"Your grandfather left Verona for this?"
That was his favorite remark when he would read the morning paper, shaking his head in disapproval. It was what he said when someone with a Georgia accent treated us as if we weren't "real Americans."
It was what my father would mumble when he heard tales of dishonesty, "dope," and divorce. When I was a child in Miami, he owned a small neighborhood grocery and was at the dinner table every night talking about his day and asking about ours. His presence in my life was not long. He died when I was twelve. But I was certain that were he still here, he would not appreciate convenience stores. Nights, Sundays, and holidays were not to be spent working behind a counter or eating a burrito on the road. Those hours were for family.
Abby checked her mirrors again as she turned off on the exit. In less than a hundred feet, she was pulling into the 7-Eleven's parking lot, and I could tell she was relieved. Other than a Volkswagen near the double glass front doors, it seemed we were the only customers.
"Coast is clear so far," she observed, switching off the ignition. "Haven't passed a single patrol car, unmarked or otherwise, in the last twenty miles."
"At least not that you know of," I said.
The night was hazy, not a star in sight, the air warm but damp. A young man carrying a twelve-pack of beer passed by us as we went inside the air-conditioned coolness of America's favorite fixes, where video games flashed bright lights in a corner and a young woman was restocking a cigarette rack behind the counter. She didn't look a day over eighteen, her bleached blond hair billowing out in a frizzy aura around her head, her slight figure clad in an orange-and-white-checked tunic and a pair of tight black jeans. Her fingernails were long and painted bright red, and when she turned around to see what we wanted, I was struck by the hardness of her face. It was as if she had skipped training wheels and gone straight to a Harley-Davidson.
"Ellen Jordan?"
Abby inquired.
The clerk looked surprised, then wary. "Yeah? So who wants to know?"
"Abby Turnbull."
Abby presented her hand in a very businesslike fashion. Ellen Jordan shook it limply. "From Washington," Abby added. "The Post."
"What Post?"
"The Washington Post," Abby said.
"Oh."
Instantly, she was bored. "We already carry it. Right over there."
She pointed to a depleted stack near the door.
There was an awkward pause.
"I'm a reporter for the Post," Abby explained.
Ellen's eyes lit up. "No kidding?"
"No kidding. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"You mean for a story?"
"Yes. I'm doing a story, Ellen. And I really need your help."
"What do you want to know?"
She leaned against the counter, her serious expression reflecting her sudden importance.
"It's about the couple that came in here Friday night a week ago. A young man and woman. About your age. They came in shortly after nine P.M., bought a six-pack of Pepsi, several other items."
"Oh. The ones missing," she said, animated now. "You know, I shoulda never told 'em to go to that rest stop. But one of the first things they tell us when we're hired is nobody gets to use the bathroom. Personally, I wouldn't mind, especially not when the girl and boy came in. I felt so sorry for her. I mean, I sure understood."
"I'm sure you did," Abby said sympathetically.
"It was sort of embarrassing," Ellen went on. "When she bought the Tampax and asked if she could please use the bathroom, her boyfriend standing right there. Wow, I sure do wish I'd let her now."
"How did you know he was her boyfriend?" Abby asked.
For an instant, Ellen looked confused. "Well, I just assumed. They was looking around in here together, seemed to like each other a lot. You know how people act. You can tell if you're paying attention. And when I'm in here all hours by myself, I get pretty good at telling about people. Take married couples. Get'em all the time, on a trip, kids in the car. Most of 'em come in here and I can tell they're tired and not getting along good. But the two you're talking about, they was real sweet with each other."
"Did they say anything else to you, other than needing to find a rest room?"
"We talked while I was ringing them up," Ellen replied. "Nothing special. I said the usual. 'Nice night for driving; and 'Where ya headin'?' " "And did they tell you?"
Abby asked, taking notes.
"Huh?"
Abby glanced up at her. "Did they tell you where they were heading?"
"They said the beach. I remember that because I told 'em they was lucky. Seems whenever everybody else's heading off to fun places, I'm always stuck right here.
"Plus, me and my boyfriend had just broke up. It was getting to me, you know?"
"I understand."
Abby smiled kindly. "Tell me more about how they were acting, Ellen. Anything jump out at you?"
She thought about this, then said, "Uh-uh. They was real nice, but in a hurry. I guess because she wanted to find a bathroom pretty bad. Mostly I remember how polite they was. You know, people come in here all the time wanting to use the bathroom and get nasty when I tell 'em they can't."
"You mentioned you directed them to the rest stop," Abby said. "Do you remember exactly what you told them?"
"Sure. I told 'em there's one not too far from here. Just get back on Sixty-four East" - she pointed - "and they'd see it in about five, ten minutes, couldn't miss it."
"Was anybody else in here when you told them this?"
"People were in and out. Lot of folks on the road."
She thought for a minute. "I know there was a kid in back playing PacMan. Same little creep always in here."
"Anybody else who might have been near the counter when the couple was?" Abby asked.
"There was this man. He came in right after the couple came in. Was looking through the magazines, ended up buying a cup of coffee."
"Was this while you were talking to the couple?"
Abby relentlessly pursued the details.
"Yeah. I remember because he was real friendly and said something to the guy about the Jeep being a nice one. The couple drove up in a red Jeep. One of those fancy kinds. It was parked right in front of the doors."
"Then what happened?"
Ellen sat down on the stool in front of the cash register. "Well, that was pretty much it. Some other customers came in. The guy with the coffee left, and then maybe five minutes later, the couple left, too."
"But the man with the coffee - he was still near the counter when you were directing the couple to the rest stop?"
Abby wanted to know.
She frowned. "It's hard to remember. But I think he was looking through the magazines when I was telling them that. Then it seems like the girl went off down one of the aisles to find what she needed, got back to the counter just as the man was paying for his coffee."
"You said the couple left maybe five minutes after the man did," Abby went on. "What were they doing?"
"Well, it took a couple minutes," she replied. "The girl set a six-pack of Coors on the counter, you know, and I had to card her, saw she was under twenty-one, so I couldn't sell her beer. She was real nice about it, sort of laughed. I mean, all of us were laughing about it. I don't take it personal. Hell, 1 used to try it, too. Anyway, she ended up buying a six-pack of sodas. Then they left."
"Can you describe this man, the one who bought the coffee?"
"Not real good."
"White or black?"
"White. Seems like he was dark. Black hair, maybe brown. Maybe in his late twenties, early thirties."
"Tall, short, fat, thin?"
Ellen stared off toward the back of the store. "Medium height, maybe. Sort of well built but not big, I think."
"Beard or mustache?"
"Don't think so… Wait a minute."
Her face lit up. "His hair was short. Yeah! In fact, I remember it passed through my mind he looked
military. You know, there's a lot of military types around here, come in all the time on their way to Tidewater."
"What else made you think he might be military?"
Abby asked.
"I don't know. But maybe it was just his way. It's hard to explain, but when you've seen enough military guys, it gets to where you can pick 'em out. There's just something about 'em. Like tattoos, for example. A lot of 'em have tattoos."
"Did this man have a tattoo?"
Her frown turned to disappointment. "I didn't notice."
"How about the way he was dressed?"
"Uhhhh…"
"A suit and tie?"
Abby asked.
"Well, he wasn't in a suit and tie. Nothing fancy. Maybe jeans or dark pants. He might've been wearing a zip-up jacket.… Gee, I really can't be sure."
"Do you, by chance, remember what he was driving?"
"No," she said with certainty. "I never saw his car. He must've parked off to the side."
"Did you tell the police all this when they came to talk to you, Ellen?"
"Yeah."
She was eyeing the parking lot out front. A van had just pulled up. "I told 'em pretty much the same things I told you. Except for some of the stuff I couldn't remember then."
When two teenage boys sauntered in and headed straight for the video games, Ellen returned her attention to us. I could tell she had nothing more to say and was beginning to entertain doubts about having said too much.
Apparently, Abby was getting the same message. "Thank you, Ellen," she said, backing away from the counter. "The story will run on Saturday or Sunday. Be sure you watch for it."
Then we were out the door.
"Time to get the hell out of here before she starts screaming that everything was off the record."
"I doubt she'd even know what the term meant," I replied.
"What surprises me," Abby said, "is that the cops didn't tell her to keep her mouth shut."
"Maybe they did but she couldn't resist the possibility of seeing her name in print."
The I-64 East rest stop where the clerk had directed Deborah and Fred was completely deserted when we pulled in.
Abby parked in front, near a cluster of newspaper vending machines, and for several minutes we sat in silence. A small holly tree directly in front of us was silver in the car's headlights, and lamps were smudges of white in the fog. I couldn't imagine getting out to use the rest room were I alone.
"Creepy," Abby muttered under her breath. "God. I wonder if it's always this deserted on a Tuesday night, or if the news releases have scared people away."
"Possibly both," I replied. "But you can be sure it wasn't deserted the Friday night Deborah and Fred pulled in."
"They may have been parked right about where we are," she mused. "Probably people all over the place, since it was the beginning of the Labor Day weekend. If this is where they encountered someone bad, then he must be a brash son of a bitch."
"If there were people all over the place," I said, "then there would have been cars all over the place."
"Meaning?"
She lit a cigarette.
"Assuming this is where Deborah and Fred encountered someone, and assuming that for some reason they let him in the Jeep, then what about his car? Did he arrive here on foot?"
"Not likely," she replied.
"If he drove in," I went on, "and left his car parked out here, that wasn't going to work very well unless there was a lot of traffic."
"I see what you're suggesting. If his was the only car in this lot, and it remained out here for hours late at night, chances are a trooper might have spotted it and called it in."
"That's a big chance to take if you're in the process of committing a crime," I added.
She thought for a moment. "You know, what bothers me is that the entire scenario is random but not random. Deborah and Fred's stopping at the rest stop was random. If they happened to encounter someone bad here - or even inside the 7-Eleven, such as the guy buying coffee - that seems random. But there's premeditation, too. Forethought. If someone abducted them, it seems like he knew what he was doing."
I did not respond.
I was thinking about what Wesley had said. A political connection. Or an assailant who went through a lot of dry runs. Assuming that the couple had not chosen to disappear, then I did not see how the outcome could be anything but tragic.
Abby put the car in gear.
It wasn't until we were on the Interstate and she was setting the cruise control that she spoke again. "You think they're dead, don't you?"
"Are you asking for a quote?"
"No, Kay. I'm not asking for a quote. You want to know the truth? Right now I don't give a damn about this story. I just want to know what the hell's going on."
"Because you're worried about yourself."
"Wouldn't you be?"
"Yes. If I thought my phones were tapped, that I was being tailed, I would be worried, Abby. And speaking of worried, it's late. You're exhausted. It's ridiculous for you to drive back to Washington tonight."
She glanced over at me.
"I've got plenty of room. You can head out first thing in the morning."
"Only if you've got an extra toothbrush, something 1 can sleep in, and don't mind if I pillage your bar."
Leaning back in the seat, I shut my eyes and muttered, "You can get drunk, if you want. In fact, I might just join you."
When we walked into my house at midnight, the telephone started ringing, and I answered it before my machine could.
"Kay? " At first, the voice did not register because I was not expecting it. Then my heart began to pound.
"Hello, Mark," I said.
"I'm sorry to call so late - " I could not keep the tension out of my voice as I interrupted. "I have company. I'm sure you remember my mentioning my friend Abby Turnbull, with the Post? She's here staying the night. We've been having a wonderful time catching up."
Mark did not respond. After a pause, he said, "Maybe it would be easier for you to call me, when it suits."
When I hung up, Abby was staring at me, startled by my obvious distress.
"Who in God's name was that, Kay?"
My first months at Georgetown I was so overwhelmed by law school and feelings of alienation that I kept my own counsel and distance from others. I was already an M.D., a middle-class Italian from Miami with very little exposure to the finer things in life. Suddenly I found myself cast among the brilliant and beautiful, and though I am not ashamed of my heritage, I felt socially common.
Mark James was one of the privileged, a tall, graceful figure, self-assured and self-contained. I was aware of him long before I knew his name. We first met in the law library between dimly lit shelves of books, and I will never forget his intense green eyes as we began to discus some tort I cannot recall. We ended up drinking coffee in a bar and talking until early in the morning. After that we saw each other almost every day. For a year we did not sleep, it seemed, for even when we slept together our lovemaking did not permit many, hours of rest. No matter how much we got of each other it was never enough, and foolishly, typically, I was convinced we would be together forever. I refused to accept the chill of disappointment that settled over the our relationship during our second year. When I graduated wearing someone else's engagement ring, I had convinced myself that I had gotten over Mark, until he mysteriously reappeared not so long ago.
"Maybe Tony was a safe harbor," Abby considered, referring to my ex-husband as we drank Cognac in my kitchen.
"Tony was practical," I replied. "Or so it seemed at first."
"Makes sense. I've done it before in my own pathetic love life."
She reached for her snifter. "I'll have so passionate fling, and God knows there have been few and they never last long. But when it ends, I'm like a wounded soldier limping home. I wind up in the arms of some guy with the charisma of a slug who promises to take care of me.
"That's the fairy tale."
"Right
out of Grimm's," she agreed, bitterly. "They say they'll take care of you, but what they mean is they want you to be there fixing dinner and washing their shorts."
"You've just described Tony to a T," I said.
"What ever happened to him?"
"I haven't talked to him in too many years to count."
"People at least ought to be friends."
"He didn't want to be friends," I said.
"Do you still think about him?"
"You can't live six years with somebody and not think about him. That doesn't mean I want to be with Tony. But a part of me will always care about him, hope he's doing well."
"Were you in love with him when you got married?"
"I thought I was."
"Maybe so," Abby said. "But it sounds to me as if you never stopped loving Mark."
I refilled our glasses. Both of us were going to feel like hell in the morning.
"I find it incredible that you got together again after so many years," she went on. "And no matter what's happened, I suspect Mark has never stopped loving you, either."
When he came back into my life, it was as if we had lived in foreign countries during our years apart, the languages of our pasts indecipherable to each other. We communicated openly only in the dark. He did tell me he had married and his wife had been killed in an automobile accident.
I later found out he had forsaken his law practice and signed on with the FBI. When we were together it was euphoric, the most wonderful day I had known since our first year at Georgetown. Of course, it did not last. History has a mean habit of repeating itself.
"I don't suppose it's his fault he was transferred to Denver," Abby was saying.
"He made a choice," I said. "And so did I" "You didn't want to go with him?"
"I'm the reason he requested the assignment, Abby. He wanted a separation."
"So he moves across the country? That's rather extreme."
"When people are angry, their behavior can be extreme. They can make big mistakes."
"And he's probably too stubborn to admit he made a mistake," she said.
"He's stubborn, I'm stubborn. Neither of us win any prizes for our skills in compromising. I have my career and he has his. He was in Quantico and I was here. That got old fast, and I had no intention of leaving Richmond and he had no intention of moving to Richmond. Then he started contemplating going back on the street, transferring to a field office somewhere or taking a position at Headquarters in D.C. On and on it went, until it seem that all we did was fight."
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