“Is everything okay?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m circling around the church. I just turned onto Fifth Avenue. What’s wrong?”
She risked a glance behind her and saw the cops through the crowd, having just crossed the street. They were at least fifty yards away.
“Clarence showed up.”
“What?”
“He killed Mark Webster.”
“What? My God, where are you? It sounds like you’re running.”
“I just passed over Sixth Avenue. Todd, the cops are chasing me.”
There was a silence.
“Todd!”
“Where are you now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you at an intersection?”
“Not yet.”
“When you get there, tell me the street.”
She was there fifteen seconds later, breathing heavy now, the rain pounding away. “West Forty-Ninth and Seventh.”
Todd was quiet for a moment before saying, “Go left.”
She wasn’t as fortunate at this traffic light, the cars coming down 49th having the green, but she darted in front of a taxi anyway, its driver slamming on the brakes and leaning on the horn. Then she was up on the sidewalk again and sprinting, even harder now, dodging in and out of the people hurrying through the rain. She could hear sirens rising in the distance.
The phone still to her ear, she heard Todd ask, “Where are you now?”
“Almost to the end of the block.”
“Keep going.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m coming.”
Despite the rain she could tell where she was headed—she had been to the city enough times to recognize famous locations—and she asked, “Why are you leading me toward Times Square?”
“Just keep going.”
“There’s going to be a hundred cops there.”
“Just keep going.”
“Todd.”
“Where are you now?”
“I just crossed over Forty-Seventh.”
“Keep going.”
She refused to look behind her, for fear that the cops would be even closer. She also understood it was a possibility that they had given up pursuit. If that were the case, they would have called in her description to other cops in the area if they hadn’t done so already. And here she was now, almost to Times Square, which would be swarming with police.
She kept the phone to her ear as she ran and she could hear Todd talking to himself, saying, “Come on, come on, come on,” under his breath.
Elizabeth said, “Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“Next block up.”
“Good. Keep going.”
There was a massive group of people waiting outside Planet Hollywood, forcing her to slow down and thread her way through the throng. “Excuse me,” she said loudly, but it did no good, hardly anyone moving out of her way, and before she knew it she was pushing and shoving until she had broken through to the other side.
“Are you at the next block yet?” Todd asked.
“Almost.”
“Turn left.”
She did so seconds later, this time risking another glance. The cops were still there, also slowed down by the massive group, only the people there were being much more courteous because of their uniforms and badges.
“I see you,” Todd said into her ear, and she glanced up the street, at the taxis and cars waiting for the traffic light to turn green. She spotted the Prius a second later and immediately ran to it, opening the door and throwing her hat in the back and sliding in and slamming the door and reaching out and grabbing Todd’s neck and pulling him forward.
“What—” he began but then their lips were together, nothing too passionate, just a quick deep kiss shared by a new couple waiting for traffic to move again—which apparently it had begun to do, the taxi behind them beeping twice.
They broke apart, Todd moving them forward, and Elizabeth looked out the window and saw the cops had already passed them. That was the reason for the kiss, after all, to make sure her face wasn’t the first thing the cops saw when they turned the corner. But now they were behind her, slowing their hurried pace because they had obviously lost her.
“Now what?” Todd asked, his fingers white around the steering wheel.
“Drive.” Elizabeth leaned her head back against the headrest, trying to slow her breathing, her heart. “Just drive.”
CHAPTER 47
IT RAINED INTERMITTENTLY on the drive back. Todd did not turn on the radio and neither of them spoke, so the only sound was the squeak of the windshield wipers and the constant rush of their wet tires on the highway.
After the first hour, Elizabeth said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saving my ass.”
“What happened back there?”
She filled him in on everything that had happened. From the moment she had stepped out of the Prius on Fifth Avenue to the moment she scrambled back into it.
Todd was silent for a long time before slowly shaking his head. “Jesus Christ.” Then, “So you don’t know what happened to your brother?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Mark Webster was the key to getting me in to see my husband. Clarence had to have known that. So why kill him?”
She used the throwaway to call Foreman’s cell. It went straight to voicemail. She started to leave a message but then stopped. What she worried about was saying something on the message, something that would somehow incriminate Foreman somewhere down the line.
For the next hour she tried calling his cell. It kept going to voicemail until they were less than an hour away from Lanton and he picked up.
“I saw the news,” he said. “Are you okay?”
She gave him the rushed version of events, then asked about Jim.
“I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“Yes. Repeatedly. It keeps going to voicemail.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. Too many people had died because of her. She didn’t want to think she had somehow gotten her brother killed, too.
Foreman said, “It’s getting too dangerous for me right now in Lanton. As you had figured, the police have connected me to the shooting at the motel and they’re trying to get in touch with me.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ll meet you somewhere outside the county.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “And I know exactly where.”
• • •
THE GREEN MEADOWS Motel was a narrow two-story structure squatting in front of a copse of trees a half mile from the turnpike. It was fifteen miles outside of Lanton, and despite the few cars in the parking lot and the shoddy exterior, the rooms were refreshingly clean and neat. Foreman—who had been waiting in his car until they arrived—gave Todd enough cash to score them a room with two double beds (Foreman paranoid that the desk clerk might somehow recognize him and call the police), and then they were in their room located on the second floor.
Foreman went directly to the sliding door that led out onto a narrow balcony, peeked out through the curtains, then turned to face Elizabeth. “You’re running out of time.”
She sat on one of the beds, staring down at her hands. Todd was in the bathroom.
“I’m well aware of that fact,” she said.
“I stopped by my place before coming here. I drove by three times to make sure nobody was watching it. I needed some spare clothes and ...” He paused long enough to dig into the front pocket of his slacks and withdraw a business card. He handed it to Elizabeth. “This was taped to my front door.”
The card was simple but direct. What gave it credibility was the familiar seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Anybody could have a card like this made up, of course, but the name printed on it—David Bradford—was very much real. He was t
he lead agent who had come that day five years ago to arrest her husband. On the back, written in black ink:
Elizabeth, I must speak with you immediately.
“Cain—I mean Clarence—said no police or FBI.”
Foreman said, “At this point I don’t think you have a choice. How exactly do you expect to see Edward? Just drive up to the prison and knock on the gate?”
The toilet in the bathroom flushed and water began running from the sink. Moments later the door opened and Todd emerged, drying his hands on a towel. He sensed the tension at once and frowned at them. “What’s up?”
Elizabeth showed him the card. “He wants me to call that FBI agent.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Absolutely not.”
Todd tossed the towel back in the bathroom. “At this point”—he raised his hands in the air—“time’s running out.”
She forced herself to take a deep breath. “We’ve already discussed this.”
“And people ...” Todd shook his head. “People are getting killed.”
Elizabeth had jumped to her feet before she even knew it, her eyes brimming. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think every second that goes by I’m not reminded of the simple fact that people are dead now because of me?”
Her voice had risen much higher than she intended. She could see it in both of the men’s faces, their hope that nobody outside the room had heard her.
Foreman said, “When was the last time you had any sleep?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m serious, Liz. Without any rest, your judgment becomes impaired.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Did you get any rest on the drive back?”
“No,” Todd said. “She didn’t. She hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.”
Great, now they were both ganging up on her. This was the last thing she needed, but it was true. She was exhausted.
“I don’t know about either of you,” Foreman said, “but I’m starving. How about I go out and get us something to eat? Liz, you can lie down in the meantime.”
She opened her mouth to protest but Todd spoke first.
“That sounds great. I’ll walk you out.”
They left, the both of them, faster than she had thought possible ... though the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if maybe they were moving at a normal speed and her mind—her very tired mind—had made it seem like they were moving in fast forward. She shook her head, rubbed at her eyes, found herself yawning.
When Todd returned to the room, he said, “Seriously, you should lie down. I’ll wake you when he gets back with the food.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m not.”
But she was, and she couldn’t keep fooling herself otherwise. Another yawn came, this one longer.
Todd said, “Isn’t it strange?”
“What?”
“He hasn’t called. He did right after what happened at the motel last night, but not after this.”
This was something that had been troubling her, too. But she had kept receiving the pictures of Matthew, right on time, as if nothing had changed.
She whispered, “Maybe he is already dead.”
“Who?”
“Matthew. Maybe Van was right. Maybe Clarence took all of those pictures at once and then killed him. God, I should have asked him again for proof of life. No, I should have demanded it.”
“Stop.”
“But it might be true. He might be dead.”
“He’s not. You can’t think that way. He’s still alive, and we’re going to get him back.”
Elizabeth liked the way he used the first person plural as if it were so commonplace he hadn’t even thought to do it.
She said, “I think ... I think I should lie down for a little.”
“Good.”
“Just for a little.”
“Sure. Like I said, I’ll wake you when Michael gets back.”
She went back to the bed she had earlier claimed and lay down on top of the comforter. She placed her head on the pillow but immediately said, “If Clarence calls—”
“Yes, I’ll wake you. Now just rest.”
She didn’t want to rest. Not until she got Matthew back. Not until she knew for certain he was still alive.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, and was asleep within seconds.
• • •
SHE HAD NO dreams. The last thing she remembered was glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table before closing her eyes. It had been almost four o’clock. Now she opened her eyes to see the time was now ten o’clock, which couldn’t be right at all, because she shouldn’t have been asleep that long.
A hand touched her arm. She jerked and twisted her head to find Jim standing beside the bed.
“Two family reunions in one day,” he said, smiling. “What are the odds?”
CHAPTER 48
DESPITE BEING CHASED by the police through the rain, Elizabeth had managed to leave the city in pretty good time. Jim, however, did not.
The reason being, he told her as they stood out on the narrow balcony overlooking the front parking lot and highway beyond, he hadn’t thought once to jump into a cab. Instead he had run to the closest subway station, like he and it were two magnetic ends, and it wasn’t until he had gotten onto the train (after waiting almost four mind-numbing minutes for it to arrive) did he realize it was headed uptown.
He hadn’t dared get off, though. Because after the second stop a transit cop got onto his car. The cop tried to act inconspicuous, but Jim knew what he was doing. Trying to scan the faces of all the passengers for a likely match to the shooting. Jim had kept his head tilted down, staring at the screen of his iPhone. There was no Internet connection, but he opened an ebook he had been sloughing through for the past couple weeks on the train to and from work, staring at the words without really reading them. As the train barreled through the tunnel the cop made his way through the car. He had paused momentarily in front of Jim, though Jim suspected it was because a cluster of people was blocking the way. Then the cop managed to squeeze through them and went through the door to the next car.
Jim didn’t move from his seat for at least another fifteen minutes, doing nothing more than staring at the screen of his phone.
Eventually, when he felt brave enough, he got off at the next stop. He was almost in the Bronx now. He didn’t think he had ever been to the Bronx. He waited for the next train headed downtown and hopped on.
He switched only one more train before coming into Penn Station. There he was on familiar ground again, though the place was swarming with police ... or maybe not, though in his mind there seemed to be almost one hundred cops walking around, if not more. He made his way to the New Jersey Transit terminal, got on his train, and rode that all the way to Trenton.
“I was so paranoid, I thought the police would be waiting at my car when I got there.”
It had begun to rain again. Jim was smoking—a vice of his since high school—and despite herself, Elizabeth had already bummed a cigarette off him.
“Where is your car anyway?”
“Hmm?”
“Your car. I don’t see it.”
Jim shrugged, gave her a sheepish grin. “It’s parked in the back. What can I say, I’m still pretty paranoid. The whole drive here, I expected to get pulled over any second.”
Another silence passed. Elizabeth found herself tightly gripping the cold metal of the balcony railing.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For trying to help me.”
“What do you expect? You’re my little sister.”
“But you didn’t need to involve yourself.”
Jim didn’t answer and just stared out at the rain.
Elizabeth said, “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Why Clarence would kill Mark Webster. And how
he did it. I’ve been thinking about this ever since it happened. I was the one right there in front of him. He had the gun aimed at me—or at least that’s what it felt like—but somehow Mark was the one who got shot.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Are you kidding? If it weren’t for me that man would still be alive. His wife wouldn’t be husbandless. His children wouldn’t be fatherless.”
“Liz, stop.”
“Do you think I’m a coward?”
“What?”
“For running away like I did, back when Eddie was taken in.”
“You ... you didn’t have a choice.”
“Yes I did. I could have stayed.”
“You did what you thought was best for your son.”
“You think this was the best thing for him?” She shook her head. “I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving Mom like I did.”
She thought about the last time she had spoken to her mother, after the FBI had taken Eddie away. The caller ID showed it was her mother calling but Elizabeth had refused to answer the phone. Finally, after her mother had tried calling at least a dozen times, Elizabeth answered, and the first thing her mother said was, “It’s not your fault, dear,” and Elizabeth had broken down into tears.
“What did you do with her ashes?” she asked suddenly.
Jim hesitated. “Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“They’re still at my apartment. I never knew what to do with them, so they just stayed in that box in my closet.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think that her mother’s eternal resting place was in a condominium closet somewhere in Trenton. Then again, what say did she really have in the matter?
Jim went to light himself another cigarette but stopped, staring at her.
“What?”
“This isn’t going to end well. You need to go to the police.”
The Serial Killer's Wife Page 17