by Greg Ahlgren
Ginter slid a wooden crate across the aisle and shoved it up against the outside wall. He climbed up and peered out the window. Two stories below the cruiser was turned sideways, blocking any escape by the Corvette back up Bedford Street. Its bubble light was flashing but the siren was off. The officer stood outside his cruiser holding a microphone connected by a curled cord to the dashboard.
“What’s going on?” Pamela panted.
“He didn’t follow us into the building. He’s with the car, maybe 150 feet back from the Corvette.” To Ginter’s left, workers had finished loading the freight car and one of them loudly rolled the side door shut before moving back to the loading dock to watch the excitement.
“He’s trying to use his radio,” Ginter added.
“There’ll be more cops here,” Pamela wheezed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Ginter shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure that radio will work between these buildings. They’re high enough to block the signal.”
Pamela turned and slumped against the inside of the brick wall and slid to the wooden floor. “So, now what’s the plan?” she asked without looking up.
Two workers had approached the officer and were pointing at the building. No one had yet entered the mill.
“We can go down the stairs at the end of the building near the trestle, cross in front of the train and get out of here on foot,” Ginter said. “Then we can hoof it back to the hotel.”
“You’re crazy,” Pamela said. “You know how many cops will be there? Paul and Amanda are probably arrested by now.”
Ginter grimaced.
A second black and white cruiser rolled into the yard and stopped. A single officer got out and began conversing with the first. Together, they looked up at the building. Ginter crouched.
“What is it?” Pamela asked.
“A second cop,” Ginter answered.
“Jesus, Lewis! You said that radio wouldn’t work.” Pamela stood up.
“He must have got a call through earlier,” Ginter argued.
“Now what are they doing?”
“Coming in,” Ginter said.
The two officers walked to the exterior stairway and the second one tugged open the door.
“Both of them?” Pamela asked.
“This is our chance to get out of here,” Ginter said. “Come on.”
Ginter jumped off the crate and strode toward the far end of the long room. Pamela cast one look back at the doorway that led to the stairs, and followed. At the end of the room Ginter stepped around a high set of steel shelves jammed with boxes that formed a wall. Behind them was a brick wall-the end of the building. Grey metal filing cabinets were pushed up against the bricks. In front was an ancient oak desk. The space served as a makeshift office. Ginter desperately searched along the back wall. There were no windows, and no door. He moved to the side window overlooking Bedford Street. Below, the two cruisers stood empty, their roof bulbs still flashing.
“They’re in the building,” Ginter said.
“There’re no stairs here,” Pamela said. “We’re trapped. We’ve got to go back.”
From the floor area Ginter heard the creak of the stairway door. He raised a finger to his lips.
He moved to the window at the other side of the building. Thirty feet below lay the upper canal, its murky surface camouflaging its depth. To his right was a small waterfall, which spilled into the wasteway and flowed to the lower canal. The building abutted the canal’s very edge. He quietly gestured for Pamela to join him.
“No way,” she whispered, when she looked down.
“No other way,” he hissed, and gently lifted the sash. When it was halfway up a shrill whistle startled him and a low rumble shook the building.
“The train’s moving, c’mon,” he urged, and climbed up on the window ledge.
“We don’t know how deep it is,” Pamela protested. She looked back at the wall of boxes and then quickly scrambled out onto the ledge.
A sheet metal vent protruded from the second story window directly below them. For the third time that day he grabbed her hand. “We have to clear that. Bend your knees,” he commanded and then, without another word, he leaped off the window ledge pulling Pamela with him. He closed his eyes just before he hit the murk, and was thankful that the water slowed the momentum of his fall before his feet scraped the canal’s bottom. He pushed off and shot back up, still clutching Pamela’s hand. They broke the surface five feet from the building’s edge and Ginter spit water from his mouth. He grabbed one of the granite blocks that lined the canal. The rough stones provided easy hand and footholds and together they pulled themselves up behind a shed connected to the side of the building. To their left the train had cleared the trestle spanning the wasteway and was moving away.
Ginter trotted to the shed’s corner and peered around. He stepped out and waved Pamela forward. They sprinted to the Corvette and Ginter jumped over the driver’s side and shoved the key into the ignition as Pamela circled around and got in the passenger side. The Corvette roared to throaty life and Ginter popped it into gear and was moving toward the trestle before Pamela had closed her door.
“Anyone?” Ginter asked as Pamela looked back. The car bounced wildly on the trestle as the Corvette crossed over the wasteway. Directly ahead the locomotive chugged the three freight cars back to the freight yard.
“Not yet,” Pamela said, keeping her attention riveted behind her.
Ginter turned left up West Central Street and out of the mill yard along the same road he had come in. Once across the triple train tracks he swung left onto Canal Street. In a moment of exhilaration, he took the ‘Vette up to 100 for about half a mile until he braked to turn left onto the iron bridge spanning the river. Only when they were heading south on the Everett turnpike at a comfortable 60 miles per hour did Pamela turn back to the front.
“No cops,” she said simply.
Ginter nodded.
“We were lucky,” she added.
Ginter shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good omen.”
“What about Paul and Amanda?” she asked.
“We can’t go back,” Ginter said. “The cops have the plate number. Hopefully, they made it out. We have to get out of state.”
Pamela took a deep breath. “And then what?” she asked.
Ginter tightened his hand on the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he said simply. “Today is Monday. We have four days.”
“Four days?” she asked. “To do what?”
“To get to New Orleans. We’ll contact Paul and Amanda later.”
Pamela leaned back and closed her eyes. Her clothes were soaked and she could still feel the canal’s oily dampness on her skin. The adrenaline rush was subsiding. She didn’t feel like asking how Lewis proposed to do that.
From his eleventh floor corner room Paul watched the three police officers conversing in front of the Franklin Street entrance. They had been with the manager for several minutes and he could not figure what they were up to. From behind his shoulder Amanda peered at the scene.
“Is that Lewis?” she asked when the Corvette veered sharply to the right into the parking space opposite the entrance. “And Pamela with him?”
Paul laughed. “He actually bought it! He always wanted a bug eyed ‘Vette. He never liked the Sting Ray model.”
“What’s he doing?” Amanda asked when Lewis drove the car past the officers and turned up Merrimack Street. Paul switched his attention to the room’s other window but gasped when the cruiser pulled out after the Corvette and Lewis accelerated down Elm Street, with Pamela craned backwards.
Paul turned open-mouthed to Amanda. “They’re, they’re after him,” he flustered.
“Why?” she asked.
Paul shook his head. “My God, he was right. I thought he was paranoid.”
He took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed. “He must have been right about those cops in the park.” He looked up at Amanda, a stun
ned expression on his face. “And now they’re after him.”
Amanda hesitated. “They’re after us, Paul. Not just him, us. We’ve got to get out of here.”
She grabbed her bag off the bed.
“Out of here? What, what do you mean?” Paul stammered.
“If Lewis is right then those cops are after us too. There’s no time. Grab your money and your ID. Leave the rest. We’ll head down the stairs. Forget the elevator.”
Amanda moved to the window and peered down.
“One policeman is still there,” she announced. “The other may be heading up here.”
Paul remained motionless on the bed. “We can’t go,” he spluttered. “We can’t separate from Lewis. How will he contact us?”
She wheeled on him. “How will he contact us if we’re in jail? Or in a psychiatric hospital?”
Paul stood up. “O.K., O.K.,” he said. “I’ve got my money. It’s in my belt. I’ve got the ID.”
Amanda grabbed him with one hand and flung open the hotel room door with the other. She pushed Paul into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her. Without locking it she hurried toward the red “Exit” sign. She pushed through the stairway door and began racing down the stairs.
“The police will take the elevator,” she said. “There’s still one cop in front of the building. We’ll go out the side entrance to avoid him.”
“Then where?” Paul asked, huffing along behind her as they twisted down the stairwell.
“There’s a train station by the mill yard. We’ll take the first one that comes along.” Amanda began taking the stairs two at a time. Reaching the bottom she paused at the door before tentatively pushing it open. She peered around the edge.
“Clear,” she said and swung it wide. That end of the lobby was empty and Amanda strode across the tile floor past a barbershop through the revolving door to Merrimack Street. She turned and strode toward Elm Street. Paul trotted to keep up. They furtively circled around and down Depot Street, watching for police, until they stood across the street from the back of a small ticket building along the railroad tracks.
“Not much of a train station.” Amanda frowned.
“The bigger one was torn down,” Paul said absently, looking up and down Canal Street. “My parents complained about it.”
“No police,” Amanda said. She led Paul across the road, through the mostly empty parking lot, and around to the front of the one-story building. On the side of the building was a white schedule sign with metallic letters. The next train was to Boston in 17 minutes.
Amanda bought two tickets and the pair moved to the far end of the platform and sat on a bench facing the tracks. Amanda cast an occasional glance at the traffic behind them.
“You sure they were after us?” Paul asked. “It still makes no sense.”
“No, I’m not sure,” Amanda answered. “I’m not sure of anything.”
Paul sighed. “How will we find Lewis? We have no communicators, computers or cell phones. What are we going to do?” He turned to her. “Maybe we should go back.”
She turned to look at him. “And do what?” she demanded. “Even if they don’t kill us or lock us up, Lewis is not coming back to the hotel. Regardless of whether the cops are after us, they were after him. If they caught him, he’s going to jail. If he got away, he’s not coming back. All we can do is try and get away to someplace safe.”
Paul gazed at her, and his expression turned soft. For a brief moment, with the sun behind her, it seemed as if 28 years had melted away. They were sitting in the middle of the Arts Quad on the Cornell campus, Amanda eating a slice of pizza from Corny’s Pizza Truck, one hand wrapped around a can of Mountain Dew.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, seeing his expression.
“Hey you,” Paul said.
Amanda looked at him blankly, and then raised both eyebrows as if she understood. She flung her pocketbook over her right shoulder and shifted her feet nervously on the pavement.
“Still using the same pocketbook, I see,” Paul said. “Didn’t Leavitt’s have any new ones?”
“They were all too small,” she said, staring quietly across the tracks at the canal and beyond, another mill building.
“Where shall I go, what shall I do?” she mused.
“Gone With The Wind?” Paul guessed.
Amanda nodded. “I think so.”
“How about The Waldorf in New York?” Paul suggested. “Lewis mentioned it back when we planned to go to New York in ’62. Maybe he’ll think of it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “In Boston we’ll have to switch from North Station to South Station to get to New York.”
Paul grimaced. “Why not fly? Manchester has an airport.”
Amanda nodded. “Along with Kennedy’s itinerary I also had a complete printout of all air crashes for the whole period in 1962 that we’d be here. However, I didn’t do it for 1963.”
Paul nodded sagely. “Train it is then. If we get separated let’s have a plan. The New York Times should be available everywhere. I’ll place a help wanted ad for a...eh...tutor. PHYSICS TUTOR WANTED. It will have a phone number or P.O. Box. In either case I will switch the first two digits of the real number so only you will reach me.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said.
As if on cue they heard a train whistle. The other passengers lounging about the platform perked up. A Boston & Maine Budliner with three passenger cars circled into view and glided to a stop in front of them. Paul and Amanda stood up. Amanda cast one last look back up Depot Street. Seeing nothing, she climbed aboard after Paul.
Chapter 17
Just south of Washington, D.C., Lewis Ginter swung the Corvette off the roadway and across a gravel parking lot. He let the sports car roll up to the two-story white wood frame motel before dousing the headlights. He left the engine running.
It was well after midnight and he and Pamela had been driving since escaping Manchester that afternoon. They had stopped in Connecticut for food, and Ginter purchased a series of Esso road maps which covered the country. On impulse, Pamela had bought a red and yellow scarf to keep her hair from flying, only to discover Ginter putting the convertible top back up after fishing around in the trunk. When he got back behind the steering wheel, he was wearing the oversized sportcoat he had purchased that morning.
The pair sat in the dark, staring at the side of the building.
“We don’t have to stop yet, I can drive,” Pamela said. She loosened the kerchief.
“I’m not tired,” Ginter said.
He smiled. “But it’s been a long day and it’s better to be safe. We’ll get plenty of sleep tonight and then drive straight through.”
Ginter folded the road maps next to his bucket seat. “Pre-GPS navigation aids,” he said.
“Are we going to get there in time?” she asked.
“Easily,” Ginter answered. “We could be in New Orleans by late Wednesday, even stopping to sleep. We don’t have to drive through if you don’t want to.”
“And then what?” Pamela asked. “What are you going to do in New Orleans?” It was the question she had wanted to ask since learning of their destination.