Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  He shot a cuff and checked his watch.

  “Is half an hour enough? We’re the only passengers, so it’s not exactly a rush job. But we don’t want to keep them cooling their heels all morning.”

  “Understood. Half an hour it is.”

  Helen shut the bedroom door, stuffed the wig and some clothes into the overnight bag and then carried it into the bathroom, where she locked the door behind her. She looked at herself in the mirror and drew a deep breath, gathering herself for the next move. It was probably a blessing that Baucom had taken the tapes. For the moment they were in a safer refuge than she could provide, as long as he hadn’t destroyed them.

  She turned on the tap in the bathtub and pulled the lever for the shower. The water screamed out in its usual roar as she pulled the plastic curtain shut. She took the wig out of the bag and put it on, checking the fit in the mirror. Then she turned toward the window and wrenched it open. Without a moment’s hesitation she climbed with her overnight bag out onto the platform of the fire escape, into the cold and damp of the Berlin morning. By pressing hard against the glass, she was able to nearly shut the window behind her.

  She was three stories up. Straight below her was an alley. Too obvious. She looked up. The stairs climbed for another two floors, to where a steel ladder led to the roof. Better. Helen secured the overnight bag by pulling the strap over her head so that it angled across her chest like a bandolier. Then she climbed—first the steps, and then the ladder—while the coal-smoke breeze whipped at her wig, someone else’s hair blowing into her eyes and mouth until she clambered onto the roof and was able to push it out of her face.

  She looked out across the city. To the east, the giant spire and silver ball of the Funkturm loomed over Alexanderplatz like a golf ball on a tee, waiting for Brezhnev to smack it into the Baltic Sea. No sense heading in that direction.

  She crossed the rooftop, hesitated at the edge, and then backed up a few steps before making a running leap across the four-foot gap to the next apartment building. Her heart fluttered as she landed, but the second crossing was easier and the third was almost fun. No worse than jumping all those briar bushes in the woods around Wixville. As an unexpected bonus, the last building in the block offered an easy leap to the one around the corner. Another series of crossings led to the end of a side street.

  All this took only a few minutes, and by the time she’d descended another ladder and another set of fire stairs to the ground she was all the way around the corner from where she’d started. Allen probably wouldn’t get suspicious for at least another five minutes, or even ten as long as Sergeant Schultz kept him laughing.

  Helen briskly covered three blocks until she reached Clayallee, a four-lane boulevard busy with traffic. She crossed as the light was changing, and was lucky enough to flag down a taxi almost the moment she reached the other side. Other than the driver, the only person who saw her climb in was a younger fellow running up the side street in her wake. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail, which bobbed as he ran. He wore a surplus army jacket. Helen spotted him as he reached Clayallee.

  “Where to?” the driver asked her.

  Where to, indeed? And what could she do about Delacroix?

  “Bahnhof Zoo,” she said, directing him to the nearest train station.

  Delacroix crossed the four lanes against the light, waving his arms for any approaching taxi as he darted between oncoming cars. Horns honked, but a cab heeded his signal and pulled to the curb.

  “Shit!” she said.

  “Is something wrong?” the driver asked.

  “I need to make a call. Pull over at the first phone box.”

  “There’s one in a few blocks.”

  “Perfect.”

  Helen took out Otto Schnapp’s business card and prepared to dash out the door the moment the taxi pulled over. She ducked into the phone booth, dropped in a coin, and dialed as fast as she could. By the time she noticed the second taxi pausing a block behind hers, Schnapp had answered and she’d said what she had to say. Would it work? That would be up to Schnapp.

  “Let’s go,” she said, climbing back in.

  Only when she looked out the back window, and saw the second cab resume its pursuit, did she begin to doubt herself. What in the hell did she think she was doing? And who would protect her now? With no easy answers, Helen leaned forward and again spoke to the driver.

  “On second thought…”

  “Yes?” he said, turning his head.

  She was on the verge of asking him to turn around and head back to her apartment. Even apart from the matter of Delacroix, this was foolish, insane. It was one thing to be banished in disgrace. Quite another to go on the run, and convince them that every worst fear they’d ever had about her was absolutely correct. They’d panic, go berserk. They might even conclude she’d gone over to the other side.

  Then she thought of Herrington scrambling to react, frantically trying to explain her disappearance to his superiors. A fuck-up of epic proportions. A career changer. She also imagined the dirgelike ride with Allen to Templehof that awaited, followed by the long flight home, and her humiliating arrival. No. She wasn’t ready for any of that, nor would she submit to the likes of Herrington. Not after the way he’d treated her.

  “Yes?” the driver said again.

  “Same as before. Bahnhof Zoo, quick as you can.”

  * * *

  —

  Twenty minutes later the taxi arrived at Zoo Station. By then the second taxi was a full block behind, stopped at a light. Helen bustled up the stairs into the terminal, scanned the departures board, and settled on a train leaving for Hamburg in eleven minutes.

  She strolled toward the stairway that led to the platform, knowing without looking that Delacroix would soon be following. Too much time remained to simply wait upstairs, so she ducked into a bookstore where she pulled a sweater and a scarf out of her overnight bag and slipped them on, covering her hair. She bought a pair of reading glasses and put them on. There were still eight minutes until departure, but she would be able to board in only a minute or two.

  Emerging warily from the bookstore, she spotted Delacroix outside a crowded café across the terminal, where he was eyeing the tables for any sign of her. Trying not to panic, she headed for the stairs at a deliberate pace while averting her face toward the timetable at the far end of the terminal.

  She reached the stairs and began to climb. Maybe she’d lost him.

  Just as she was reaching the platform she heard a clatter of footsteps coming up from behind. The train was to her left—already boarding, thank God, so she quickened her pace, ducked into the nearest doorway, and briskly made her way down the aisle of the first car before settling into a window seat of the second car.

  Looking out onto the platform she spotted Delacroix twenty yards down, hands on his hips as he scanned the windows. It was hopeless. Inevitably he would come aboard, and once the train left the station there would be no escape. She grabbed her bag and was about to make another run for it when she spotted the buzz cut and green policeman’s sweater of Otto Schnapp. The detective had just come up the stairs and was sprinting toward Delacroix, who had nearly reached the door of the train.

  Delacroix was about to step aboard when Schnapp grabbed his shoulder from behind. He wheeled reflexively, assuming a threatening posture that looked like something out of a martial arts manual, but he lowered his arms and relaxed into a slouch when he recognized Schnapp. He nodded, seemingly dazed, as Schnapp began to speak. Then he handed over his passport.

  Delacroix pointed to his watch and then toward the train. Schnapp slowly shook his head. He pocketed the passport and motioned toward the stairs. Delacroix pivoted suddenly, as if to make a dash for the train, only to have Schnapp grab an arm and wrench him to the platform, flat on his back.

  The doors of the train slid shut. The cars lu
rched toward Hamburg just as Schnapp was helping Delacroix to his feet.

  Helen turned away from the window, elated. She took off the reading glasses, sank into her seat, and allowed herself a gleeful smile. After a minute or so, the smile disappeared, and so did her euphoria. She had taken the leap. Now came the fall, which promised to be considerable. The trick would be in managing the landing.

  Helen drew a deep breath and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do next.

  32

  August 2014

  The UPS Store was tucked between a tire shop and a sushi joint in a small shopping center on Route 50. Henry and Anna headed straight for the mailboxes, in an alcove to the left. There were about three hundred, most of them small, although box 218 was in a quadrant of eight larger ones with five-by-ten-inch doors.

  “Do the honors,” he said.

  Anna unlocked and opened the door while Henry stooped to share the view. Inside was a pile of several dozen envelopes.

  “Good God,” she said. “Could all of this have come in the past week?”

  “I’m guessing she stored them here.”

  “You’re right. Look at the one on top.”

  It was a plain white envelope with no return address, postmarked from McLean, Va., in late August of 2002. Twelve years old. Below it in the pile, more white envelopes were interspersed with powder-blue airmail envelopes.

  A UPS clerk appeared from around the corner, and they looked up like a couple of thieves caught in the act.

  “Are you the guy who called? The executor for Ms. Hart?”

  Henry stood a little straighter.

  “Uh, yeah. And this is Ms. Hart’s daughter, Anna.”

  “Hi there. Sorry for your loss. She was one of our regulars.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said. “She always spoke highly of the service.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be renewing. Would you like a refund for the extra three months?”

  Henry answered, “Why don’t we just let it run its course, in case any more mail comes in?”

  “Sure.” He turned toward Anna. “You look kinda familiar. Have you been here before?”

  “No. First time.”

  He probably recognized her from the newspapers, Henry figured. Or from TV footage at the funeral. All the more reason to get out of here quickly, although judging from the clerk’s reaction Henry doubted he’d made the connection to the murders. The fake name must have thrown him off, so Henry decided to prod for more information.

  “Some of this stuff looks like it’s been here for years,” he said. “Did she ever take anything with her?”

  “Just that big envelope the last time she came in. I think it might’ve been the oldest thing in there.”

  “The big envelope?” Anna said.

  “One of those nine-by-thirteen jobs, with padding. She put it in the day she first rented the box. Always made it a little crowded for the letters, but it wasn’t my place to complain as long as everything fit. Then she took it with her a couple weeks ago, right before, well…it must’ve been right before she passed away.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound like you knew her pretty well,” Henry said.

  “Just enough to say hello, maybe talk about the weather. But she was one of my first customers—I manage the place—and she was always real nice. A stylish lady, your mom.”

  “Stylish?” Anna’s tone was incredulous.

  “For her age, I mean. Must have been quite the blond bombshell at one time. No disrespect, of course.”

  “Blond?”

  “Sure.”

  The wig. Had to be.

  “You’re right, Mom had style. Guess I never realized how much until recently.”

  They scooted out the door before he could ask another question. Anna headed for the car, all business.

  “Want me to read them aloud?” she asked. “Or we could pull over, stop at a Starbucks along the way.”

  “With this stuff? Out in public?”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “Let’s take them to my house. But tell me about the postmarks.”

  Anna picked carefully through the pile, as if handling the rarest of artifacts.

  “You saw the one on top. McLean, Virginia, August of 2002. But no name or return address on the outside.”

  “That’s near Langley, CIA headquarters. Is it definitely the oldest one?”

  “Yes.” She thumbed through to the end of the pile. “Oh, my God.” Her tone went from giddy to somber. “The most recent one is from only a week ago. She never even opened it.”

  “Where’s it from?”

  “There’s no return address, but it was postmarked in York, Pennsylvania. Cream-colored envelope, nice stationery. And it’s handwritten.” She rearranged the pile and started going back through it more slowly. “Same handwriting as on the airmail envelopes from earlier, which also go back to 2002. Whoa!” Suddenly, the bounce was back in her voice. “And all of those were postmarked in Paris. A woman’s writing, if I had to guess.”

  “So they’re not all from the same person?”

  “Two different people, it looks like. About half of them are typed, or maybe from a printer. Those are the ones from McLean…Check that. The last typed one was postmarked from some town in North Carolina. Currituck?”

  “Near the coast. The first one from Paris, in 2002, what month was that one?”

  “Late August, just like the first one from McLean.”

  “Which was right around the time you and your mom saw that creepy guy at the mall, when you were heading off to college.”

  “You think that’s what started this?”

  “Just thinking out loud.”

  “Interesting timing.”

  “In looking around the house have you come across much old mail?”

  “Just a box of Christmas cards. I think the only reason she kept those was to know who to write next year.”

  “What about that big envelope the UPS guy was talking about? He said it was nine by thirteen. Seen anything like that?”

  “No. And you saw for yourself, it wasn’t in her office, either.”

  “Maybe she hid it somewhere else.”

  “Or sent it away.”

  “Or took out what was inside, and tossed the envelope.”

  “Right before she died.”

  That thought kept them quiet for a while. By then the smell of the letters filled the car, an essence of old paper, faded ink, the mustiness of an archive.

  * * *

  —

  Scooter was waiting on the front porch when they pulled into Henry’s driveway, as if he knew something was up and didn’t want to miss it. Henry dumped a fresh supply of food into his bowl, and Scooter got straight to work while Anna spread out the letters on the coffee table in the living room, arranging them in chronological order.

  The day was getting toward sunset, so Henry threw open the curtains to let in the last of the sunlight. The view through the picture window seemed to catch Anna by surprise, and he immediately saw why. The first thing you noticed was her parents’ house, right down Willow.

  “I never realized what a front row seat you had for all the goings-on.”

  “Yeah, that’s for sure.” He looked away from her, feeling like it was too risky to say anything more.

  They were about to get started when they heard a low growl coming from the front door, where Scooter stood looking out through the screen. The fur on his back was bristled, and he was baring his teeth.

  “Is he like that all the time?”

  “He’s never like that. Laziest watchdog on the planet, unless there’s a squirrel within range. What is it, fella?”

  Scooter growled again, and then Henry saw why.

  A scruffy-looking fellow in jeans and a fla
nnel shirt was coming up the sidewalk to the door.

  “You know him?” Anna asked.

  “Never laid eyes on him.”

  They reached the door just as the fellow was about to knock. Henry started to open it, only to have Scooter lunge for the gap with a snarl. The fellow reacted like a boxer ducking a punch, taking a step backward and crouching slightly as his eyes widened. Then he uncoiled as he realized the dog wasn’t getting loose anytime soon.

  “Lookin’ for Henry Mattick.”

  “That’s me.” He kept the screen door closed. “Who are you?”

  The man grinned, spit a brown stream of tobacco juice off the side of the porch and then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Ron at the labor pool says you was looking for Merle. Says you’re paying fifty to anybody who can help.” He reached into his pants pocket for a folded scrap of paper. “Gave me your address. I ain’t got no phone, but I just finished a catching job over the Morrison place and figured I’d come on over.”

  “The Morrisons live across town,” Anna said in a lowered voice. “This guy must not have a car.”

  “No, ma’am. Not since the repo man took it. Trans Am, too, and only four months behind on my payments, the fuckers.” He wiped his mouth again. “So I’m here for my fifty.”

  “What do you know about Merle?” Henry asked.

  “Ain’t seen him goin’ on a week now.”

  “I already knew that.”

  “You gonna invite me in, so we can talk proper and all?”

  Henry, mindful of all the letters on the coffee table, shook his head.

  “Not sure my dog would handle that too well. How ’bout we just conduct our business right here on the porch?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He grinned, eyes shining. Henry guessed he’d either been drinking or was high, probably not a bad idea if you caught chickens all day. Anna grabbed Scooter’s collar while Henry stepped onto the porch. The dog was no longer growling but his fur was still tufted along his spine. Henry folded his arms and stood a few feet away from the visitor. They faced each other from opposite sides of the slab porch.