by Madison, Ada
“As soon as I get a look at the picture, a car will be on its way to your new friend,” Virgil said.
He clicked off, leaving me wondering not only what had developed in Henley, but why it had been so easy to convince Virgil to track down Wendy.
First things first. I opened my browser and easily found the last page I’d looked at, with the brief report and the photo of my other new friend, Ponytail. I clicked on the URL, copied it, and sent it to Virgil’s email address.
I wanted to call Virgil back immediately and pump him until he told me what was going on in my hometown. I wrote off that idea as futile and did the next best thing. I called his best friend and mine, Bruce.
While the line was ringing, I was aware that my battery might not last the night at the rate I was using it. I had a charger in my car, but did I really want to go down to the garage? Too scary. A dark and stormy night came to mind. I was sure a braver woman would just forge ahead, but not me. I wondered if the helpful guys who hung around the hotel door could be enlisted for the errand. This four-star hotel advertised many amenities and services—including hypoallergenic bedding, twenty-four-hour room service, same-day delivery for laundry, and free cable TV—but I doubted “phone charger retrieval” was among them.
My intention was to play it cool when Bruce answered, but I couldn’t spare any voltage. I wished I had a display that would tell me whether the drainage was linear, or discrete, perhaps skipping 1 percent per minute, or if there were another more complex algorithm.
“Have you talked to Virgil lately?” I asked.
“What’s up, Sophie?” Responding to a question with a question. My boyfriend was acting more like a cop every day.
“That’s what I want to know.”
I’d cornered myself into telling Bruce why I’d been communicating with Virgil. I launched into my whole story again, as I felt the battery slip away.
“Some guy was stalking you on campus?” Bruce’s voice rose in pitch as he chose that one detail from my narrative.
“No, no, not at all. He was just there, near my car. It was a little strange to see him again in the robbery report, that’s all.”
Bruce groaned. “I’ll be glad when you’re home.”
I didn’t think it was a great idea to remind him that home was where the stalker was.
“I think the storm’s abating,” I said.
“It is. You should be able to head out first thing in the morning.”
“Not a minute too soon. Are you sure you don’t know anything about the development Virgil was talking about?”
“He mentioned a new homicide case.” My gasp caused him to speed up and explain further. “Nothing to do with Jenn. Some guy was found on the edge of town, close to the airfield. Far away from campus.”
I relaxed my jaw. I was aware that the murder of a stranger was not something I should take lightly, but I couldn’t control my relief that neither Jenn nor anyone I knew was the victim.
Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.
Call-waiting. “That’s Virgil, Bruce. I’ll call you back.”
“I know where I stand.”
“First in my heart,” I said, and switched the call to Virgil.
“Did you get the article and photo I sent?” I asked.
“I did.”
“Was it a help?”
“Big-time. It’s all okay. Listen, Sophie, I’m sending a car there.”
“To Wendy’s? Great. Thanks.”
“Not to Wendy’s. The BPD already checked on Wendy and reported back. She’s gone.”
“She’s gone?” Was nothing straightforward in Boston tonight?
“We sent a car to Newton Highlands, where Wendy Carlson lives. A neighbor says Wendy came home from work and an hour later she left the house with a full set of luggage, in a commercial town car, which is the only thing that will drive on a night like this.”
“Wendy is—?”
“In the wind.”
“Then why are you going to send another patrol car?”
“This car’s for you. Get your things together.”
“Wh—”
“It’s all okay, Sophie. Just be ready to leave ASAP.”
It was a good thing there was no tap, rattle at my door right then.
Virgil was quiet, kindly giving me a moment to absorb the news of the missing Wendy, and his marching orders for me. I wished I were in the wind also, maybe in some alternate universe where the last few days could start over. I’d asked twice whether Virgil was sure the BPD had the right Wendy Carlson, not such an unusual name. He’d assured me the Wendy Carlson who’d been Kirsten Packard’s roommate at Henley and now worked at the BPL was indeed the fugitive.
“Fugitive’s a little drastic, isn’t it?” I asked, loudly, still rattled.
“Sophie, you need to listen carefully,” Virgil said.
“What happened to ‘It’s all okay’? You just said ‘It’s all okay.’”
“What’s your room number there, Sophie?” Virgil’s voice became softer and softer as mine went in the opposite direction.
“Fifteen ten,” I said, finally coming down in volume.
“A BPD car is on the way to your hotel. An officer should arrive at your door in less than twenty minutes. Pack up. You probably don’t have a lot of luggage.” We both chuckled, to release a morsel of tension.
“They’re going to take you to their station in Boston until the weather’s okay to drive home. You’ll ride to the police station with an officer; another will follow, driving your car.”
“Why is this all necessary? What’s going on, Virgil?” My moments of calm hadn’t lasted long.
“Is it clear what’s going to happen next?” Virgil’s voice was firm.
“It’s clear.”
“And you can be ready when they get there?”
“Yes. And thanks. I’m not sure exactly why, but thanks.”
I sat on my bed, hotel white, with deep maroon accents, waiting for the Boston police to pick me up. I faced the window and would have enjoyed the great view, the city lights, the sturdy brick buildings, but instead I envisioned Wendy down there, alone and running. Had I frightened her that badly? Had one of the Kirsten’s unsavory friends contacted her? Threatened her? And, the worst thought, was it all my fault?
Then another possibility came to me. What if Wendy was not fleeing Kirsten’s old friends? What if she was running from the police? She might have realized that she’d all but confessed to obstruction of justice and didn’t want to face charges. I had no idea whether, given the coroner’s ruling of suicide, there would even be any charges after all this time. Wendy would be smart enough to research that before making any drastic moves. And she had a world-class library at her disposal.
Virgil mentioned that Wendy lived in Newton Highlands, one of the more pricey neighborhoods in Suffolk County. On a librarian’s salary. Was she bought off by the Packards? I stopped that train of thought. When did I become a conspiracy theorist? I had no right to judge her. It was never that simple; she might work three other jobs, or she might have inherited a house, just as I had. In truth, I knew nothing of Wendy’s financial situation and had no reason to suspect her of any wrongdoing.
I blamed Virgil. If he’d only told me what was going on in Henley right now, I might not need to traipse through imaginary scenarios, sending Wendy swinging through the wind, first as victim, then as perpetrator, and back.
Tap, tap, tap. “Boston Police,” I heard. A female voice.
I jumped from the bed and peered through the peephole, no small feat when the lens was about six feet off the floor. Two fresh-faced youngsters in uniforms, one male, one female, peered back, the man holding up his badge. As if I’d be able to tell the difference between a legitimate badge and a tin star from a party store.
I pushed the chair away, opened the door, and rejoiced that they hadn’t drawn their guns.
• • •
Fifteen minutes later, I was in the backseat of a BPD pat
rol car. A first in my life. (But only because I’d slipped away from a party my junior year in college, just before a disturbing-the-peace bust.)
On the road to the Back Bay station, my chauffeur, Officer O’Toole, would answer no questions. Not even “Why am I here?” or “Why can’t I sit up front with you?” Once I reasoned that he was following protocol on the second question and probably didn’t know the answer to the first any more than I did, I stopped badgering him and pretended to be interested in the history of Boston’s finest.
Officer O’Toole, who appeared to be not much older than my freshmen, extolled the virtues of his department as if he were trying to recruit me. I flattered myself that he couldn’t tell I was well over the age limit for entering the academy.
The patrol car bumped along the streets of the Back Bay, windshield wipers clacking, while, I hoped, the second officer at my hotel room door, Officer Babcock, followed in my car.
Through the grill between my driver and me, I heard all about the BPD’s various programs. You name it, BPD had it: helping grieving families, special care for children, therapy for refugees, relief for victims of violence. What heading did my special care come under tonight? I wondered. And what had Virgil said to his buddies at the BPD to garner this much attention for me? Should I also map out what I wanted for my last meal?
“Not many people are aware that Boston is home to the first police department in the US,” Officer O’Toole said, clearly proud of his employer. “Established in 1838.”
“Wow,” I replied.
“Yeah, there’s some that say Philadelphia’s department is older, but that’s a bunch of fuzzy history. It’s us.”
“I believe you.”
“You know, the first cops carried a six-foot-long blue and white pole to protect themselves. No other weapon. Plus some kind of noisemaker”—he pronounced it “kind-ah noisemak-ah”—“that they used to call for assistance.”
“For real?” I asked, rising to the occasion.
“Yeah, totally,” Officer O’Toole said.
We pulled into a wide portal under one of the longest buildings I’d ever seen. Three flagpoles, banners down for the night, marked the entrance. I guessed they held flags for the country, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and the BPD. Impressive. Intimidating, also, I imagined, if one were to arrive here in handcuffs. I rubbed my wrists in sympathy.
Officer Babcock, a young woman with a ponytail like the one the real Ponytail sported, but much cleaner looking and prettier, pulled up beside us in my Honda.
I considered getting the jump on the two cops, climbing into my car, and driving home. Then the fog cleared and I marched between them into the station.
• • •
I’d always wondered what it would be like at a big-city police station in the wee hours of a Sunday morning. (Not.) Noisy would cover it. Chaotic would also do. The scene was worse than what I’d experienced in an ER, since there usually weren’t altercations between patients and staff in a hospital. Here, there were battles in every corner. A guy in a torn overcoat, clearly not his own, screamed that his wrists hurt from the cuffs; a heavily made-up woman yelled about her right to a glass of water. Phones rang, radios squawked.
The two young officers buffered me from the unhappy guests of the BPD. They took care of paperwork and got me settled in a room in an annex to the main building where, according to O’Toole, I’d be waiting “until the roads are good to go.”
“Sorry the accommodations aren’t four-star,” Babcock said, when I refused a cup of BPD coffee on the grounds of, well, the grounds. “There’s remodeling going on upstairs where the lounges are.”
I didn’t know if she was joking about “lounges” or not, but I did know that I wasn’t being offered a choice, except in terms of a beverage. I asked for a bottle of water and assured her I was quite comfortable. Secretly, I missed the snuggly hotel robe and the mini fridge full of candy bars. What price safety?
I tried once more to get intel on my situation, but Babcock was no more forthcoming than O’Toole, my driver.
“Just try to take it easy,” she told me. “We’ll keep you safe.”
“From what, exactly?” I asked, hopeful.
“I’m sure Detective Mitchell will explain everything when you get home.”
“Thanks,” I said, in my sweetest voice. No sense antagonizing the protector.
When she left, I took out my phone to call Bruce. Seventeen percent battery left, but who else would I be saving power for? Everyone I knew was in bed.
“Hey,” he said. “Did they give you a vest?”
“Yes, and I’m packing heat.” I lowered my voice in case what looked like a bullet hole in the upholstered wall was really the opening for a recording device.
That was about it for our police jokes. Bruce tried to convince me that he didn’t know why I’d been escorted to a police station, but his answers to my question were evasive.
My final attempt fell as flat as all those before it.
“Is there any threat to me that I should know about?” I asked.
“You should know that you’re in the best hands possible and nothing bad is going to happen.”
I felt like I was in a courtroom, posing as a lawyer, struggling to ask the right question. Frustrated.
“Has something bad happened already?”
Bruce’s pause gave me no comfort. “You just stay safe, okay?”
Not okay, but I signed off anyway.
• • •
I always read the signs and posters in a new environment, like an MBTA subway car or a theater lobby. The room I’d been assigned—dumped in—could have been either. There was no lock on the door and no obvious two-way mirror. The posters and flyers on a large bulletin board were surrounded by “Wanted” signs. Though they were much more interesting than ads for the Swan Boats or the next blockbuster movie, they seemed inappropriate for a friendly interview room. Maybe this was the make-do “lounge” while the others were being renovated.
I gazed at a photo gallery, rows of mean-looking guys and an occasional nasty girl, with labels like “Felony B&E,” “Unarmed A&B,” “Class A&B Drugs.” Many of the photos were not the usual mug shot at all, but an image like the ones I’d seen while watching the security footage on campus. The smarter perps had their hats down over their eyes, as if they knew where the cameras were in that particular stairwell or elevator. Time stamps marked some of the photos. All together, the array was a more modern version of the old post office flyers with two standard poses and a ruler to indicate height.
There wasn’t a lot to do in the windowless room. I couldn’t even track the weather. I’d checked my mail in the hotel and didn’t expect any new messages at this hour, except for the all-nighter students who might be writing to ask for an extension. There was always something a student wanted an extension for, no matter which term it was, or how far in advance assignments were posted. Over the years, excuses had evolved, from “I lost the folder” (paper, manila) to “I lost the folder” (virtual, on a thumb drive).
I turned to other flyers on the bulletin board and contemplated signing up for the next women’s self-defense class or enrolling in gang-resistance education and training. A frayed pink sheet announced a citywide celebration last summer of partnerships between the BPD and community-based organizations. Free food, ice cream, and an inflatable slide were promised, as well as face painting and entertainment. I was sorry I had missed it.
I opened my laptop and searched for new math games. Very disappointing. The first game had poorly written instructions on how to prevent balls from traveling through a maze. I lost badly. I switched to brainteasers and skipped past the silly ones, like “count the number of Gs in this sentence.”
I’d just helped an animated skateboarder successfully clear hurdles in his path by multiplying correctly and timing his jumps skillfully, when my cell phone rang. My screen told me I had a call from an unknown wireless caller at an unknown number. Ordinarily, I wouldn’
t have clicked to answer it, especially with low battery power, but this was no ordinary night.
“Hello,” I said, as brightly as if I were in my den in the middle of a sunny day and not in a snowed-in police station in the middle of the night.
“Sophie?” a weak voice asked.
I sat up straight and looked around. “Wendy? Wendy, where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. I can’t . . . I just can’t. . . .”
My screen went dark.
“Wendy? Wendy? You can’t what, Wendy?”
How did my battery slip from 17 to 0 percent so quickly?
I slapped the phone against my thigh. Bruce would have laughed and reminded me that I couldn’t bring my battery back to life without an actual, physical charger.
I rushed out of the room. I needed to get to my car, which was . . . where? In an impound lot with the weekend’s stash of cars that were classified as evidence? With a fleet of stolen vehicles? Was my Honda next to an old Chevy with a body in the trunk? Where were my keys?
I reviewed the logistics for how I’d gotten here. I’d last seen my car when Officer Babcock parked it next to the patrol car I’d ridden in with Officer O’Toole. Was my car still under the station?
I started down the hall toward the front desk. Officer O’Toole was at my side in seconds. “Can I get you something, Dr. Knowles?”
Hearing one of the officers use my name for the first time, it occurred to me that they thought I was a medical doctor, perhaps on assignment in Boston, one of the country’s greatest medical centers, to track down a deadly virus. I wouldn’t have put it past Virgil to let them believe that, figuring he’d get a better response than if he told them the person who needed to be kept safe was a math teacher from Henley.
“I have to get to my car. My phone charger is in it and”—I held up my dead phone—“I need it.” Wendy was waiting, I hoped. I knew it was unlikely that she’d allowed access through a callback, but she might have tried to reconnect when the line went dead, in which case a voice mail message could be waiting. Unless she’d been dragged away by captors, or changed her mind about talking to me. In any case, I had to give it a try.