There was no turning back.
52
The fork was dangling aimlessly from Lauren’s right hand, haphazardly swiping at the scrambled eggs and moving them around the plate. Her chin was resting in her left hand, her eyes fixed somewhere on the table.
“A dime?”
Lauren looked at Nick Bradley. “A dime? For what?”
“Your thoughts.”
She dropped her gaze back to the plate. “You ever realize how deceptive eggs are?”
Bradley’s brow crumpled. “That’s what you were thinking?”
“They start off as a gelatinous liquid, and we mix them briskly with a fork and scramble them up and they become this rubbery yellow stuff. They transform so easily from one form to another.”
Bradley cleared his throat. “Uh, Lauren, if that’s what you’re really thinking, we need to find one of your colleagues and set up a session. Fast.”
She put her fork down and sat back in her seat. “How long till our meeting?”
Bradley consulted his watch. “An hour.”
Lauren nodded. Ever since he had told her yesterday afternoon that, after nearly a dozen calls, he had secured an appointment with a low-level assistant at the FBI, her mind had been unable to focus. She figured she was on overload, her body still fatigued from her night in the cabin. Not to mention the torment of knowing she was so close to—yet so far from—finding Michael. She felt helpless. “The situations where you have the least amount of control cause the most amount of stress.” Her gaze met his eyes, which appeared to be filled with concern. “Did you know that?”
“Look, in an hour we’ll be sitting down with someone who’s in a position to give us the most useful information we’ve had since you got that message from Michael. You should be very encouraged.”
She forced a smile. “Yeah, that’s good, I’m encouraged.”
“You want anything else to eat?”
Lauren looked around the Denny’s dining area and studied the faces of the patrons seated around her. “How many of these people are saddled with depression? How many are happy with their lives?”
“Probably many and few, in that order.” He smiled, trying to lighten her mood. Just then, his cell phone began to ring.
They looked at each other, her thoughts screaming for it to be Michael. Please, let it be. Please...
He flipped open the phone and answered the call. When he shook his head, her shoulders slumped forward again. He stood up and walked away from the table.
Lauren sat there, wondering if she was chasing a shadow. What if she never found Michael? She realized she could go on looking for another week, two weeks, or more and not be any closer to him than she was now. Was this whole thing just a waste of time? As her mind wandered, as the doubts mounted, she saw Bradley approaching.
The involuntary downward pull on the corners of his mouth made his face resemble that of a bulldog. Lauren instantly took it to mean one thing: bad news.
Bradley sat down heavily and placed his phone on the table.
“Let me guess that it wasn’t the police telling you they’ve found Michael,” she said, her voice matching her spirits.
“The FBI canceled our appointment. Guy said they’ve got nothing on a Michael Chambers and that if we had any questions, he could handle them over the phone.”
“What about the scene they made at the hospital?”
“They were tracking a suspect in a bank heist who fit Michael’s description. When the call came in, they went hog wild thinking it was their guy. Turns out they caught the perp the next day at the Maryland border.”
Lauren slammed a hand on the table. “Damn it, Nick, we know the FBI is trying to find him so he can testify. Shouldn’t we just go down there and meet with them, someone high up? I mean, I am his wife. They have to tell us what they know.”
Bradley frowned. “They don’t have to tell us anything. In fact, I’ve been trying to get us in to see someone who’s in a position to give us some information. But no one admits to knowing anything. That’s why I was hoping to do an end run with that hospital incident, catch a rookie who didn’t know about the tight clamp the Bureau has on this case. But I’ve hit a brick wall.”
“So the FBI’s a dead end.”
“Unless something changes.” Bradley placed a hand over hers. “I’m sorry.”
Lauren sat there, staring straight ahead, blind to everything around her... as if she had just peered into the searingly bright white of a blizzard. “Then we’re done,” she finally said. She picked up her purse and rooted through it, pulling out her wallet. She yanked out a ten, slapped it atop the check, and stood up. “It’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that’s it. I’m done. We’re never going to find him. This is a ridiculous exercise, Nick. The police are looking for him. I mean, goddamn it, they’re the experts. They can cover a hundred times the area we can. I’ll call Deputy Vork and tell him Michael was here and let them do their thing. I can’t take this anymore.”
She turned and stormed out of the restaurant.
53
An hour later, the cab driver dropped Harper Payne off at Union Station. Taken in by the perfect melding of modernity with Old World architecture, he stood for a moment and marveled at the workmanship. The marble floor tiles, the low-level lighting, the ornate iron railings.
While he stood there, people scurried about the station, some with shopping bags hanging from their hands, others with newspapers tucked neatly beneath an elbow as they rushed to catch their trains. None of them, however, looked as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders, as he did.
But no one leads the perfect existence, he reminded himself. Everyone has his or her own issues, those things that make us wish we are someone or somewhere else. Only in his case, he didn’t really know what he wished for. Right now, most of all, he sought peace and stability in his life.
But first he needed confusion and deception to be his ally.
He stopped into Anne Ricardo on the concourse and bought a Totes rain hat on clearance, a cheap pair of sunglasses, and a red and green plaid scarf. He took the items—which cost him a grand total of $24—into the rest room for evaluation. Bundled up, he would be more difficult to identify.
However, the ripped suit coat certainly drew unwanted attention. After spending another three dollars on a travel sewing kit at a luggage store, he sat in a toilet stall and quickly repaired the torn shoulder seam and knee area with black thread. While he was at best a neophyte seamstress, he did a decent job and figured it would only be visible at fairly close range.
His next stop was a Clipper Mike’s salon, where he purchased a home hair-coloring kit. Heading toward the east end of the station, he located another well-appointed men’s room and sat down in a stall. He read the instructions on the box and twenty minutes later was rinsing his hair in front of the sink. He lifted his head, looked in the mirror, and regarded his blond hair. It was certainly a different look. It seemed to make him look a few years younger, which was good. He rubbed some of the dye into his eyebrows, rinsed them off, and held his head under the wall-mounted hand dryer. A few minutes later, he was headed off in search of food.
He bought a croissant sandwich in a cafe and ate it while walking out of the terminal and across the street to Union Station Plaza, a small park adjacent to Columbus Circle. During the walk, he again began to think about the visions he had been having of a woman whose name he knew but whose face he could not fully picture. A woman he had warm memories about, memories that were isolated and without context.
As he entered the park, he spotted an empty bench in the sun where he could sit and think, make some decisions. The day was perfect for this time of year, with billows of cumulus clouds scattered against a deep blue sky. It looked as if someone had blown a handful of cotton balls into the air.
The sun was warm and felt good against the brisk air. He took a deep breath and exhaled. As he sucked in another lung
ful, the image of hiking along a path through a narrow pass with snow-covered mountains on both sides flashed in his mind like a still photograph. Waterfalls... Yosemite. It was spring, and he was holding Lauren’s hand—Lauren. Our anniversary—
“Oy, gevalt!”An elderly woman, with a deeply etched face, large Coke-bottle glasses, and honey-tinted silver hair, had plopped down onto the bench next to Payne. “These legs just don’t want to carry me like they used to. Such a shame. When you have the time to go and see places, you’re too old to enjoy them. God help me.”
Payne looked over at the woman and nodded, then turned his attention back to the image of Lauren and their trip to Yosemite. He had insisted they spend their third anniversary amongst the beauty of nature rather than trapped in the house, as they had done the two previous years.
They had pitched a tent in a clearing away from most of the other visitors that traditionally flocked to the park every spring and summer. They hiked along El Capitan, picnicked at the base of a waterfall, and then continued on before returning to their campsite in the afternoon. After shedding their gear and pulling off their shoes and socks, they lay down in the tent for a nap and instead spent the next hour making love...the air outside the freshest he had ever smelled, the air inside fogged with humidity and the sweet smell of coconut-scented sunblock. The slickness of his wet skin rubbing against hers, the peaceful quiet afterward as they fell asleep in each other’s arms...
He remembered all that, as if it had happened yesterday.
“Maury, I don’t care what you say, I don’t want to move to Florida. The condo’s too small, and I don’t want to be around a bunch of old people.”
Payne looked at the woman. Other than himself, there was no one nearby. He shook his head and turned away from her. Focus, he told himself. Yosemite, Lauren. He clamped his eyes shut and tried to get the image back—
“I don’t care if the Silvermans are moving. I still love our house.”
He opened his eyes and studied the old woman for a moment, suddenly feeling a rush of sympathy. Here was someone who had, in a sense, lost her mind, just as he had. Although his faculties were intact, he knew what it was like when thoughts and memories went awry.
“I’m Harper Payne.”
She turned to look at him. “What kind of a name is that, Harper Payne. Not Jewish, that’s for sure.”
Payne smiled. In reality, he didn’t know what religion he was.
“Well, mine’s Ethel Rothstein. I came from Poland. Bialystok. Nice place, that bakery we had. Not much, but it was our place. All my relatives, three sisters, four brothers. That was before the war. When I was twenty-seven, I went to live in Auschwitz. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Before Payne could respond, the woman continued.
“My entire family perished. Fievel, Ida, Eli, Sholom, all gassed in the chambers. And my children, Joseph and David, God rest their little, innocent souls.” She looked up at the cottony sky, her eyes clouded with tears. “I’m the only one who survived.”
“I’m sorry.” As bad as his situation was, Payne realized others had experienced far worse.
She looked up at him, leaning her torso back and craning her neck to get a good view of his face through the thick lenses of her glasses. “My Maury here says you look like a nice man.” Her voice rose and fell as if she were singing the words. “Tell me, are you married?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Call me Ethel, for God sakes. So you have children, yes?”
“No, not yet. But we’re planning to start trying in a few months.” How did he know that? He was remembering! Lauren, their house on the hill. Yosemite. His memory was coming back.
“What, you don’t want to talk now? I asked you a question, Mr. Harper.”
“Huh? I’m sorry, I was thinking about my wife.”
“You have a picture?”
Payne hesitated as he tried to recall the incomplete image of Lauren’s face. Was she tall? Short? Thin—
“Again, he’s not talking to me, Maury.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs.—Ethel. I’ve—we’ve been separated.”
“You young people these days don’t understand the concept of commitment. You think—”
“No, no,” Payne said, holding his hands up. “We’re not separated like in divorce. We’re... it’s a long story. Let’s just say I had an accident and I’ve got some memory problems. I’m trying to find her and she’s trying to find me.”
“What do you think this is, the 1800s? We have phone books now, the police will know how to find her. Come, I’ll help you.” She grasped his right arm with a surprisingly strong grip.
“No, wait. Ethel, I can’t go to the police. It’s very complicated, and I can’t go into it now. But I appreciate your concern.”
“What, you did something wrong, is that it?”
He looked away, trying to think of a way of ending the conversation. She was a lovely old lady, but he needed to concentrate again, map out a plan. “Look, Ethel, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to run. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
She looked at him with heavy eyes, in a manner that made him think he had hurt her feelings.
“You know, Mr. Harper, back in the old country we used to have a saying: no matter what God throws your way, it’s always a test. He’s testing us constantly, to see what we’re made of. He tested us at Auschwitz, he tested us after the war. Maury said He’s been testing us for almost six thousand years. But it all comes down to how badly you want something. The more you want it, the harder you’ll have to work to get it. In your case, finding your wife is what you have to work for. The question is, how much do you want to find her?”
The question caught him off guard. He looked into the old, sagging eyes of Ethel Rothstein and saw something he was not expecting to see. Deep inner strength. Something he had found himself lacking these past couple of weeks. Then he realized what it was that he was missing: not just some memories, but his soul.
She turned away from him. “If you have to think about it that long...”
“Very much. I want to find her very much.”
Her eyes locked with his again. “Then you must not give up,” she said slowly. “Never.”
There was something special about her, this woman who had sat down beside him on a park bench in the middle of Washington. In the midst of a place known for its cold, hard wheeling and dealing, he had found a warm soul who had given him direction. “Thank you,” he finally said.
“For what, some old advice? My Maury, he could’ve given you something better. He was a rabbi, God rest his soul.”
“You realize that he’s passed on?”
She smiled. “Of course I know. He’s been dead ten years now. Talking to him keeps my memory of him sharp. I imagine his voice in my head. We were married forty-five years, you know. After that many years, you know how each other thinks.” She paused, looked at Payne. “What, did you think I was crazy or something, talking to somebody’s who’s not there?”
“If there’s one thing I was thinking, Ethel, it wasn’t that you were crazy.”
“Sure you were. But that’s okay, Mr. Harper. We all get a little fermished once in a while.”
Payne smiled. “I think I’m getting over a bout myself.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and stood up. “Take care of yourself, Ethel.”
“That’s Maury’s job. He keeps watch over me, just like he did when he was alive.” She reached out with wrinkled hands and took his right hand firmly in hers. “In fact, Mr. Harper, Maury tells me you’re going to find your wife, very soon.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears.”
Ethel Rothstein smiled. “Those conversations I leave to Maury.”
54
Harper Payne returned to Union Station, his brain clear, his objectives suddenly apparent, his soul renewed. With the image of Lauren standing in front of El Capitan and Ethel’s words of wisdom firmly ensconced in the back of his mind helping him to focus, he scouted
out the GlobalNet Internet kiosk on the ground floor of the main concourse.
He knew that once he swiped Waller’s credit card, he would have only a matter of minutes before a massive Bureau alert would be issued. There would be little margin for error.
He found a pay phone and called for a cab. They were due to meet him at the west entrance in fifteen minutes, which he figured would give him enough time to send Lauren a message and get up the escalator to street level.
Payne was ready. He sat down at the kiosk and held the Visa card in his hand. His heart was a jackhammer inside his chest. He looked at the clock on the terminal’s east wall. Noon, straight up. He swiped the card through the magnetic reader and waited while the account received authorization.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. You’ve got plenty of time, Harper. Just get the message sent.
He tapped his fingers on the counter, watching the little hourglass and the flashing word “Processing.”
Something’s wrong. The Bureau must have rigged it so it would appear as if authorization were being granted, while in reality all it was doing was stalling, keeping him there while they descended on his position. Do we have the technology to do that? Come on, Harper—think!
Just then, the GlobalNet home page appeared. He let a breath of air escape his lips as he logged on to Hotmail. He typed in [email protected] and tapped out the message he had prepared in his head.
Lauren,
Don’t have much time. I’m a federal fugitive, so I’ve got to keep moving. Meet me in historic Fredericksburg, at the Princess Anne Building on Princess Anne between William and George Sts. at 5:30 PM tomorrow. I might not be able to log back on, so if you send me a message I may not get it. Send it anyway in case. I’ll be there, bleached blond and crew cut. Maybe wearing a hat. If you don’t get this in time, I’ll return every three hours if it’s safe.
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