Tell on You

  Then Jeremy remembered. He’d left his bag and clothing at the Meadowview Inn when he’d gone to school, expecting to spend the night there, rather than in jail. What if the motel continued charging his Visa card?

  Resigned to a return visit to the scene of his alleged crime, Jeremy headed for the Meadowview Inn to reclaim his belongings and settle the account. The idea of facing the manager there sucked, but what choice did he have?

  He parked in the motel lot and entered the lobby, looking around for reporters. All clear. Jeremy approached the front desk, hoping he’d find someone other than the manager on duty.

  No such luck.

  “So it’s you!” A wizened old guy who’d run the place since Day One glared at him.

  Jeremy gave him a nervous smile. “I—ah—left my things in the room the other day, and I wondered…”

  “Yeah, you did that,” the manager sneered. “Did a lot of other nasty stuff in there, too, according to the newspapers.”

  Coming here now struck Jeremy as the stupidest thing he’d done all morning, which was saying a lot. “I meant to check out, but—uh, something came up.”

  “Ha! It sure did, mister.” The manager’s lip curled, as if Jeremy gave off a rank odor. “All right, you wait a minute.” He vanished into the office, leaving Jeremy to worry whom he might phone. The cops? The press?

  He considered leaving his stuff and making a run for it, but the manager returned with his overnight bag. He heaved it at Jeremy, showing more strength than his skinny frame suggested.

  “Take yer shit and get outta here!”

  Jeremy caught the bag before it hit him in the face. Everything hit him in the face these days.

  “And don’t come back here, you pervert!” the manager shouted. “Ever! This is a respectable place. You hear?”

  “Yeah, thank you.” Jeremy took his bag and hurried out. Thank god for the empty lobby. He’d meant to settle his bill, but now just wanted to get out of there.

  Jeremy tossed his bag in the trunk and drove out of the parking lot. Free on bail, with every right to be out in public, yet persona non grata wherever he went. Like a criminal at large.

  Like being naked in the middle of a crowded street.

  He drove to a nearby Starbucks. Too self-conscious to sit inside, Jeremy used the men’s room and got a latte to drink in the car while he called Melissa.

  “Hey,” he said when she picked up. “How’d it go? What did the doctor say about the spotting?”

  “He doesn’t think it’s that big a deal.”

  Her voice sounded distant. The connection? “Anything he wants you to do?”

  “Bed rest. And he gave me a prescription for blood pressure meds.”

  “Yeah? So your pressure’s high, huh? You were worried about that,” Jeremy recalled.

  “Well, he’s worried about it, too.” She sounded flat, almost mechanical.

  “Mel, would you like me to come back to the apartment? I could take care of you. Do the shopping and stuff so you can rest.” A long silence. “Mel?”

  “I need some time, Jeremy.”

  “Hey, look, I can understand…”

  “I—I have to think things over. I think it’s better if you stay someplace else, for now.” She ended the call without saying goodbye.

  SEVENTY ONE

  TO NIKKI’S DISMAY, INSTEAD of impressing her friends, the Star Ledger article only lowered her plummeting stock on Facebook. By afternoon, her few remaining friends bailed on her.

  Shit.

  But what else could you expect in a community like this, populated by snooty princesses with pokers up their butts? How cool it would be to blow this wimpy scene and take off for someplace like, say, California. Or maybe Costa Rica?

  As if.

  What sixteen-year-old could pull off a stunt like that by herself? Then, in a stroke of genius, Nikki edited her fantasy. A travelling partner! Someone mature, experienced enough to manage the logistics.

  Like Mr. B.

  Except he might be pretty pissed with her now. And, he had a shitload to answer for. But, what was that saying? To screw up is human, to forgive, divine. What did he have to hang around New Jersey for, at this point? Only a bitchy wife, and she’d already kicked him out. And the bun in her oven he didn’t want. Remove them from the picture, and Mr. B might be persuaded to run away with her. And maybe she’d let him.

  That notion turned Nikki’s thoughts back to the brainstorm she’d had that morning, watching what’s-her-name—Melissa?—walk to her Ford Escape. Big, dumb car. Exactly what she’d expect a cow like that to drive. There must be a way to do it. And Nikki had the ideal candidate to assist her.

  Heather, queen of the geeks. Who still owed her.

  HEATHER GRIPPED HER CELLPHONE so hard her fingers hurt. “You want to blow up Mr. B’s car? Nikki, are you for real? That’s crazy.”

  “No. What’s crazy is he’s getting away with rape.”

  “Attempted rape,” Heather corrected. “Isn’t that what you said? And how is he getting away with it? Won’t he go to jail?”

  “He should, right?” Nikki demanded. “But the Prosecutor told my mom he’d probably go to some kind of rehab instead.”

  “No shit! Is he a drug addict?”

  “No, dork, a sex addict. Did you forget how he came on to you?”

  “But I told you about that,” Heather protested. “He didn’t.”

  “So you’re letting him off the hook, too? You’re gonna drink the freaking Kool-Aid and let him get away with it?” Nikki adopted an injured tone. “I thought you were my friend, Heather. First you ratted me out to the other girls, and now you abandon me in my hour of need.” When Heather didn’t respond, Nikki added: “How would you like it if I told everybody about the love notes you wrote to him?”

  That was Nikki’s best shot? She’d already done that. And she, Heather, had survived. She’d feared Nikki would try to rope her into some kind of revenge plot. But this? Way sicker than anything Heather had imagined.

  But, then, who had an imagination equal to Nikki’s?

  Well, perhaps she did. What had Dr. Goldman told her? You can only be responsible for your own behavior. But she’d given Nikki Mr. B’s address. That made her responsible, right? Heather glanced over at Pretzels, in his crate, but the guinea pig offered no opinion.

  “Heather?” Nikki pressed. “I’m waiting. You with me or not?”

  Heather decided. “Okay.”

  “All right!” Nikki crowed. “How should we do this?”

  “Umm.” Heather pondered. She needed to buy time. “Let me do a little research on line. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Good, real good. You’re great at that stuff. But be quick, okay? They could ship him off to rehab any day now.”

  “Okay. What kind of car does he drive?”

  Nikki hesitated. “Don’t you know his car from school?”

  “Uh uh. It might make a difference in how we blow it up.” God, was she actually saying that?

  “Oh, right. It’s a Ford Escape.”

  “Okay,” Heather said. “I’ll call you later with the plan.”

  “You better.”

  Heather ended the call and looked at Pretzels. “Guess that’s the Nikki version of thanks, huh?”

  SEVENTY TWO

  JEREMY CHECKED INTO THE Budget Inn, over by Newark Airport, the rock-bottom, cheapest motel he found. His Spartan room featured a TV, a cheesy print of one of those kids with huge eyes, and a cramped bathroom with threadbare towels. First a jail cell, now this. He prayed he’d awaken without itchy red bumps. Prayed even harder that his stay here would be brief.

  Lying on the worrisome bed, Jeremy picked up the remote to catch the local evening news. Two stations had covered his escapade at Howard’s. Would they broadcast it?

  To his relief, the lead stories had nothing to do with him. One network opened with a busted water main in South Orange. The other led with a hit-andrun in Cranford. Flipping back and forth between the cha
nnels, Jeremy dared to hope he’d make it to the sports and weather.

  No such luck.

  “And in a bizarre development…” the anchor said as Jeremy switched channels. His own image came up on the TV screen, pointing at his father-inlaw and ranting. Shit. He looked deranged. What had he been thinking?

  The coverage segued to Howard Milton’s distinguished face, his expression somber. “Sadly, my daughter’s husband has suffered a mental breakdown stemming from recent events.”

  Bastard. Jeremy gnashed his teeth.

  “I’m relieved to say he will be entering a treatment program immanently,” Howard continued. “On behalf of my family, I ask you to respect our privacy at this difficult time.”

  Jeremy felt like hurling a shoe at the TV, picturing all the people he knew who might be watching. Especially Melissa. He half expected banging on the door and cops ordering him to open up.

  Instead, his cellphone rang.

  He muted the TV, retrieved the phone from the nightstand, and glanced at the screen.

  Winkelman.

  Jeremy didn’t want to hear what his lawyer would say about his television debut. But he didn’t dare blow him off.

  “Hi, Peter.”

  “What the bejesus were you thinking?”

  Winkelman’s voice was so loud that Jeremy held the cellphone away from his ear.

  “I know,” he acknowledged. “I screwed up. But—”

  “Howard Milton was a millimeter away from getting a restraining order against you. He can have you thrown back in jail. Do you realize that?”

  “Peter, do you realize the things that man has done?”

  “Spare me,” Winkelman responded. “Anyway, you may be a schmuck, Barrett, but you’re a damned lucky one.”

  “Huh?” Luck struck Jeremy as something in short supply these days.

  “The only thing your father-in-law wants less than seeing your ass in a cell is media attention. He sent the prosecutor a heartfelt character reference on your behalf this afternoon…”

  “He what?”

  “…along with his personal, equally heartfelt, request to expedite your PTI application.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “And your father-in-law being the influential person he is, DellaRocca chose to honor his request.” Winkelman paused. “You’re on your way to rehab, mister.”

  Jeremy gulped. “When?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “The place we talked about, in Louisiana.” Winkelman chuckled. “Trust me, you’ll have a great time.”

  “So…?”

  “So, I have your plane ticket. The terms of the PTI state that I’m to take you to the airport and see that you board the flight. You’ll be met by a representative of the facility when you land.”

  “Uh huh.” Jeremy tried to get his mind around it.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Jeremy told his lawyer the location of his motel.

  “Perfect. Stay put. I’ll pick you up there at 7:30 AM sharp, day after tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it, Jeremy.” Winkelman sounded dead serious. “Don’t budge from that motel room. Order room service.”

  “I don’t know if they have it.”

  “Then use the vending machines. You’ve dodged enough bullets. Don’t push your luck. You hear?”

  “Roger that,” Jeremy said, resigned.

  Winkelman hung up.

  Jeremy tossed his phone onto the bed. He got up, ran his hands through his hair, and paced over to the window, a short distance in his tiny room. He pulled back the drapes and stared out at the bleak view of I78.

  Good news, right? And Winkelman had a point. He’d dodged a bullet. All he had to do was get on a plane, get off in fucking Louisiana—a place he’d never for one moment contemplated visiting—and suck it up for thirty days of so-called recovery. Not too much to ask, given what he’d done. All he’d put Melissa through.

  Melissa.

  He’d be leaving her for a month. How could he go, with everything up in the air between them? She was spotting, her blood pressure too high. She might lose the baby. Anything could happen in a month. And he’d be incommunicado in that wretched place. Not even able to take her phone calls, if she needed him.

  Unbearable. He had to at least see her before he left. He’d promised Winkelman he wouldn’t leave the motel. But maybe Melissa would come to him. If he explained. Begged.

  Jeremy speed-dialed, only to get her voicemail. “Sweetheart? Mel, I heard from Peter. The PTI went through and I have to leave day after tomorrow. Look, I’m worried about you. About us. I have to see you, Mel, please. Will you call me?”

  He ended the call and stood, gazing around the narrow confines of his room. It looked like a long night ahead.

  SEVENTY THREE

  FINALLY THE CALL CAME, as Nikki was finishing dinner. If you could call frozen fish sticks and crinkle-cut fries from the microwave, dinner.

  “I have to take this,” she told her mother, rushing from the kitchen table. “It’s about my school assignments.”

  Her mother frowned at the plate Nikki left un-bussed.

  In her room, Nikki closed the door and spoke into her phone. “So? Did you figure it out?”

  “Yup.” Heather’s voice held a note of pride. “It’s kinda complicated, but extremely cool.”

  “Great!” Nikki cackled. “Tell me.”

  “Well…”

  Rolling her eyes at Heather’s geeky tone, Nikki held her tongue. Her own lame tech skills forced her to rely on Heather’s.

  “Do you know what an ECU is?”

  Nikki scrunched her forehead, thinking. “Is that like a hospital facility? An extensive care unit?”

  “You mean intensive care unit,” Heather corrected her. “And that’s ICU.”

  “All right. So tell me what it is, already.”

  “An ECU is a car’s electronic control unit,” Heather explained. “Sort of command central for controlling the vehicle’s functions. You know, brakes, steering, the engine?”

  “Oh, sure,” Nikki said. “I get it. So…?”

  “So, it turns out, even your average hacker can use a car’s onboard computer to disable it.”

  “Yeah?” Nikki was all ears. “How?”

  “What the hacker needs to do—and it’s not all that complicated—is to upload a—” Heather cleared her throat. “A self-erasable attack code.”

  “Christ, Heather! We’re not the CI-fucking-A. How are we supposed to—”

  “The code gets recorded onto a CD,” Heather went on. “It just takes a few seconds of audio signal that gets uploaded into the ECU when someone puts the disk into the car’s media player. Then, bingo! The driver loses control of the brakes, the steering, whatever. The car does whatever the attack code tells it to do.”

  Nikki absorbed this information. “Seriously? That’s really possible?”

  “Absolutely. I checked it out online. Not only that, but there’s research demonstrating it works on the exact car Mr. B drives.”

  “You mean…” Nikki stopped before blurting out a Honda. “It works on a Ford Escape?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s—that’s pretty fucking amazing, Heather.”

  “Isn’t it? Much better than blowing up the car, right? It’ll look like the driver’s fault this way.”

  Nikki swallowed her irritation. Know-it-all. “So, we make this CD with the attack code, and…” She stopped. “Wait, do you know how to do that?”

  “No, but my cousin Martin does. He’s, like, a genius with computers. I checked with him, and he knew all about this stuff. It’s a snap, he said.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  “Absolutely. I know a few things he wouldn’t want his mom to hear about.” Nikki nodded eagerly. Everything was falling into place. “Okay, so how do we, you know, execute this?” The word had a nice military ring.

  “Execute?”

&nbs
p; “Get the CD in there.” Dork.

  “Oh,” Heather said. “See, that’s the beauty of it. All we have to do is leave it there. Say, tape it to the windshield. Maybe put a note on it, like Play Me, or something. Mr. B finds the CD, he’s bound to be curious. He puts it into the media player, and—pow! Lights out.”

  “Awesome. When can I have it? The CD?”

  “Mmmm…”

  Nikki made gimme motions at her phone while Heather contemplated the question.

  “I’m sure Martin can have it ready in 24 hours.”

  “By tomorrow night, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Promise?” Nikki pressed.

  “Promise.”

  “Heather? You’ve done a truly primo job. This time, I owe you one, buddy.”

  “Hey, Nik, no problem. Glad I could come through for you, girlfriend.”

  Ending the call, Nikki was too stoked to mind Heather’s pushy use of “girlfriend.” Her plan was going to work. The wife and rug rat? History.

  Mr. B was hers.

  SEVENTY FOUR

  MELISSA’S SPOTTING STOPPED BY late afternoon. The baby’s fate now lay within her own hands, rather than nature’s. The conversation with her obstetrician replayed as a continuous mental loop, and she remained torn over whether to schedule the abortion. She’d resolved to make the decision alone, and soon enough to avoid a difficult, later-stage termination. Melissa planned to hole up in the apartment, think it through over the next 24 hours, decide and move on. If she chose abortion, she’d tell Jeremy when it was a done deal. Either road guaranteed guilt and regret. But which carried the greater risk? To deprive Jeremy of his child, or corral him into obligations he probably didn’t want? No way would she raise a child alone. Besides, it looked like she’d need to start searching for a job.

  Despite her preoccupations, a corner of Melissa’s mind nudged her toward the TV when the local news hour came around. To watch, or not to watch? God only knew what she might see—perhaps Jeremy making headlines that would send her blood pressure into the stratosphere.

  She turned on the news. She had to know. And there he was.