Instead, I move onto Lakeside, past Fresh Pond until I get to the intersection with Snake Hole Road and Mohegan Trail.
There it is: the Painted Rock. Someone has painted it as if it is a ladybug, red with black dots on its back. Clever.
I painted it once, a beach scene with twilight streaks of pink and purple. It was painted over the next day, bright yellow with ‘Happy B-day Mary’ in bright blue. The Painted Rock is an island oddity, painted first in the 1960s as a Halloween prank and then frequently, sometimes every day, since.
As a landmark, it is a good one, and as a place to meet someone, perfect. But as I stand, straddling the bike, I glance around in all directions and see no sign of Ian, or anyone else for that matter. My first reaction is relief. I don’t have to do this; I don’t have to face him. But then a small panic begins to rise in my chest.
I am alone out here. Standing next to a ladybug rock. I am a sitting duck, a good target for anyone who might want to get rid of me, the way Ian got rid of Carmine.
I glance down Snake Hollow. I push the bike into a thicket of brush, hoping it won’t be seen. I hide next to it, watching the road, aware of the trail behind me, the one that leads to Vail Beach. Anyone who does not know the island might not even recognize the trail for what it is, it is so overgrown.
I hear a car coming, but it speeds past. I glance at my watch. Ian is late. If he is coming at all.
Another car approaches, slows down and stops in front of the Painted Rock. It is not Ian in the driver’s seat, but a stranger. As I try to make out his features, I see movement in the passenger seat. Someone else. Another man.
The passenger door opens, and the man steps out of the car. He looks at the rock, then out over the roof of the car. I shrink back further against the brush.
‘She’s not here,’ he says, his voice carrying on the breeze so I can hear him clearly.
The man behind the wheel opens his door and steps out. He is blond, husky and stiff in a suit, as though he’s not used to wearing one. The Hispanic man who gets out of the passenger side is not as formally dressed. He is wearing jeans and a white shirt and a navy windbreaker.
‘Let’s spread out, see if she’s here somewhere, hiding,’ the driver says. It is clearly not a suggestion, but an order. He is in charge. The Hispanic man steps away from the car, closing the door.
They both look back up Lakeside Drive, and right at that moment they have their backs to me, so I take the chance and turn and flee down the trail toward the beach.
The trail is barely that. It is overgrown and tough to navigate, rocks and roots and overgrowth protecting this path to one of the most secluded and yet beautiful beaches on the island. I had been here a year before I discovered it. No one had mentioned it, because so few actually venture here. There are no services, no way to bring beach paraphernalia while trying to sidestep the obstacles. The beaches on the eastern side of the island are familiar, beaches as you’d expect beaches to be, with soft sand and gentle waves. This beach, Vail Beach, is rough and difficult, with an undertow and surf that crashes onto the rocky shore with a violence that only some can appreciate.
I do not stop to see if they are after me, and finally I reach the point where the green growth parts and I can see the cobalt water ahead of me. I hear nothing behind me, so I continue down the path to the water. Once on the beach, I turn to see the rocky cliffs, but no one is coming down the trail.
The beauty takes my breath away. I have always known why I stayed, and why I am now resisting leaving. But I am not here to admire the scenery. It’s possible that they have now found the bike, abandoned in the brush. So I turn to the right and begin to run along the rocky beach, stumbling here and there when my foot hits a stone the wrong way.
These men are not from here, I can tell. They will not know that anyone can walk the beach all around the island, that you can get to any beach from any beach. I am heading toward Black Rock Beach. From there, I can get up into Rodman’s Hollow.
I don’t dare look back, but I can’t help myself. No. I see no one. The backpack is heavy against my body, and I wish I could dump it, but the laptop is in there. I wish I had a cell phone. I’d thought about a prepaid one at one point, but I’ve never really needed one, since my whole world is within walking or biking distance. I have my phone at the house, included in my rent, and anyone who needs me calls on the landline. I pay for long-distance calls, but since I don’t call long distance, that has never been an issue.
Thinking about mundane things keeps me from thinking about what I am actually doing. If Ian had showed up, I would have talked to him. But the strangers’ arrival in his place makes me both angry and scared. Ian clearly told them where I was going to be. I remember his threat about anonymous tips. But since I had told him I would do the job, why would he want me caught?
I skid slightly on the rocky beach as I try to figure out what Ian is up to. I start to run again. I feel the sweat on my back, running down my cleavage, around my hairline. I push up my glasses, which are slipping down my slick nose. My calf muscles are taut, tight, unused to running and the way it makes my body work. I long for the familiar feel of the bike.
I don’t know how far I’ve gone until I realize I’m here. I’m at Black Rock Beach. The trail that goes up the Bluffs is just ahead. I make a beeline for it. It is still so early in the morning that no one is on the beach to see the crazy woman running for no reason.
It doesn’t take me long to reach Black Rock Road. From here, I find the trail that goes into Rodman’s Hollow. It is a three-mile hike to traverse the Hollow on the trails. I slow down to a jog and then finally to a walk. I feel fairly certain that they have not followed me, or if they have, they will not be able to find their way through the Hollow easily. I think about going to Fresh Pond, just to regroup, but it’s time to get out of here, to get back and see if Tracker has come back to the chat room. I make it to the wooden gate and turnstile, where my hike would normally have started. No one starts on the beach; it’s the place they end up.
My detour has landed me on Cooneymus Road. I am starting to wonder about whether this was a good idea. My goal is to get to Steve’s, but he lives up near the Great Salt Pond. I’m afraid it’s too long a walk, and anyway, Frank Cooper and anyone else who’s looking for me is watching his house.
But Jeanine’s place is just down the road. I look at my watch again. It is eight o’clock in the morning. My run from Vail Beach and through the Hollow has taken longer than I thought. The spa opens at seven, with an early-morning yoga class. Jeanine might be there, or she might be home catching up on the sleep I stole from her. I know I am an imposition and am pushing the boundaries of friendship, but I have no choice.
I start to run again, the backpack slapping against my wet back, my feet happier on pavement than sand. I see her house ahead, a two-story gray clapboard house with a wide front porch. Her car is not in the driveway. I walk around to the back door and cup my hands around my eyes, peering through the window. The kitchen is dark, but I see a coffee cup perched on the counter next to the sink.
I know where she keeps her spare key, and I find it under a pot on the back deck. I let myself in and breathe in the familiar scent: potpourri and sea salt and morning coffee, familiar, comforting smells that help me relax.
I find a water glass and fill it, drinking it down in one gulp then filling it again and drinking again. Although I’m breathing normally again, now I’m a little chilled as my sweat dries.
I put my backpack on the floor next to the stool at the kitchen island. The coffee pot still has at least one cup left in it, and as I pour it, I can tell Jeanine has not left too long ago as it is still warm. I put the cup in the microwave to heat it a little more. I reach into the fridge to get the milk, and when I finally take a sip, it is smooth and rich and warms me. My stomach growls, though, reminding me that coffee is not breakfast. I am not sure when I’ll have another chance to eat, so I make myself a couple of eggs and toast. While I eat, I take my la
ptop out of the backpack and set it in front of me. Jeanine has wireless. I end up in the chat room. It’s still empty. No sign of Tracker. No note, no nothing.
A small bit of panic rises in my chest, and I think again about those men. The man in the suit could be a fed, but the other one, I’m not so sure. I’ve seen my share of agents, and that one just didn’t have the look about him. His clothes, for instance. He could be undercover. I try to remember if he looks familiar. If he’s been on the island and I have noticed him, yet not noticed him. But I am coming up blank. Neither man was familiar, not in the way Ian was when I saw him outside Club Soda that night I was with Steve. The night it all started to unravel.
And as I am thinking, it pops up. On the computer screen. What I have been waiting for.
Are you there, Tiny?
Tracker is back.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was worried, I write. I thought you’d left. Angel said you were unavailable.
He told me. He was wrong. I’m sorry. What’s going on?
I need something, like before. You know, you hooked me up.
It takes a few seconds longer for him to respond this time, and again I panic. But then: Everything like before?
Yes. And a credit card.
Where?
I know he is asking where I’ll pick the documents up.
New York.
Again, I wait a few minutes. I tap my fingers on the granite, take a drink of coffee, nibble a piece of toast.
That’s going to take a couple days.
When?
Friday.
Three days. I have enough money to hold me over. Anyway, I have to get to Boston, get the train.
Same name? he is asking.
No. I think. Elizabeth. Elizabeth McKnight.
I need a picture.
That’s right. Hold on, I say, switching to a new screen and the camera. I can see myself, what I will look like. I am flushed, still, from my long run. I comb my fingers through my curls, straighten out my glasses, lick my lips and take a basic head shot. I save the image and send it to Tracker in the chat room.
Background, is all he writes after about five minutes.
What?
You’re in a house. Can you get rid of the background? In Photoshop?
I may be able to get back into hacking, but I have never used Photoshop. I don’t know how, I admit.
OK. I’ll take care of it. And then, You look different.
I’m older.
You look better.
I cannot help myself. Maybe you could send me a picture of you.
Sorry, sweetheart, but you know the rules.
I’m at a disadvantage. If we were in the same place, you would know me but I wouldn’t know you.
A smiley face pops up on the screen. I tried. I’d tried back then, too. Tracker did know what I looked like. I am as uncomfortable now with that as I’d been before. But I can’t dwell on it. This is all about my survival.
So, where on Friday? I write.
Chinatown. There’s a tea shop on Mott Street. Go in and ask for their special jasmine tea and they’ll take you to the back. You pay them then.
How much?
Twenty.
I glance at my backpack. OK.
Tiny?
Yes?
Nothing else?
I think about everything he’s doing for me. Everything he has done. I can’t ask for more. No. Thank you.
Be careful. And if you can, let me know how you are. I’ve missed you.
I’ve missed you, too. But he is gone before I hit return, so he doesn’t see my sentiment.
I log out of the chat room and sit back, staring at the computer screen, where my face stares back at me. The face that will be on my new documents. What does Tracker really think about me? He says that I look better than I used to, but what does that really mean? I find myself fantasizing about him, that he might be the person I meet in Chinatown. He knows when I will be there; he knows what I look like. Maybe he will want to meet me as much as I’ve wanted to meet him and he will make it happen.
I finish the last of my coffee and push the daydream out of my head. I can’t get distracted.
I need twenty thousand dollars. I hop off the stool and stoop down, opening the backpack. Carefully, I take the stacks of bills out and count them. I am just short. I could use Amelie’s credit card number to get a cash advance, transfer it to an account.
I have been lying to Ian. There is still an account. At least I think so. But I am afraid to try to use it or even to set another one up. It feels too risky. There is only one other solution.
I have to go back to the house and get what I left behind. There is at least this much left there. I stuff the bills back into the backpack. I know I should just leave.
But I procrastinate. The longer I stay here, alone, without anyone knowing where I am the safer I am. The safer Steve and Jeanine are. I think about those two men. Are they Carmine’s replacements? Have they done something to Ian, something that made him tell them where I was?
From Jeanine’s front window, I can see the water. I stand, drinking in the scenery, hoping to imprint it so firmly in my memory that I never forget it.
When I turn back, I know it’s time.
I call Steve.
‘Jeanine?’ He knows her number.
‘It’s not Jeanine. It’s me. I’m at her house.’
‘Nicole? What are you doing there?’
‘I need you do to something. Jeanine’s bike is in the brush near the Painted Rock on Snake Hollow. Can you go pick it up and bring it back to the spa?’
‘Why are you at Jeanine’s and why is her bike there?’ Steve’s tone is wary.
‘I ran into Ian.’ I hear him take a breath, but I don’t give him time to say anything. ‘I was supposed to meet him, but two men came instead. I didn’t like the look of them, so I took off down to Vail Beach.’
‘How did you end up at Jeanine’s?’
‘I ran along the beach up to Rodman’s Hollow.’
He gives a short snort. ‘Of course you did.’
‘I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘OK, fine. You should have called me.’ He pauses. ‘You know, Frank’s got Reggie watching my house.’
‘I figured. Do you think he’ll follow you?’
‘Maybe. But I can figure out a way to ditch him. Can I pick you up and take you somewhere?’
‘No, I’m all set. I’ll call you later.’ I hang up, and before he can call back, I dial another number. This time for a taxi. There are only a couple of drivers I haven’t had much contact with over the years, and I make sure that the one I call is one of them.
I wash and dry my dishes and put them away. I go upstairs to Jeanine’s room and find a pair of yoga pants, a white T-shirt, a blue cotton sweater and a pair of socks. Things that I will easily fit into. I take them downstairs and squeeze them into the backpack. I sit at the island and wait. It seems like forever until I hear the honk out front, and as I am about to let myself out the back, I see a baseball cap with the Red Sox logo on it hanging on the back of a chair. I slip it over my head and let myself out, locking the door behind me and putting the key back where I found it under the pot. I turn around the corner of the house and climb into the waiting taxi. I tell the driver to take me to Hydrangea House on Corn Neck Road, a small bed and breakfast. He doesn’t seem to recognize me, and I am relieved.
I also don’t know the owner of Hydrangea House, which is why I have chosen it. Lillian is new to the island and does not bat an eye when I check in for one night. And she does not seem to think it’s odd that I am paying with cash. She shows me to a room with big windows, the sun casting a bright light across the wooden floors. The bed is covered with an old-fashioned white bedspread and plump pillows. Clean towels are piled at the end. I tell her I’d like to take a shower, and she directs me to the bathroom down the hall, not seeming curious that I am dragging a heavy backpack with me and no other luggage at eight-thirty in
the morning.
The shower feels good as I wash away the rigorous run along the beach. Jeanine’s clothes carry a faint scent of strawberry, and for a second I am overwhelmed with sadness, but then I push through it. I have no time for sentiment.
Hydrangea House has free Wi-Fi. I sit cross-legged on the bed and open the laptop. As it boots up, I pick up the phone by the side of the bed and dial the spa. Jeanine comes to the phone immediately.
‘Nicole? Where are you? Steve dropped off my bike. Told me you had to ditch it and run along the beach and you were at my house. He said he went by my house, but you were gone. Where are you?’ Her words run together; she does not take a breath until she is done.
I should have known Steve would go to her house, which is why I’m glad I got out of there when I did.
‘I’m safe,’ I say. ‘You can’t know where I am right now. I’m worried that you and Steve are being watched. Just do what you normally do and I’ll be in touch.’
‘All of this has to be a mistake, Nicole. Can I do anything to help?’
Despite what she is learning about me, I am touched that she still feels loyal to our friendship. ‘You already did. I borrowed some yoga pants, a T-shirt and a sweater. I hope it’s OK.’
‘It’s fine. You should have taken more. It’s not a problem. I just want you to be OK.’
Tears well in my eyes, and I fight to keep them at bay. ‘I’m OK, really I am.’ Am I? I have to believe I am, or I will fall apart.
‘You should call Frank Cooper. You know, about him.’ She means Ian.
‘I will,’ I say, crossing my fingers as I speak. ‘But can you promise that you won’t say anything? I mean, this is something I have to do.’
A slight hesitation, then, ‘I won’t. But how about if you tell Steve and me where you are, and we’ll come to you? We can bring lunch.’
‘I need to be alone right now. I have to figure out what’s going on. Is that OK?’ I ask her out of friendship only. It must be OK, because there is no other way.
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