably wrong about all this, you know.”

  “Yes, you are probably wrong about all this. But right or wrong, you’re about to die. Today, probably not. Tomorrow, possibly. Within a few weeks, undoubtedly. Most likely you’re wrong about New Haven, but maybe you’re right. You know you’ll die more contented if you find out. There’s nothing to be gained by dying wondering.”

  Our eyes locked. No challenge passed between us; the moment was more like the intimate connection that happens at special moments between lovers. I asked her, “What about you, Lizzie? What do you want to do before you die? What will leave you more contented?”

  “This may come as a great surprise to you. But I’ve always wanted to see New Haven.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Alan Gregory told me on the phone that he could only fit me in for one session, not two. I didn’t have an appointment, so I felt fortunate to get even that amount of time from him.

  Lizzie and I walked together up the Pearl Street Mall toward the mountains. I took her to The Kitchen, near Eleventh, told her I’d heard great things about the french toast, and that it would be a comfortable place to hang out. I’d be about forty-five minutes.

  She chose, instead, to linger in my therapist’s waiting room.

  I said, “You really think they would—”

  She touched a finger to my lips. “It’s not what I think. It’s what I … know. Trust me when I talk about dying. I know about dying—capital D —like you know about living.”

  The thought gave me a chill.

  I didn’t want to waste time on pleasantries with Gregory. “Did you put anything about what I talked about last time into your notes? Anything? Anything at all? Tell me you didn’t.”

  He could sense my tension. Okay, call it fear. He could sense my fear.

  “Obtusely,” he said. He considered it for a moment before he added, “Probably something like ‘Patient discussed D.A. Expressed concerns.’ ”

  D.A. District Attorney.

  Or Death Angels.

  Lizzie knew that I called them the Death Angels. Did anyone else?

  Probably.

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “Yes. I’m intentionally vague in my notes. I put just enough in them to trigger my memory. Facts, remember—”

  “Are crap. I know. I’m concerned that you may not have been vague enough. Are the notes here in your office? Right now?”

  He hesitated before he said, “Yes.”

  “For your safety, I’d like you to destroy them. Right now.”

  “For my safety?” he said. He swallowed visibly before he added, “Is that a threat?”

  “Not from me,” I said, laughing uncomfortably at the irony. “From … some determined people with
lots of resources who already seem to have pretty easy access to your records.”

  He swallowed again. I expected him to argue with me. He didn’t. He stood up, walked over to an oak file cabinet behind his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, removed some yellow legal sheets from a red file folder, and fed the sheets two or three at a time into a confetti shredder. Task complete, he sat back down across from me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he said. “We’re both kind of vulnerable, I guess.”

  He was much cooler than I thought he’d be. I manufactured a smile for him and said, “It’s part of intimacy, you know. Vulnerability.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  I felt a surge of nausea and it took me most of a minute to swallow down the eruption of stomach contents that was oozing up into my throat. “I need to find Adam before they …”

  I stumbled, I think because “Kill me” seemed like such an awkward way to end a sentence.

  “Kill you?” my therapist said. Awkward was his forte.

  “Yes. I’m going to be taking some risks to do what I want to do next. If you don’t hear from me again, keep your eyes on the obituaries.”

  “What can I do to help?” he asked.

  I smiled. “That’s how you started with me. You asked a question just like that the first day. How can you be of help.”

  “Probably.”

  “You have been. Helpful. I came in here feeling I needed to connect with my son before I died, but not clear if that was just another selfish thing I was doing.” I paused. “Thank you for helping me shed some light on that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “There is something you can do. Can I sign a release of some kind, something that allows you to talk to Adam? If he wants, I mean. After I’m gone.”

  “About therapy?”

  “About how I feel about him. About what I’ve done. Why I did it? The selfish parts.”

  “The generous parts?”

  “That, too.”

  “Who you are?” he asked.

  “I think he knows that already.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Yes, I can do that kind of release,” Gregory said. He stood and went to his desk, pulled a preprinted form from the file drawer, and scribbled on it for half a minute or so. “Adam’s last name?”

  I told him. He filled out the form, brought it over to me, and handed me a pen.

  “This releases you to do it, right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I want to go a step further. I want you to do it. Not just if he asks. I want you to find him if you have to. Offer to talk to him. You need to tell him everything.”

  He hesitated.

  “I’ll pay in advance.”

  He looked insulted. “That’s not necessary.” He took the form back and scrawled a fresh couple of lines on the release. “That should do it,” he said, handing the form back to me. “Initial there, by my handwriting. Then just one signature at the bottom will do it. Don’t worry; I’ll take this home with me. I won’t leave it here.”

  “No, not your home. Put it in the mail today as soon as I leave. Carry it to the post office. Send it to your lawyer, or something like that. Be safe, okay?”

  “That’s really necessary?”

  I thought about Dmitri in West Harlem. “These people? They know you have a daughter. And that your wife is ill.”

  He blanched. “Holy shit.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell them. I didn’t even know. And I didn’t know they’d … I didn’t know a lot. I never would have …”

  He nodded.

  “One of them is out in the waiting room, right now. I told you about her. Lizzie? She’s either helping me, or she’s setting me up for something. I’m not at all sure which. But when I leave, I’m going to go out your back door and leave her waiting where she is. I need to get away from her so I can say good-bye to Thea and the girls. Lizzie can’t be part of that. I wouldn’t be surprised if she comes back here looking for me.”

  “What would you like me to do if she does?”

  “Tell her I just left.”

  “Is she dangerous?”

  “I wish I knew.” I stood to leave. “I don’t think she’ll hurt you,” I said.

  He swallowed and glanced at the clock. “We still have twenty minutes,” he said.

  “I know. In the running-for-your-life business, that’s called a head start,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”

  He came forward and gave me a tight hug. He had tears in his eyes.

  I did, too, as I walked out the french door that led from his office into the small yard behind the house.

  I doubled back a block to the St. Julien Hotel at Ninth and Walnut and used a pay phone inside to call Mary. She didn’t answer, so I tried LaBelle to find out where the plane was. LaBelle sensed my impatience and skipped the usual banter. She told me that the plane and its pilots were at an airport at some city she’d never heard of in South Carolina.

  “Good. Don’t tell me where,” I said. “If you hear from her, and she feels things are under control with her family, have her meet me in Telluride. Let me know if that’s a problem.”

  “When?”

  I didn’t know. I thought about all that I had to do first. Finally I said, “Tomorrow night.”

  “And how are you getting to the mountains?”

  “Back roads, LaBelle. Back roads. Not to worry. No sniper is going to get me. I drive too fast. You know me, faster than a speeding bullet.”

  “You’re such a damn liar,” she said.

  “About some things.”

  Her voice told me she didn’t like the fact that she didn’t know what the hell was going on. She didn’t have to tell me.

  I was relieved that Mary had managed to whisk her cousin out of harm’s way. That part was perfect.

  I moved on to plan B. I walked to the front of the hotel and caught a cab to take me up the turnpike to the Jeffco airport. I retrieved the Prius from the parking lot of the FBO and headed toward Denver instead of toward Golden, which would have been my most direct route into the mountains. The side trip to get to my home in the southern metro area would cost me some time at the front end of my journey, but I knew that there would be significant advantage to trading the Prius for my old Porsche for the long ride over the Divide to Ridgway.

  I left the keys inside the Prius in my garage, signed the title over to LaBelle, and stuck the square piece of paper in the glove compartment. When I died, LaBelle would discover that I’d set up an educational trust to take care of her three sons. She’d appreciate that much more than the Prius. The Prius was just the ribbon on the package.

  But the Prius would make her smile. She’s such an environmental sap.

  FIFTY-SIX

  If a blizzard hadn’t been threatening the southern Rockies, I would have gone out 285 and gone over Monarch Pass to Ridgway. Instead, I took 470 to Golden along the hogbacks of the Front Range where I picked up Interstate 70 for the steep climb into the heart of the Rockies. To avoid the sniper’s territory completely, I could have headed farther south on I-25 and taken unfamiliar back roads into the mountains, but I decided that the sniper risk was relatively small and that time was more important. Much more important.

  The old Porsche felt terrific in my hands. Ignoring speed limits, the drive to the Western Slope of the mountains would take me over five hours and I was determined to enjoy every minute of the journey.

  I knew it might be the last time I drove the Porsche.

  Or crossed the Rockies.

  Or felt the trance of the Uncompahgre.

  Or saw my girls.

  I set those thoughts aside the same way, and for the same reason, that I’d set aside my efforts to comprehend string theory—my brain was too limited to imagine it—and allowed my attention to drift to the car and to the road.

  As we started to climb into the foothills, I heard the telltale ping that told me the German girl had a little
valve clatter.

  She’d been prone to it since she and I had first fallen in love.

  I noticed a man was standing near the Morrison exit talking on a cell phone. His presence made my heart jump until I got close enough to be sure he wasn’t holding a sniper’s rifle.

  He wasn’t.

  He was holding only a cell phone.

  I was near Red Rocks. The climb was about to get steeper. More fun.

  The valve clatter increased in volume; the girl was begging me for higher rpm.

  I usually gave her what she wanted.

  I was about to downshift.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Two more guys. Two more cell phones.

  Three big trucks blocking the lanes in front of me on the steep downhill below El Rancho.

  Shit.

  I should have seen it coming sooner.

  Still, the conclusion reached, when it came, was a complete surprise.

  I can be such an idiot.

  At first, it felt like I was participating in a disaster drill.

  Engine out in an airplane.

  Failed regulator at ninety feet below the surface of the Pacific on the back side of Molokini.

  Collapsed cornice in the Bugaboos.

  I’d been there. I’d done that. I knew the rules.

  Assess. Decide. Act.

  But most of all—react.

  No time to waste.

  The variables this time?

  The Porsche’s speed. High—eighty-five, ninety.

  The flatbed truck’s speed. The one with the black barrels flying off the bed? Not so high—thirty-five, forty.

  In front of me, a Dodge truck swerved to avoid a barrel, overcorrected, and flew over a Jersey barrier into the oncoming traffic. My attention was locked onto a different black metal drum—one that was heading right at me. There was no time to do the calculus, but the black barrel with my name on it was at the apogee of an orbit that would bring it down to earth perilously close to me and the Porche.

  How close?

  Too close.