Rocking back and forth, they slowly released each other. She wiped away her tears, took his jacket and hung it up in the entrance closet. Holding his hand, she led him inside.
“It’s so nice to see you, Jake.” Anna smiled, leading him to sit down on the floral-print couch in front of the big bay window that looked out onto the street. She rubbed her eyes. “You’re looking well.”
“It’s nice to see you, too.” Jake sat next to her, still holding her hand. A plate of cookies was on the walnut-veneer coffee table in front of them. Oreos. His favorite. “You’re looking great.”
The statement felt awkward. Forced.
“How’s the project coming along?” Jake tried to steer the conversation away from himself.
She must have seen Jake in the news, implicated in the Atlas financial scandal, arrested on rape charges. It was as embarrassing as it was frightening. He was supposed to be the local kid that made good. Now he was sure he was the talk of the town—that O’Connell kid, the apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.
Anna sighed. “We had to move the office here, upstairs.”
Jake frowned. “Why?”
After her husband died four years ago, she’d poured all her energy into starting a foster care network. The last time they talked, she was getting funding for a new halfway house and activity center for boys she was going to build in the woods. The same woods Jake and Sean, and sometimes Eamon, used to escape into when they ran from whatever foster home they happened to be in. Anna joked that if that’s where the boys wanted to go, she might as well build them a house out there.
“Budget cuts. The downturn hit this area hard.” She managed a wisp of a smile. “No money.”
“Can I help?” Jake always tried to offer Anna money, but she would never accept, saying he needed it for his family.
She held up her hands. “You know what I’m going to—”
“Anna!” a voice called from upstairs. A loud screeching and wailing began. “Could you come up for a second?”
Anna squeezed Jake’s hand. “Would you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
Jake watched her get up and climb the stairs. Awkwardly. Slowly. Anna had aged in the two years since they’d seen each other. He usually came every year, at the holidays, but this past season they’d gone south for a beach vacation instead. Jake had been meaning to come up for a visit, but there was always something that got in the way.
She looked fragile, her hands thin, skin papery, face gaunt. People had a way of aging suddenly when you weren’t looking. For thirty or forty years, through middle age, they would look almost exactly the same, and then all of a sudden the decades would pile on in months.
But sometimes, it wasn’t time that aged us. Jake could see the worry in her eyes.
He looked around the room. It was the same as he remembered it. The mantle over the fireplace was stacked with snow globes, many of which he had bought for her—Prague, Hong Kong, Kiev—every place he’d ever visited. On the opposite wall was a mahogany shelf unit that had been there for twenty or more years, with carefully arranged crystal glasses up top, and books and decades-old National Geographic magazines stacked below. The room smelled like mothballs and bread. Anna was always cooking something.
He picked up an Oreo.
The door to the den was half open, and in the darkened room beyond, three kids sat on a couch, staring at a television. It was an old tube-model TV set in a heavy wooden case. The volume was set low. The kids stared at the screen, oblivious to the world outside.
He knew how they felt.
He’d been one of those kids.
The wailing upstairs subsided into sobs. Floorboards creaked. “Do you want to go out for a walk?” Anna called from the top of the stairs.
“It’s raining.”
“Are you made of chocolate?”
Jake smiled. Hadn’t heard that in a while. “No, I’m not.”
“Then you won’t melt.”
Jake took a bite of the cookie. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He finished it and gobbled a second while he waited. Anna appeared in a windbreaker and sensible rubber boots, holding a large purse and an umbrella. Jake stood and followed her out the front, grabbing his jacket from the closet on the way out.
It wasn’t really raining anymore, just a light mist. His dad would have called it Scotch mist. Pulling his baseball cap low, Jake stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans as they walked past the beat-up Ford his brother loaned him.
“I didn’t do those things they’re saying I did.” Jake realized the words sounded familiar even as he said them. Donovan said exactly the same thing to him just before they carted him off in handcuffs.
Anna reached one arm around him and squeezed. “I know.”
“The woman who’s accusing me, she worked for me. I was going to fire her—”
“You don’t need to explain, I believe you.” Anna released him. “You were always a good boy, Jake, and you’ve grown into a good man.” She smiled at him, waiting until he saw her expression before she looked away.
“Thanks.” It was the first time Jake heard anyone, sincerely, believe him. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Your greatest strength is facing things straight on, Jake, and that’s all you’ve got to do now.” She shook one small balled fist in the air in front of her. “Have you talked to this woman?” Anna might look frail, but she was tough, as hard as the times she’d lived through.
“I’m not allowed to.” Jake dug his hands further into his pockets.
He looked at the other houses on the street. Small. Sagging. White clapboard siding with screened porches. This area of Schenectady hadn’t been prosperous in a hundred years, not since Thomas Edison had founded General Electric here in 1890 and sparked the electrification of America. “Elle took Anna and went to her sister’s.”
“I’m sorry.” Anna sighed and her hands fell to her sides. “But maybe that’s best for now.”
They walked in silence. The mist progressed back into rain, and Jake pulled up the collar of his jacket.
“I’m worried that Sean was involved in something illegal.” Jake wasn’t sure how to bring it up, or if he even should. It would only get her worried, but she deserved to know. Sean had been like a son to her, as much as Jake was. “I don’t know exactly what, but it seems to have something to do with my boss and what’s happening at Atlas…what’s happening to me.”
Anna continued walking, methodically, staring down at her feet as she took one step and then another. “That’s what I thought.”
“That’s what you thought?”
“It seemed like too much of a coincidence.”
Jake stopped walking. “Wait. What seemed like too much of a coincidence?”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and put them on Anna’s shoulders, turned her to face him. A question had been nagging at him for a while, and he needed an answer.
“Why did you call Eamon to ask to see me? Why didn’t you call me directly?”
Anna stared into his eyes. “Because Sean told me not to.”
Standing in the rain, she pulled a manila envelope from her purse.
▲▼▲
Jake stared at the envelope, still wet, sitting on the motel table. The ink of the handwritten address had smeared. Sean had written that, probably the last thing he ever wrote, and Jake was probably one of the last people he ever spoke to.
Why didn’t I take ten seconds longer? Why didn’t I call him back again?
Jake picked up the bottle of Jameson and poured an inch of it into a glass. Outside, the rain hammered down into the darkness. Cars rushed by on the interstate.
A simple kiss from your wife on the way to work, your daughter sitting in your lap reading, a call from an old friend—things taken for granted, now things ripped from Jake’s life. He looked around the room. A discolored orange sheet covered the bed he sat on with his laptop next to him, an air conditioning unit jutted out of
the wall under the window, tattered orange curtains pulled closed over dirty windows. His gym bag, stuffed with jeans and t-shirts, sat next to an old TV on the dresser.
He downed the whiskey and stared at the envelope. When Anna gave it to him, he wanted to rip it open. She said that Sean had inserted a note into it, telling her not to call Jake directly, to call his brother and get Jake to meet her in person. Sean’s note said it was a matter of life and death.
It had become a matter of death.
On the drive back from Anna’s, the envelope sat beside Jake like a white-hot coal, the rain pelting on the windshield. He’d thought of stopping to open it a dozen times, but each time something had held him back. There was a kind of finality in opening the envelope. It would be the last message he would ever get from his friend.
In a way, it would be the last time they would ever speak.
Jake wasn’t ready.
There had to be answers in the envelope—answers for why his friend was dead, for why Jake was sitting by himself in this motel room. He thought of taking it to the police. Was it evidence? But he needed to find out himself, first.
His laptop pinged and Jake reached over to flip it open. He’d set an alert for the start of the Bluebridge quarterly investors’ meeting. Viegas would be speaking. Jake wanted to see what he would say. He needed all the information about them he could get. Clicking a link generated a new window in his browser. The face of Vidal Viegas filled the screen. Viegas introduced himself, detailing the stellar returns Bluebridge earned for its investors.
Jake sighed and returned his attention to the envelope. He picked it up, then reached inside to pull out another smaller envelope. “Jake” was written in big cursive letters on the front of it. Sean’s handwriting. He looked inside the manila envelope, upended it. That was all that was inside.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the second envelope. A stack of papers filled it, along with another memory key. On top was a letter addressed to Jake:
Jake,
If you’re getting this, and you didn’t know you were getting it, then something happened to me. I’m sorry, buddy, I really am. I love you, Jake. You’ve been more than a brother to me. Promise me that you’ll have a big party for me.
I will. Jake rubbed his face. And I love you, too.
That’s why I’m dreading what I need you to do. I can’t tell you more right now, but the reason will become clear. You need to get off the grid, dump your laptop, cell phone, credit cards, don’t access any email accounts or online tools. You need to become a ghost. And you need to go to this location.
The location was a set of GPS coordinates. An attached map showed it up north in Canada, past Montreal. Jake had never been that far north, but he and Sean used to go up to Montreal all the time when they were teenagers. Montreal was a bit more than two hours up the interstate from Schenectady.
And get in touch with Dean Albany. He can help you figure out what to do. Two things Jake: remember the nuggets, and the key is money in your pocket. You can’t tell anyone what you’re doing, nobody except Dean. Keep this secret. I can’t tell you more, but the other papers in here should convince you that this is serious. Never giving up, Jake, that’s your strength. I’m sorry to say that you’re going to need it.
That was it, besides the other papers and the memory key. Jake looked at the key, but externally it was unremarkable.
Carefully, he set Sean’s letter down and inspected the papers. He read the first one. It was a medical chart from Stamford Hospital. Jake scanned the document—heart attack, a list of medications and times and activities. Scrawled at the bottom of the chart was a time of death and a doctor’s signature. Jake looked at the top of the paper to find the name of the patient.
He blinked. That couldn’t be right.
Vidal Viegas.
Jake rubbed his eyes and read the document again. It seemed to be an original. The doctor’s signature looked like it was written in ballpoint pen, but then Jake was no expert. On the bed beside him, in the browser window on his laptop, Vidal Viegas announced a major new acquisition in Japan through the company’s Hong Kong affiliate.
Jake looked back at the death certificate. It was dated over a year ago. Jake shook Viegas’s hand a week ago at Atlas, and almost ran him down the day before at Bluebridge. Goosebumps prickled across Jake’s arms.
On the webcast, Viegas smiled and asked if anyone had any questions.
AUGUST 19th
Friday
13
Canadian Border
“Name, please?” the border guard asked.
“Mark Smith,” Jake replied.
“Turn off the engine.” The guard reached to take Jake’s passport. “And could you please take off your sunglasses?”
“Sorry.”
At least Canadian border guards were still polite. Jake peeled his sunglasses off and smiled at the officer. He turned his ignition off. Mark Smith. Could there be a more blandly suspicious name?
“Is this your SUV?”
“Yes, sir,” lied Jake.
The officer inspected Jake’s passport, then glanced at Jake. “Roll down your back windows please.”
“Sure.” Jake fumbled with the controls.
The officer looked through the windows as they rolled down. “Mr. Smith, can you open the back?” The officer put Jake’s fake passport down and exited his inspection booth.
“Sure,” replied Jake again, panicking this time.
Where was the back door release? He ducked his head down and felt around. Don’t pop the hood, for God’s sake, don’t pop the hood. He found a button and then checked and re-checked the symbol above it.
He pulled it.
The trunk hatch popped open.
Thank you, God.
The guard walked around the back of the car and pulled open the back gate. He took his time.
Jake rubbed his eyes.
It’d been more than a decade since he’d driven across the US-Canada border. The longest undefended border in the world. This was supposed to be a cakewalk. Not that long ago, a passport hadn’t even been a requirement. Just a hello, yes, I’m American, going up to see some friends, have a nice day.
When did they start inspecting everyone?
Behind him, the back door slammed shut. Jake watched the guard in his rear view mirror. What’s he doing? Slowly, the guard walked back to his inspection booth, in through the back door, and picked up Jake’s passport. He put it on the scanner. “What brings you to Canada, Mr. Smith?”
Jake felt his face flush. “Going to see some friends for the weekend.” He looked at the passport in the guard’s hand.
The guard nodded and looked at his computer screen.
Jake’s brother had gotten him the passport. He didn’t know if it was fake or stolen. Maybe it had been a mistake to trust Eamon. He hadn’t ever trusted him before, not really. But Jake was desperate. He tried to keep breathing normally, resisting the urge to wipe his brow. If he was caught now, it was all over.
They’d see it as fleeing the country.
There would be no bail. In fact, they’d lose the bail Elle had already posted for his arrest. They’d lose their home. Elle would never believe him. She would think he was abandoning her.
But he had no choice.
Jake had investigated the Viegas death record, started by calling the Town Clerk’s office of the City of Stamford where they managed the official death certificates. He found out that hospitals reported deaths directly to them, and to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Jake asked about Vidal Viegas. There was no record of any death.
Then Jake looked up the doctor whose signature was on the medical chart. He called Stamford Hospital and was informed that Doctor Mills had stopped working there a year ago, and the same story for the attending nurse listed on the medical chart. They had no idea how to get in touch with either of them.
“Sir?”
Jake looked up.
The guard held the passport out, hand
ing it back to him. “Have a nice trip, sir,” he said.
Jake took the passport, forced a smile, relief washing over him. “Thank you.”
The guard waved the next car forward.
Jake started the car and pulled it into gear, then slowly accelerated. A signpost advised “100 km/h=60 mph.” All the signage was in French. He was in Quebec. The change in landscape was immediate.
Before the border was all rolling hills and forests, but immediately afterward the landscape changed to farms and silos and barns. To Americans, this frontier was the northernmost point, the coldest and most inhospitable place in the country. But to Canadians, it was as southern as it got, and they crowded everything right against the border. Most Canadians lived within an hour’s drive of the invisible line. Montreal, a city of four million people, was less than half an hour away on the main highway. But Jake wasn’t going to Montreal.
Technically, he wasn’t even going to remain in Canada.
Jake turned off the air conditioning and rolled down the windows to breathe in the Canadian air. It felt different, and it wasn’t the change to bumpy, pot-hole-ridden roads. He’d always felt freer up here. In most of the world, there were always people around you in all directions. But not in Canada. Here you could drive an hour north and know there was open space for three thousand miles.
And that, Jake figured, must be the reason why whomever or whatever Sean wanted him to see was hiding in the north, and why he’d also told him to see Dean.
Whatever was up there wanted space.
To be alone.
Or to escape.
And up here, you really could escape.
Jake was a fugitive now, but with the window down and the wind in his face, he felt calm. At peace. In a way, he was still communicating with his friend. Sean had never been without a plan, some clever idea no one else had ever thought of. It suddenly felt like there was a way for Jake to fill the hole inside him rather than board it over. A purpose.
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