Mapmaker

by Mark Bomback

  Overhearing even a single voice out there would mean a dead end. I couldn’t count on finding that side exit; besides, it was probably alarmed or locked now. When I studied real maps, I was always looking for a way from A to B, a way in, a way out, a way to connect one road to another, a way over, a way under. Mapmakers don’t like dead ends. Dead ends, my dad used to say, were a mapmaker’s worst enemy.

  I pressed my ear to the door. Silence. Still I hesitated; this was all about timing.

  When I was certain that all I could hear were birds chirping and distant traffic behind me, I turned the knob, pulling open the door. My eyes stung from the light, a visceral pain, as if I were staring at the sun. There was no time to hesitate. Head down, I threaded my way through the station, past Detective Morris’s darkened office.

  The halls were silent. But when I opened the foyer door, I nearly froze.

  A young mother and her toddler were whispering on one of the benches. A round, black-and-white clock ticked above the front doors; I hadn’t noticed it before. It was 8:27, later than I thought. To my right, two uniformed police officers stood by the bulletproof glass. A different woman, a thin brunette, sat behind it now. The officers drank coffee from white Styrofoam cups and laughed about something with her.

  Walk normally, not too slow, not too fast. Act like you know what you’re doing.

  Panic was a rushing wave that threatened to cut my wobbly legs out from under me. I forced myself toward the door. As I passed the posters of missing children, I glimpsed a new addition tacked on among them: TANYA BARRETT. It had no effect. The pixelated, fresh-faced, happy-looking girl with my name was a stranger to me.

  Pushing open the doors into the bright summer sunshine, I kept my pace even as I walked down the steps. Nobody called after me. I’d made it out. I even felt a surge of something like hope, because the picture had clarified something. Harrison reported me to the police to cover himself. The police would never believe my crazy story against his.

  And it struck me: my issues with Beth notwithstanding, I knew she’d never hurt me. She couldn’t have been on Harrison’s side. Nobody could fake the kind of pain she’d suffered over my dad’s death; nobody would tend to an orphaned daughter if they didn’t feel even a trace of compassion. No, Harrison had pretended to Beth that he loved and cared about me, his surrogate daughter—that he was just as desperate for me to return as she was.

  Maybe the girl in the picture would have believed him and run back to the safety of her house. But that girl didn’t exist anymore. I had to leave her and Alton far behind.

  Twenty minutes later, I was inside the small Alton train station and bus terminal. It had been easy, almost intuitive to find. I went straight for the Dunkin’ Donuts stand, pulled by the smell of coffee. The green lines of the Peter Pan schedule blurred and swam in front of my eyes as I waited in line. In my pocket were twenty-two dollars and my bank card. The bus I wanted, the one heading to Chicago, was leaving at 9:15.

  It was 8:57 A.M. I knew I should save every last cent, but I was exhausted and hungry. I ordered the breakfast special, a medium coffee and an egg and cheese on a roll, for $3.19. As I paid the cashier, I spied two police officers—the same two I’d seen back at the station—walking through the double glass doors. From the corner of my eye, I observed as they moved slowly, surveying the scene.

  I slid into a corner table, sitting with my back to them. My hands shook as I brought the coffee to my lips and hot liquid spilled down my fingers and wrists.

  I could do this. I could make it. I had a plan now.

  On the short walk here, I’d fought to organize my thoughts into what I did know and what I didn’t. What I knew: Harrison was trying to kill me. What I didn’t know: how to find Connor. What I did know … not much else. Except for one thing—that the only other person who might have a clue as to the truth was Cleo, and when I’d called her, she’d sounded scared.

  It was all I had, so it would have to be enough.

  Somehow, she and Alaska (whatever that was) and the attempt on my life were all related. I stared down at the linoleum table, imagining the white-and-lime-green marbled pattern turning to roads and rail lines, stretching from Virginia to New Mexico, via Chicago. The entire trip would take close to three days. Thirteen hours by bus to Union Station—a big-city hub, a place I could disappear, at least for a little while—and another forty-eight by train to Elk, New Mexico.

  When I finished my coffee, I turned my head as cautiously as I could. The police officers were gone. I headed straight to the ticket counter to ask the price of the ticket to Chicago. Eighty dollars. Then I asked the price of a ticket to Boston. Forty-five. My plan was to buy two tickets: first, one for Boston under my name, one that would leave an obvious trail. I was sure that if Harrison really wanted to find me, he would be able to track me in real time. The easiest way for him to do this would be through my electronic footprint, when I checked my emails or withdrew money from an ATM. It was why I hadn’t even considered finding an Internet café to check email or contact anyone; it was why, even though there was an ATM twenty feet away from me, I hadn’t used it.

  The huge clock above the ticket counter read 9:03. The bus to Chicago would leave in twelve minutes. The bus to Boston left in twenty-seven.

  Once again I wondered what Harrison could possibly be up to. Maybe he was a drug dealer. Detective Morris had mentioned that this was a big meth area; maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that Alison and my other kidnappers had driven me to Virginia. Maybe they were planning to boil me alive in a giant meth pot. Maybe that’s where Harrison got the money to do those renovations; maybe Rytech had nothing to do with it. But even as the thought occurred to me, it seemed like a stretch. Harrison wasn’t one of the guys from Breaking Bad, and those working for him struck me as too sophisticated for that kind of crime. Besides, Dad would have suspected something.

  The clock ticked with infinite slowness.

  Finally, at 9:11, I marched over to the ATM and shoved my card in the slot. For all I knew, my bank account could have been hacked into and shut down. It had been stupid to buy breakfast. But no, the $2,400 in my savings account popped up on the screen. I was good at saving money. The bulk of what I’d earned at camp the previous summers had been squirreled away here. I prayed I could withdraw all $2,400 now.

  I punched in $2,000.

  A message popped up: DAILY MAXIMUM WITHDRAWAL IS $300.

  Okay. Calm down. I knew that.

  I looked at the clock: 9:12. The Chicago bus was leaving in three minutes.

  I punched in $300.

  A $3.00 CHARGE WILL BE PROCESSED FOR THIS WITHDRAWAL.

  I hit CONTINUE. The minute hand ticked to 11:13. The machine made clicking sounds. “Come on, come on,” I muttered, slamming my fist against the plastic. Finally, the money slid into the dispenser. I gripped the bills tightly as I ran to the counter and asked the ticket lady for a one-way to Boston.

  She asked me my name.

  “Tanya Barrett,” I said, loud and clear as she typed. A black video camera hung from the corner of the wall. “T-A-N-Y-A B-A-R-R-E-T-T,” I spelled out.

  Taking the ticket, I ran out to Gate 5. The bus to Chicago was still boarding.

  A young mother, not much older than me, wearing lots of makeup and a short skirt, was holding the hand of a little girl. Both were bony, pale. They didn’t have suitcases, just a plastic garbage bag for their belongings. I sidled up to them. The girl stared up at me with wide brown eyes. She carried a naked baby doll in her arms.

  “How much was your ticket?” I asked the mother breathlessly.

  “Eighty bucks. My daughter’s free. The ticket office is inside.” Her voice was gruff. She gestured with her chin.

  “I’ll give you two hundred for it right now.”

  The woman looked baffled. “What? Why? Are you trying to scam me?” She sneered and gave me a once-over, her eyes narrowing at my torn jeans.

  “It’s too complicated to explain. Please. But I need to be
on that bus. If you can wait until the next one …” I showed her the money.

  “You sure? Crazy girl,” she mumbled under her breath. But she smiled. Several teeth were missing; the ones that remained were yellow and rotted. She gave me her ticket and I handed her the money. I read her name: COURTNEY FRANK.

  An old man with a cane, pulling a suitcase on wheels, walked ahead of me up the steps of the bus. I followed behind him and found a spot across from him in the back.

  Sinking into the tattered cushioned seat was pure relief. I closed my eyes for a moment. My ankle had started to burn again. I had slept maybe seven hours in the last two days. I felt dirty and sticky, and my underarms smelled. I hoped no one besides the real Courtney Frank would notice. Fortunately the old man was already snoring. I prayed he’d remain that way until Chicago.

  It would be a long bus ride and I knew I’d be nervous the entire time. I’d be nervous the rest of my life. I had no idea if I was making the right choice or not, but I didn’t have any other choice to make. After another minute or two, I opened my eyes. Out the window, I spotted Courtney Frank yanking her sobbing daughter into a battered sedan. For a moment, I wondered if they were headed off somewhere to spend their newfound money on drugs.

  As they left, another car pulled into the bus station parking lot: a grey Lexus.

  My breath caught in my throat. I’d never seen the car before, but the woman driving it looked like Alison. From the height of my seat and the angle, I could see directly into the car’s windshield. It’s her. She had the same straight dark hair; it fell forward, obscuring her face as she studied an iPad. Next to her sat a police officer I recognized instantly: Detective Morris.

  I turned away from the window, heart thumping, and rubbed my clammy hands over what was left of my pants. The driver stood outside the open bus doors, counting the tickets. I looked around at the other passengers, trying to determine if anyone else looked concerned or suspicious. More than five minutes had passed since I’d bought my ticket. Either the buses here didn’t run on time, or this one was being held.

  The driver’s-side door of the grey Lexus opened. The woman stepped out, cell phone pressed to her ear; the breeze blew her hair away from her face. That pale skin, those sharply arched eyebrows, that narrow slope of the nose—it was Alison, unmistakably, long since showered and rested after her attempt to hunt me down. She stood less than 50 feet from the bus.

  I jumped up and hurried to the bathroom. The handle wouldn’t turn.

  Occupied.

  The old man was awake and looking at me now.

  “Excuse me?” I said, trying to smile. “Do you know what time it is?”

  He looked at his watch. “Twenty-four past the hour.”

  “Wasn’t this bus supposed to leave nine minutes ago?”

  He shrugged and turned to stare out his window. “I suppose so.”

  I sat back down. Covering my face with my arm, I pretended to sleep. The engine vibrated below the backseat. I peeked up from the crook in my arm. The bus driver walked aboard and pulled the doors closed behind him, then sat down in the driver’s seat.

  “This is the nine fifteen to Chicago, with intermediate stops,” he announced over the intercom. “Next stop, Wheeling, West Virginia.” A safety instruction video began to play on the screens overhead.

  After a long exhale of exhaust, the bus pulled out of the station. I peeked out the window. The grey Lexus was still there, and Alison and Detective Morris were headed toward another bus. My heart kept racing as we glided through the desolate streets of Alton. At every turn, I scanned the intersection for the grey Lexus. My ruse could have worked; they could be chasing the 9:30 to Boston. All they had to go on was the evidence I’d left, pointing them there.

  Once we were out on the highway, I fought to relax. I was exhausted but unable to sleep. I remembered Alison’s chilly voice: “Nearing the Alaska site.” Hopefully I was moving away from it now. My head kept going in circles, trying to figure out what it meant, what Alaska even meant at all. Maybe it wasn’t the place; maybe it was code, an acronym. I was sure I was missing something obvious.

  I thought about that app they were working on so hard at MapOut: FYF, Find Your Friends. Harrison was hoping for millions in sales at Christmastime. Even before my dad died, I knew that what excited him about FYF—reuniting people—was different from what excited Harrison. FYF’s primary function was to alert you anytime one of your digital contacts was within one mile of you. At first I loved the idea. How fun would it be to know where all your friends were at any given moment? But now it seemed creepy. No way would I want my “friends” to find me. And without my cell phone, they couldn’t.

  So, was “Alaska” code for something new, some kind of tracking or mapmaking app? A sophisticated mapping program Dad was working on in secret with Cleo? Did Harrison get angry because my dad wasn’t sharing it with him? What could it stand for?

  Then something else occurred to me. Harrison might have known I’d stumbled across my father’s communications with Cleo. It seemed likely; no doubt a team of experts had torn that computer apart. So maybe he figured I’d try to find her. It wasn’t that far of a leap to make. And he probably knew where she lived. No, definitely. The last time I saw Cleo, when Dad had gotten her that guest-teaching gig, Harrison had come to a dinner party at our house and tried to pick her up.

  For a few months after that, Harrison kept referring to Cleo as the “hot little hippie.” My dad would sort of laugh but I could tell he both was unnerved and annoyed. She was my dad’s best friend from college. They’d met at MIT. But I think she was always more than that; she was my dad’s Venus de Milo. I’m not saying my dad didn’t fully and totally love my mom and Beth, but Cleo was the one he could never have. No one could have Cleo. She’d never married, never had children, never had a significant other in her life.

  I could see what he saw in her: mystery. She lived off the grid, even though she’d been a better student than Dad and could have had her choice of jobs. (According to him, anyway.) She never talked about her past; she never mentioned her childhood or family. She traveled a lot, but it was never clear if it was for work or pleasure. Once I asked her what she did and she said, “Well, one of my passions is saving horses. I tend to them on my ranch.” But I don’t think anyone really knew.

  No one except my dad.

  Memories came and went as the bus sped north-northwest. I thought back to the last time Cleo’s name had come up while he was alive: that phone call I’d remembered when Connor and I first hacked into my dad’s computer.

  I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I went downstairs to have a snack. I could see through the stairwell window that the light was on in his shed. It was September; the nights were cool. I was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, but my feet were bare; the grass tickled my toes. The window was cracked open.

  Dad was talking on a grey flip-phone attached to a grey box four inches wide. His “special phone,” as he called it. I never knew why it was special and I never asked. I thought it was a cell-phone-reception thing—our house was occasionally spotty—and figured it was a cool new gadget prototype, care of MapOut.

  I hadn’t planned on eavesdropping. I had planned on doing some kind of prank, like scraping my fingernails against the windowpane, like the vampires in Salem’s Lot. So he’d shriek and we’d both laugh.

  But he must have seen me outside.

  He snapped his phone shut and asked me what I was doing.

  “Looking for you,” I’d said innocently.

  In a way, I still was.

  I spent the rest of the bus ride trying to decode the word ALASKA. I imagined Connor’s finger in my palm, tracing letters. I tried to shove that daydream aside, but couldn’t.

  A is for Altitude

  L is for Longitude

  A is for Aerotriangulation

  S is for Surveillance

  K is for Kill-zone

  A is for Access.

  That was the first
blind foray of dozens, maybe hundreds. The possibilities were endless (and ridiculous) but I couldn’t stop my mind. For thirteen hours I tried; I tried and came up with nothing. How ironic: I needed an app for this.

  Union Station, Chicago, was the Alton train and bus depot’s polar opposite: vast, crowded, and bustling, even at 11:28 P.M. I’d taken a taxi from the bus station to avoid surveillance cameras on mass transit. I only had a little over eighty dollars cash left. That was fine; I’d withdraw another three hundred at the stroke of midnight. I stared up at the Arrivals and Departures board. There was a Los Angeles–bound train with several stops in New Mexico, leaving at 12:05 A.M. That would cut it close—very close, but I had to risk it. And before then, I had to figure out how to buy the ticket without using my real name, which meant not showing ID.

  My eyes roved over the atrium, never lingering on a person or group of people for longer than a second. I tried not to count the number of police and National Guardsmen. There was a huge food court, news shops, souvenir stores, and a café with Internet. I resisted the urge to run straight to the café. I kept reminding myself that it wasn’t just risk; it was certain death. There was no way I could check my email to see if Connor had tried to get in touch with me, even though it was all I could think about now. The moment I logged in, my location would be pinned in a few minutes. And I’d already vowed not to put Blaney and Rebs in danger. As sick as it made me feel, it would be best for them if they thought I’d disappeared forever, or worse.

  First I needed to clean up. As I headed toward the bathrooms, I noticed that one of the souvenir shops sold Chicago Bears sweatshirts and sweatpants. Getting rid of these shredded jeans would help me blend in. Already, I’d caught a few long glances from some cops.

  I couldn’t believe the prices, twenty-eight dollars for a pair of black sweatpants. It would have to do. I decided to buy a new Bears baseball cap to match, so I looked like some diehard Chicago local. Thank God the cashier was too glued to his phone to notice the filthy waif in the Redskins cap who was shopping. He probably saw worse than me on a daily basis.