by Nina Howard
Not only did he have the requisite equipment issued by the agency -- computer, GPS, cell phone, binoculars, camera, gun -- he brought along enough of his own stuff to make the truck more comfortable. From the lumbar pillow attached to the driver’s seat to the bean bag lap desk he used to hold his laptop, he was all about making a cozy spot that he could hole up for hours or days on end.
The amount of food stashed in various pockets and compartments of the truck was impressive. Mike always had his daily sandwich, prepared back at the Residence Inn with care, augmented by whatever struck his fancy that morning at the 7-11. Chips, candy bars, energy drinks, sunflower seeds, donuts, beef jerky - nothing was off limits.
He also had amassed a small mobile library. His reading material ran the gamut from the newest biography of John Cheever to a dog-eared copy of The Thurber Carnival. He read four newspapers every day, Time, Newsweek, US News, People, and Vanity Fair. If nothing else came out of his time stuck in various vehicles for days and weeks on end, it was that Mike could quite possibly be one of the most sparkling dinner guests one could ask for. He could cover any topic.
He could easily see the front of the Brewster house, though it didn’t seem that anyone except the kids came or went out the front door. He was also able to see every car that came in and out of the alley. Barbara Brewster drove a maroon 1992 Ford Taurus wagon, and Bud Brewster drove a tan 2001 Buick Century. After watching Victoria drive out of Manhattan, he wouldn’t be surprised if he never saw Victoria behind the wheel of a car again.
Mike had been in the same spot for almost a week, and had never seen Victoria go beyond the front door. She had walked the children to school on their first day, that was it. He wondered how long he was going to be forced to withstand this tedious assignment. Oh well, he thought, might as well make the best of it. He grabbed his copy of the 1986 New Trier High School yearbook and got started on his homework. He flipped to the back of the book to look for Victoria’s listing in the index. Patterson, George, pages 112, 154, 172, 218; Patterson, Maura, pages 112, 159, 188, 203, 222; Patterson, Victoria, page 112. That’s it. He flipped past the pages of Pep Club, Swim Team, Debate Club, and something called Langiappe, with no Victoria. Her sole entry was her graduation picture. She looked almost exactly as she did today, but softer. No makeup, and her hair was wild. He looked at the other Pattersons to see if there was any resemblance, though one glance at George’s giant red afro and Maura was tiny and blonde. No relation.
The ringing of his phone jarred him out of his walk down Victoria’s memory lane. “Clark, leave me the fuck alone,” he barked into the phone.
“Michael!” the sound of his mother’s voice on the line surprised him.
“Mom? What -- where did you get this number?” She was calling on his Agency-issued phone. No one had this number. Except for Clark.
“A very nice young man at your office gave it to me. Chuck someone,” she said.
Great. FBI agents were trained to resist giving out information to even the most brutal enemies, and Clark gives him up to a 72 year old woman. Thanks buddy.
“I’ve left you a million messages, but you never call me back,” she continued.
“Mom, I’m on assignment,” he put down the yearbook and picked up a wrinkled bag of Pirate Booty.
“I wanted to check with you to see if you’re going to be able to make it home for the Perkins’ wedding next month. Sally said you never responded, and I know you’d love to see everyone. I hear that Jenny Rovner is going to be there and that she just got a divorce. I ran into her at the club last week and she looked fantastic.”
His mother was determined to get him married off if it was the last thing she did.
He answered with a mouth full of Booty. “Mom, I don’t think so. I’m involved in something fairly open-ended, and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it. Can you tell them no for me?”
“Why don’t I just let Sally know that you’re a maybe?”
“Mom --”
“Michael, it’s been ages since we’ve seen you. How’s Washington?”
“Mom, I live in New York. Besides, I’m in Chicago right now.”
“Ooh, are you working for the President now?” His mother also was convinced that if she had to have a son who worked for the FBI, that he was a top-ranking official with full access to anyone and everyone. Mike didn’t want to fight it.
“Yup - I’m in front of his Hyde Park house right now,” he said. “And you never know when he’ll be back in town. I should really go.”
“Okay honey, take care of yourself. And please say hello to that nice Chuck back at your office.”
CHAPTER 8
“Vicky!” Barbara yelled at Victoria, who was engrossed in a rerun of The Brady Bunch.
“Mother, quiet! This is the one where Marcia breaks her nose!” she said.
Barbara walked across the room and turned off the television. Victoria let out a small cry. “Vicky, I need you to run an errand for me.”
“Can’t Bud do it?” Victoria whined.
“No, Bud can’t. I need you to do it. Can you go to the pharmacy and pick up my prescription?” Barbara asked.
“My God, mother! Don’t they deliver?” It seemed a reasonable question.
Barbara was not to be put off. She had been trying to get Victoria out of the house for a week now, with no luck. She was really getting worried about her daughter, who had taken up permanent residence in front of the both the television and refrigerator.
“They’ve stopped for the day. Bud has a migraine,” Barbara said.
“Why can’t you go?” Victoria couldn’t believe how horrible she sounded, but she really didn’t want to go out. Especially looking like she did. She was wearing a pair of leggings and Bud’s “Kiss Me I’m Irish” sweatshirt. Her hair was in a ponytail, she had no makeup on and she was sure her breath was close to toxic.
Barbara answered with a whisper. “I went out with Carol Allands after work today and we had a glass of wine,” she lied. “I shouldn’t have even driven home.”
That got Victoria’s attention. Her mother had a buzz on! Lord knows, one glass of sherry would probably have Barbara knockered.
She reluctantly stood up. “Fine, I’ll go. I swear to God, if I see anyone I know, I’ll kill you.”
###
Victoria pulled Bud’s Buick into the parking space directly in front of the pharmacy. There was one plus to suburban living - parking was a foregone conclusion. She stood outside of the pharmacy and was instantly transported back to high school. Victoria had worked at Solomon-Cooper Pharmacy for two years while she was at New Trier. They loved her because she was always available to work. Nights, weekends, nothing conflicted with Vicky Patterson’s schedule.
She pushed open the heavy glass door and took a deep breath. The place even smelled the same. She walked back to the pharmacy counter and saw Conney, the pharmacist who had hired her so many years earlier. He looked up with a smile, and slowly walked up to the counter.
“Hello young lady, can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m here to pick up a prescription for Barbara Brewster,” she said as she prayed that Conney wouldn’t recognize her. In her current state, she wouldn’t recognize herself.
“Vicky? Is that you? Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming home,” Conney hollered. “Come back here and give me a hug.”
I hate you mother, she thought. “Conney! Great to see you,” she managed to get out. She allowed herself to be wrapped in another bear hug. Is that the only way that old men in this town can greet you?
“Vicky Patterson. Well, I’ll be,” Conney said as he looked her over. He just kept looking at her, rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Um, is the prescription ready?” Victoria couldn’t get out of here fast enough.
“One sec. I’m almost done. Take a look around - so much has changed,” Conney told her.
Victoria did look around. Absolutely nothing had changed since 1972 in that
pharmacy. Except for now they were selling long distance calling cards and the morning-after pill. She swore that the aisle with the cosmetics had the actual compacts that were behind the counter 25 years ago. Who wore pressed powder anymore? There was a large, yellowing display for Charlie Perfume. “Kind of young, kind of now -- Charlie! Kind of free, kind of Wow - Charlie!” The song forced its way into her head and she couldn’t get it out.
“Vicky Patterson,” Conney called across the store. “Your prescription is ready, honey.”
As she turned from the cosmetics counter and rounded the impressively large display of foot care products, she ran smack into a man. An impossibly good-looking man. Victoria knew the name of that man the instant she saw him. Twenty-five years later and he looked better than ever. The gods had always been kind to Scott Simons.
Scott Simons was the guy everyone knew in high school. He was gorgeous, and he was also nice. Smart, athletic, your basic nightmare, if you’re not the captain of the cheerleading squad. Which Victoria definitely was not. He dated the most beautiful girl in school, had more friends than he could count, and never once noticed Victoria as she navigated the overcrowded hallways of the high school. And why would he? He was country club, she was park district. He had a car, she took the bus. He summered at the Cape, she summer-girled. It was the Scott Simons of the world that Victoria swore she would never have to skulk from again they day she left Tenaqua. Well, Welcome Home Vicky.
“Hey - I know you!” He said with great self-satisfaction.
Mother, I am going to strangle you when I get home. I’m out of the house for ten minutes, looking like the Unibomber’s little sister, and it’s old home week at the pharmacy. She kept her head down and kept walking towards the back.
“You had the best voice. I’d know it anywhere. Veronica, right? I sat behind you in Biology sophomore year.” Victoria didn’t get a chance to answer. “Don’t you remember?”
Remember? It was a year of torture for Victoria. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around once all year long. Oh, but she wanted to.
She shook her head no and shrugged her shoulders, and quickly put on her sunglasses. “Thanks Conney.” She started for the door.
Scott followed her to the door. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her.
“Scott Simons! Class of ’86.”
Okay, Victoria didn’t know anybody who referred to themselves by their high school graduation year. Maybe Scott Simons was a nerd after all. She couldn’t help herself, she stopped and turned to look at him.
“How’ve you been? My God, you look fantastic!” he said.
This was fairly amusing as Victoria was wearing Bud’s sweatpants, had no makeup on and hadn’t had a proper blowout in months. She had gained at least 10 pounds since she left New York and was on a clear path to gain 20 more. Most of her hair was in a ponytail, and a good third of it had fallen out during the last episode of “Chelsea Lately”. Maybe his eyesight was going, since it didn’t look like anything else was.
“Great to see you, ah...Scott,” as if she didn’t know. “Gotta run!” She turned, hopped into Bud’s Buick and almost hit a Tenaqua police car trying to peel out of there.
###
When she pulled back into her mother’s alley, there was a black pickup truck blocking the garage. Jesus Christ, she thought. Can’t the damned workers learn to park their cars? What was a service truck doing at her mother’s? It was almost 6:30 at night. For a second, she was worried that a pipe had burst, then her annoyance erased her concern.
She parked her car in the middle of the alley and got out to knock on the driver’s door and tell him to park his goddamned car somewhere else. The truck was a piece of shit with tinted windows - great, there was a drug dealer parked outside of her mother’s house. Just as she was about the knock on the window - drug dealer or no, the guy was blocking Victoria’s way - the car door swung open nearly taking Victoria down.
Michael Towner got out of the car and looked at Victoria. The woman standing in front of him looked nothing like the Park Avenue Princess he met in her apartment a few weeks ago in New York. She looked like a heavily medicated soccer mom. The Park Avenue was front and center once she opened her mouth.
“Excuse me, I’m going to have to ask you to move your - vehicle,” she called out at him. She was busy sniffing for the smell of pot.
“Beautiful evening tonight,” Mike stood almost a foot taller than Victoria.
“You!”
“Michael Towner,” he said as he handed her another business card. You can call me Mike.”
“Mr. Towner, please leave me alone.”
“What, and miss our friendly chats?”
“No, Trip didn’t call me today. He didn’t show up. And you can probably guess from your brilliant observational talents that he didn’t transfer millions of dollars into my account today.” She pulled on her sweatshirt for emphasis.
Mike had noted the outfit, then thought better than to comment on it. “I know that.”
“You do know that, don’t you? What, am I wired?” She started patting herself down.
Mike had to work hard to keep from laughing. It always amazed him that everyone thought they were in an episode of “The Sopranos” when they dealt with him.
“I assure you, you’re clean,” he said. That’s a matter of opinion, Victoria thought.
“You have no right to harass me like this,” she said, not really believing it. She had no idea what her rights were anymore. The once-positive Victoria Vernon was no longer very sure of very much. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave me alone.”
Mike shrugged. “Public alley, public streets. The local police know I’m here, and won’t do much if you complain to them. I’m sorry, but this is my job. It’ll be easier for both of us if you just cooperate.”
“Cooperate! Cooperate? You people don’t want cooperation. You take what you want, you go where you want, you bully everyone in your path. That’s what you are Mike Towner - a big bully!” She was tired, she was mad, and she was wearing men’s sweatpants. This was her best last stand. “I hope you’re happy, trying to intimidate innocent women and children.”
“I’d say you’re a pretty tough nut to crack,” he said as he got into his car. He pulled away, leaving her standing in front of Bud’s running car. She was still fuming when she walked into the house, her head spinning with the knowledge that an FBI agent was trailing her. Her mother was waiting for her at the door.
“Where have you been, Vicky?” Barbara asked as she took the pharmacy bag out of Victoria’s hands. “I was about to call the police!”
CHAPTER 9
The next morning after everyone had left the house, Victoria spurned her morning Oprah and instead called Jack Taggert, on the verge of tears. The stress of the past six weeks had really gotten to the normally unflappable Victoria.
“Victoria, where are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said.
For a moment, Victoria’s heart leapt. “Oh, Jack, have you heard from Trip?” she asked.
“No, no, not a word. I’ve been worried about you though. I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said.
Yeah, I’m great, Jack. I’m living in sweatpants in my mother’s guest room with no money, no prospects and the FBI breathing down my neck. I’m sleeping on sheets from the 70s. Did I mention that I’ve gained 15 pounds and that you wouldn’t recognize me?
“I’m fine, Jack. I just need you to help me. What can we do? We have to find Trip. We need a plan.”
Jack was silent on his end of the phone.
“Jack? Did you hear me? We have to find Trip. Do you have any idea of where he could be? Did he really take all that money? There has to be some mistake. There has to be. Is there any way to get them to release our accounts? What are our options?” These were the questions that kept her awake every night.
“Oh, Victoria, I wish I could be of more help,” Jack sounded genuinely concerned.
“What do you mean
, you wish you could be more help? There have to be options,” she almost shrieked into the phone.
“Victoria, you know I’d help you if I could. I’m just a partner at this firm. It’s all about billable hours here. As it stands right now, you’re not really in the position to be billing anything,” he said. “My hands are tied.”
Bullshit your hands are tied. You have been one of our best friends for over 20 years and you’re going to hide behind the billable hours defense? Even Victoria knew that was the lamest excuse in the book. “Jack, what am I going to do? I need a lawyer!”
“Yes, you probably do, Victoria. Good luck.” With that, Jack hung up. Victoria stopped herself from throwing the phone against the wall when she realized that she couldn’t afford to replace it.
Initially, Victoria was indignant when the FBI first leveled charges against Trip. It was unthinkable that he would do anything illegal. He would never put Victoria or the children in jeopardy. They had built the perfect life together - SHE had built him a perfect life. He would never just throw it away. There had to be some other explanation.
Now, she was just plain mad. Mad at Trip for putting her in this situation, and mad at every person in New York that three months ago would have been terrified of the infamous Wrath of Victoria Vernon who were now shunning her calls and backpedaling their way out of any involvement with her. Mad at the FBI for taking everything she had. Mad at her mother for just being her mother. She was mad all right. The question was, what could she do about it?
Of course her mother didn’t have a working computer in her house, so any thought of an internet search was quickly deleted. She went through the drawers in the kitchen looking for a phone book. No phone book, though she did find an old photo album in the bottom drawer of the sideboard.