“I fell asleep. The next morning, I ran.''
His telephone woke him that morning. He answered and heard a click. That click pushed him over the edge. He would get far away from this city. He would go to Cape Cod. He tapped out the number of a hotel that he knew in Hyannis and booked a room for an indefinite stay. Twenty minutes after that he was gunning his car up the ramp of his parking garage. A car with two men still sat at the curb. Fallon blew past it. He lost it in traffic on Central Park West.
He would need cash. He doubled back to Columbus Avenue, where he waited for his bank to open. Two hours later he was stopping for gas on Connecticut's 1-95. He used a credit card to call Brendan Doyle. Doyle was out. He left a message telling Doyle where he was going.
It dawned on him then that making those calls had been stupid. His home phone might well have been tapped. But even if no one was listening when he called that Hyannis hotel, he had guaranteed the room on his gold card. All someone had to do was punch up his credit history and, presto, there he is. Michael T. Fallon, Member since 1985. Booked a room in Hyannis, stopped for gas at a rest stop near New Haven, made a credit card call to his lawyer.
Add to that, the garage attendant had seen him come down with a suitcase. The doorman had seen him just miss a delivery truck as his car shot out of the garage. Garage attendants and doormen. Slip them twenty bucks, they'll tell you anything you want to know.
And then there's his bank. The cashier had stared at him, saw the way he kept looking over his shoulder as he cleaned out two accounts. More than twenty thousand dollars. Much of it in cash. They would know he was running. If he went to Hyannis, they would have him by morning.
“Michael . . . you do know how this sounds, don't you?”
“‘It gets worse. ”
“Who would have found you? Who are ‘they’?”
“I'm not sure.”
“‘But you're convinced that they mean to kill you.''
“Doc . . . they tried twice.”
“If that's so, why didn't you go to the police?”
“You're not listening again. The police are after me, too.”
It had started to snow as he reached Rhode Island. The snow became heavy as he crossed the Massachusetts line. By this time he was totally paranoid.
A van, two men in it, had been on his tail for at least twenty miles. He couldn't see their faces through the snow. Abruptly, he veered up an off ramp. The van followed. All he could think was that they had called ahead. The men in the van were hired killers.
The road sign said Route 24. Fallon followed it south. He stepped on the gas, the van stayed with him. Then, on a straight stretch of road, no other cars near, it tried to pull out abreast of him. He jerked his wheel left, blocking it, as he groped for the big Colt Python that he'd hidden under his seat. He had trouble gripping it. His right arm had been broken at the wrist, and the plaster cast, although crushed and crumbling, left only his fingers free. He glanced back at the van through his mirror. The man in the passenger seat had rolled down his window. He was leaning out.
Fallon found the heavy revolver, managed to cock it, then lowered his own window. He eased his car to the right and waited. Let them try. This time he was ready.
But a shout of “Asshole!” was all he heard.
The van sped on.
Fallon pulled off the road and sat until his heartbeat slowed and his cheeks were no longer burning. If that man had reached his hand out, if only to flip a finger, Fallon might have fired before he saw that the hand held no weapon. But his mind, at least, had started working again.
The signs said this new road led to Falmouth. He would go there, find a motel, give himself time to think. But approaching Falmouth, other signs said that eight miles farther, off to the right, was the town of Woods Hole and the ferry to Martha's Vineyard. The ferry ran year-round. He followed those signs.
Martha's Vineyard would be better. Much better.
For one thing, it was an island. So was Iwo Jima but the idea of a place surrounded by water seemed comforting all the same.
For another, he had never been to Martha's Vineyard so they'd have no reason to look for him there. In fact, when he fails to show up in Hyannis, they'll think that booking that room, even making that gas purchase, was a calculated ruse. They'll never imagine that his true destination would be so close to the one he faked. They'll think he's long gone in some other direction. Not in Massachusetts, not even in New England. More likely, they'll guess that he went south. Moon had gone south. They'll think he went down to find Moon.
At Woods Hole, the ferry was just coming in. Only three cars were waiting for it. Fallon bought a ticket and followed them on board.
The sun had begun to set as the Woods Hole ferry docked at Vineyard Haven. Michael drove up the ramp and pulled over to a kiosk marked Information. He wanted to ask about hotels but it struck him that he couldn't stay here either. He knew that, in his state of mind, he would be down here at the landing every day watching for cars with New York plates. He looked at a wall map of the island, got back in his car, and followed the signs to Edgartown on the far side of the island.
He recognized the waterfront area. It was a picture postcard setting that he had seen before in photographs but the rest of the town was unfamiliar to him. A pleasant-looking woman was towing groceries on a sled. He stopped to ask her what hotels were open. Her smile faded when she saw his eyes but she also noted the small Mercedes he was driving and decided that he was probably too rich to be dangerously deranged. With the car in mind, she pointed him toward the Harborview Hotel, a luxury Victorian on the west end of town.
The desk clerk had looked at him curiously as well. Fallon couldn't blame them. A man, middle thirties, turns up alone in the dead of winter. Clothing rumpled but expensive. He hadn't shaved or showered. A filthy cast poking out of his right sleeve. It left crumbs of white plaster all over the front desk. But it could have been worse. The big Colt Python had tumbled from his lap as he climbed out of the car. Luckily, no one had seen it.
Even so, there would be talk. He knew that he shouldn't stay too long.
“But you did.”
“Not there. After the first week I rented a house. From that same lady.”
“The one with the groceries?”
“It turned out she's a real estate agent. Her name's Millie Jacobs.
“What . . . it said so on her sled?”
“She dropped by the Harborview. I think she smelled money. ”
“Michael . . . isn't there someone you should call? Someone who'll be worried?”
“I did. I called Doyle.”
“But that's when you were headed for Hyannis. He'll know you never got there.”
“I'll call him. But not just yet.”
“You don't trust him either?”
“I . . . trust him. ”
“You hesitated just then. Why?”
”I don't know.”
He did trust Mr. Doyle. He'd been the Fallon family lawyer for almost forty years but, more than that, he was a friend. More than that, Brendan Doyle was his godfather. He'd been to his christening, his first communion, and, after his father died, he had arranged Michael's adoption by his Uncle Jake. Like Moon, he was practically family.
It was only that ... the last time they spoke ... he thought he saw something in the lawyer's eyes. Something he was holding back.
But Fallon shook that thought away. He had to stop this. This grasping at shadows. There was no way in the world that Brendan Doyle had turned against him.
The message he left said he needed some time to himself. Later, in a week or so, maybe longer, he would call, tell Mr. Doyle where he is and maybe where he's going next. Who knows where. All he knew was that he was never going back to New York City. New York would kill him if he did.
“Now it's New York again.”'
“Doc..”
“First it's New York. Then it's a 'them.' And now it's New York again.''
“That city, Dr.
Greenberg, killed everyone I ever cared about. Except Moon and my mother. And I'm not even sure about them.''
“And except this lawyer?”
“Yes . . . And except Brendan Doyle.”
Chapter 7
The doctor's full name was Sheldon L. Greenberg. His doctorate was in psychology. Fallon found him easy to talk to because he wasn't real. Actually, he was real. He just wasn't in Martha's Vineyard.
He was in a book that Michael found.
During his first lonely weeks on the island, he had hardly spoken ten words to any of the locals except Millie, the real estate lady, and the bartender at the Harborview Hotel. To forestall speculation and to explain his black moods, he concocted a story about a fiancée who had broken their engagement when her former boyfriend drifted back into town. He said he got angry, punched a wall like a jerk, ended up fracturing his wrist. Damned cast itches. Poked holes in it so he could scratch it with a wire coat hanger and now it's falling apart.
It seemed a serviceable, leave-the-poor-guy-alone kind of story. He said he wasn't sure how long he'd stay. Long enough to get her out of his system. He felt no rush, he told them, to get back to work. No real need either. In ten years on Wall Street he'd done fairly well.
Millie Jacobs's eyes brightened at the mention of ready cash. She reached for her book of pricey listings. She also mentioned that she had a niece on Nantucket, bright girl, honors grad from Radcliffe who plays a good game of tennis and writes wonderful poetry. Fallon told her that the niece and the listings would have to wait. He wasn't ready. But he did agree to rent a small house from her. His hotel room had begun to close in on him and it was only a matter of time before a chambermaid found that pistol.
But he still spent most of his evenings at the Harborview bar because Kevin, the bartender, had moods that were even darker than his own. He was a dour, defeated-looking man of about fifty who had taken this job to wait out a recession. But for him, that recession never ended. He had been a systems analyst with IBM until his dreams of a comfortable retirement went up in smoke.
Kevin also knew, firsthand, what faithless bitches women are. His wife, a dental hygienist, had served him with divorce papers on the very day his severance had run out and a week after the bank had repossessed their condo. Kevin hated bankers and divorce lawyers just as much as he hated women. And he hated fat-cat senior executives who tell you one month not to leave, your job is safe, and then dump you when they've found some kid who'll do your job for half your salary.
It struck Fallon that the next wave of serial killers might well come from the ranks of the white-collar unemployed. Kevin's view of the world was so bitter, his future so bleak, that Fallon found himself starting to count his own considerable blessings. Perhaps the healing process had started after all. That aside, Kevin's primary appeal was that he poured the only decent drink in Edgartown. Every other bar and restaurant measured a precise ounce and a half of scotch because that was state law. The same law forbade bartenders to serve doubles. Kevin paid no attention. His idea of measuring was to pour until all the ice floated. He didn't like politicians either.
On slow nights, as most of them were, Kevin would retreat to the far end of the bar reading books that had wistfully pathetic titles such as Starting Over and Jobs on Cruise Ships. But the books started Michael thinking. It was time to consider his options. Where to go from here. A book might have some ideas.
He spent an hour in the Edgartown bookstore at the shelf marked Self-Help. Several of the titles dealt with being fired and how to land back on one's feet. All of them had keep-your-chin-up sections aimed at people in their fifties whose jobs had been their identity and who were scared to death that they might never find another. None of these had much relevance to his situation.
For one thing, they hadn't been blackballed. No one had. set out to destroy their careers. No one had tried to kill them.
And Fallon was, after all, in good shape financially. His investment portfolio was worth almost half a million. Doyle had been managing it for him. And he would inherit a lot more from Jake. There was Jake's house in Brooklyn, a condo in Florida, and all that sports memorabilia, much of it pretty rare. Even after splitting it with Moon, and after taxes, Jake would leave him at least another million or so.
But that was later, this was now. He still needed someone to talk to. That someone became Sheldon Greenberg. Fallon found his book on the bottom shelf.
Greenberg’s book was about big-time stress. Severe emotional trauma. There were chapters devoted to people who've been mugged, burglarized, stalked, and shot at. Most of which fit. There was even a section on people who had lost a loved one to violent crime.
Fallon read the book in one day. It said, basically, that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, no shit. He almost tossed it away because Dr. Greenberg promptly began nagging him about getting off his ass and getting treatment. And about boozing with Kevin every night.
“For one thing, you're turning into a drunk. For another, Kevin hates you.''
“He hates me? For what?”
“For having money. For still being young. Face it, Michael. You're not going to get much sympathy.''
Fallon realized that this was a little nuts. Talking to a book. Having the book talk back. But people talk to God and dead saints. Why not to a psychologist who isn't nearly as far away?
Anyway, the book seemed to help him. The book and the passage of time. By the end of his first month on Martha's Vineyard, so different, so quiet, New York seemed a continent away. He had almost convinced himself that maybe he'd been running from shadows. Someone is always double-parked on 82nd Street. There were always strangers in the building.
Those detectives, however, were real. They were reason enough to get out of town until the city gives them something more pressing to think about.
What helped as much as the passage of time was finally being rid of that cast. One evening when he could bear it no longer he pried it apart with his fingers and burned the pieces in his fireplace. The skin underneath was deathly white and had the smell of sewage. Dried blood, not his own, caked the back of his hand. He scrubbed it raw. The muscles had atrophied and he could barely flex the wrist without pain but the arm felt as cool and as light as air. He almost felt reborn.
If that felt so good, he asked himself, why stop with the cast? The next thing he burned was his suit.
He spent a day buying all new clothing. He bought what the islanders wore. Woolrich shirts, crew neck sweaters, Timberland boots and boat shoes. He began running again, working out, drinking less, eating balanced meals. Day by day, the wrist regained its strength. He bought a bicycle and began exploring the island on it. He bought several books about its history, its geology, its architecture. He read about the great whaling ships, the looting of the island by the British, and the pirate ships that had once prowled these waters. The islanders hanged a few pirates. The British hanged a few islanders. After that, however, things settled down nicely. Derring-do gave way to farming and then to marking up prices for tourists. High crime, these days, was clamming without a license.
But it was, no question, a beautiful place. Edgartown in particular. Many fine old homes and gardens, brick walks, delicate wrought-iron fences. His book on architecture said there were three principal styles: Federal, Greek Revival, and Early Victorian. He learned to recognize and appreciate the subtleties of each. It seemed a gentle thing to know. New York, by mid-March, seemed as far away as Pluto.
The pain of losing Bronwyn had begun to ease a bit. No day went by without some thought of her, but her face, in his mind, had begun to blur. That seemed somehow indecent but he had known her, after all, for less than three months. They had had no time to store up memories and there were no snapshots of happy times to torment him. The one photograph he had of her had been stolen for its frame. It was just as well. He needed to let her go.
Jake would take longer. In his case there were too many memories. But day by day, a few of the
m were starting to bring smiles. What he began to feel worse about was Moon. He missed him and was worried about him, and yet here he'd allowed six weeks to go by without even asking whether he was still alive. People do have multiple strokes. As much as he dreaded it, he would have to call Doyle.
But he kept putting it off. A dozen times he'd picked up the phone and begun to dial. It was disgraceful of him not to call, to let Doyle worry and wonder. He realized that. It's just that it was so peaceful here.
He considered taking the ferry back to the mainland, driving up to Boston, and making the call from there. He would not have to say where he's been living all this time. While there, he could rent a post office box so that Doyle could send him his mail. He could open a bank account so that Doyle could send his money to Boston as well. When he needs it, he'll drive up and get it. All Doyle had to know is that he's safe. He doesn't have to know where.
“Michael . . . call him.”
“Stay out of this oney Doc.''
“Tell me that this man is your enemy. If you can`t, there is no decent way of refusing to give him your address. ”
“l didn't say he's my enemy. All I said . . . ”
“‘Call him, Michael. This minute.”
Fallon gritted his teeth. He punched out the lawyer's home number. Doyle was shocked into silence at the sound of his voice.
The Shadow Box Page 5