She stood her ground with the tall man with the long arms and thick scar on his upper lip.
“It is all right, you do not frighten me,” Svetlana Gelayeva said. “He told me nothing. He checked into this lodge where I am manager. He used the name Tom Samuels.”
“Have you spoken since he departed?”
“No. But while here, he shaved his beard. I recognized him from the TV as the man who killed that little boy.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. So I do right thing. I call police. I tell police he changed the way he looked by shaving beard. It was right thing. So, when you catch him, the $50,000 is mine. No?”
“Yes. But that’s not what I wish to speak about.”
“Well then, what? My visa is good. I am a legal resident. I work very hard in America.”
“I don’t care about immigration. My interest is in the phone call Sam Teagarden made to you this afternoon. The one from The Argonaut Hotel.”
For the first time her eyes flashed something other than flat disregard, though he couldn’t be certain it was fear.
“I, uh…”
“What did he say, Svetlana? What did he ask you? What did he tell you?”
“He asked me for a date.”
“So you have spoken since he departed?”
Svetlana knew it was mistake. Still, she held her ground without betraying fear.
“It was personal.”
“Personal?”
“Yes.”
She spoke with as much casual disregard as she could muster. Her eyes gave him a small something. It was not an old school come-hither flutter, but nonetheless, it was the same idea. In the few seconds that passed since he entered her room, she came to understand that neither arrest nor deportation were the threats. Having been in serious danger many times before, she knew to show indifference, to work the problem while on total emotional shutdown. She glanced behind her at the double bed and window unit air conditioner.
“This room is the best,” she said. “And I will turn the a/c up high, if you like. It will be very private.” She gave him another discreet, small something with her eyes.
He glanced contemptuously at her bed.
“Did he sleep here last evening?”
“No.”
“Did you take up his offer of a date when he phoned?”
“No.”
“Well then, we’re back where we started, aren’t we?”
“I do not understand these questions. I saw on TV that he is fugitive. I call police.” She mustered all the casual lack of concern she could manage. “That is all. There is nothing else, Mr. McCanliss. So, do you understand now?”
“I didn’t tell you my name, Svetlana. Did you tell him my name?”
Another mistake. This time, she knew it was bad, and there was no undoing it. But what was he going to do? Rape her? She’d been raped before.
“No,” she said. “I heard your name this morning during fire emergency, but I did not tell him.”
“Did he mention the file?”
“The what?”
“The file, Svetlana. Did he tell you about the file while you were fucking him, here in the best room?”
She leered, pretending to be offended.
“We did not—”
His right hand shot to her trachea like a serpent. He did not grip her entire throat in the way of a mad man, but used only a powerful thick thumb and forefinger. He squeezed her larynx so forcefully he could feel her vocal cords smashing under his fingertips. With only that two-digit grasp, he hoisted her entire body until her face rose level with his own so he could watch her die. As she suffocated, her bulging eyes betrayed no fear. When she was gone, his fingertips had nearly pierced the skin of her neck as though making the universal hand gesture signifying “A-Okay.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Boathouse, Sparta Township, NJ
Perhaps it was because she was a lawyer that she instinctively sensed the path of least danger for him.
Teagarden did not spend the night in Cynthia’s home on her side of the lake in Sparta, New Jersey, nor in the home of her ex-husband on the opposite side of the lake, where she took him to water the plants.
Her ex-husband’s house was a large three-story colonial, lavishly furnished with an elevator, spectacular view of the lake and sloping backyard that led to a narrow pier with a boat ramp. Technically, it was still half hers because they bought it while married and had not yet settled the deed. It was the one remaining piece of business holding back full resolution of their divorce. She was the home’s caretaker for the summer, while he was a visiting scientist at the Large Hadron Collider near Geneva.
“He’s over there studying what happens when particles collide, while I water his plants twice a week,” she said, “but I don’t mind much.”
“You mentioned last week that you’re still on good terms. It’s better that way.”
“Yes. I agree.”
She led him to the master bedroom, ridiculously huge with four skylights over the king-sized bed. A flat-panel TV as large as a movie screen hung opposite the bed, on a wall that held recessed bureau drawers. She took a pair of nearly new jeans and two pullover shirts from the top drawer.
“Here,” she said. “You’ll be more comfortable when you get out of that silly sports coat. The fit won’t be perfect. He’s a little taller. But you can turn up the cuffs. And you can take the cotton out of your cheeks now. Who was it who did that in the movies? Was it Brando in one of those Godfather movies that airs twice a week on cable?”
“I believe so.”
They walked downstairs to the large glass-enclosed porch, where he watched as she watered the plants.
“Do you see that small building in the woods next door at the lake’s edge?”
“Sure. Is that yours, too?”
“No. It belongs to a co-op of fishermen who come in the winter when the lake is iced over. I don’t understand why they fish only when you need to saw a hole before dropping the bait. But they love it.”
“Is your husband part of that crew?”
“Absolutely not.” She gave an incredulous laugh. “The only fish Ernest ever wanted to see was on his dinner plate. The idea of scaling and gutting a freshly caught flounder would make him retch.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, as a good neighbor, I still keep a key to the boathouse for those guys, just in case. I think that’s the best place for you to stay for the next few days.”
When she finished watering the plants they walked through the woods to the small building. It was basically a studio apartment, rustic, but with all the comforts of home: daybed, tiny bathroom, galley kitchen, old-style cable TV hook-up plus an active Wi-Fi router. There was one small closet with flimsy louvered doors and a storage loft that covered one-third of the ceiling, with a narrow ladder that leaned to one side. Fishing gear hung from wall hooks, bookshelves were stuffed with reels and fish line instead of books. Old rods were stacked in a corner under two freshwater trout, preserved and mounted on facing walls, their mouths arching toward each other as though straining toward an unrequited kiss.
Being directly at the water’s edge, the boathouse had a straight-on view of Lake Mohawk, a large body of water around which the settlement of Sparta was built.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. An awkward moment passed between them. It was a moment he knew would happen where the subject of their previous intimacy would be addressed. Instead of bringing it up, he skirted the subject.
“You didn’t mention last week. If you’re comfortable talking about it, tell me what happened to your marriage?”
She paused, then said, “Well, it’s like this, after twenty-three years of marriage and one wonderful son later, Ernest realized he was gay.”
He must have looked shocked, because she laughed at his reaction.
“What’s so funny?” he asked. “That doesn’t sound like a pleasa
nt experience at all.”
She laughed again.
“I suppose you’re right. It wasn’t pleasant. But sometimes life is just so absurd that you have to laugh. Besides, Ernest is such a sweet man, it’s nearly impossible to dislike him.”
“If he’s gay, doesn’t he have someone other than you to water his plants? A partner?”
Another laugh.
“That’s the joke,” she said. “The man who broke up our marriage, dumped Ernest last winter and ran off to Paris with a ballet dancer.”
This time, they both laughed. It felt good. It was the first time he’d experienced the relief of laughter since before the drones arrived at his house in Bethel. He realized she was right, life can be so absurd you just have to laugh. If you can.
There was no laughing earlier that afternoon when he first approached her on the sidewalk outside her high-rise office building near Lincoln Center in New York. She was not at all frightened. In fact, she was genuinely pleased to see him. After a walk around Lincoln Center while he told her the story, she readily agreed to help.
“Sam, I want to tell you something,” she said, addressing the awkwardness of the moment he was avoiding. “I didn’t stay with you at The Argonaut last week just for the fun of it, although it was fun. I did so because I wanted to be with you. You’re a good man, and I like you. I knew that before I slept with you. And I knew the moment I saw the news that there was no way you could have done that horrible thing.”
“Lawyer’s instinct?”
“Hush. Well, okay, some lawyer’s instinct was involved. As for knowing you’re a good man—that’s all womanly instinct.”
“Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me. Besides,” she said, gesturing at the interior of the boathouse, “now that I’ve brought you here, we’re in this thing together. By the way, your friend Bruce Kasarian at Columbia tells me that nobody there believes you did it, either. He says people in the math and science departments are considering a public petition to the governor.”
“What good would that do?”
“None. I don’t practice criminal law, but I’m familiar with the system. No offense, Sam, but your colleagues are academics, and academics don’t get this sort of thing. A petition urging local police or the FBI to stand down on a fugitive wanted for murder is wasted effort.”
He sat on the daybed and sighed.
“Sam, you’re exhausted. Let’s not delay your rest any longer. You can stay here in the boathouse as long as you feel it’s safe. I’m in a Manhattan courtroom all day tomorrow. But I’ll visit tomorrow night.”
“What if it’s not safe? The police and the assassin-squad may eventually connect you to me as…as…”
He considered saying “as an acquaintance,” which sounded so clinical he feared it would be insulting. On the other hand, calling her a “lover,” though they had been lovers, seemed presumptuous.
They both sensed an enhanced conversation about their relationship would take place soon enough. But the timing wasn’t right, so it would have to wait.
“Good point,” she said, covering for his discomfort. “Come over here. You see that small chalet directly across the lake, surrounded by clumps of forsythia? It’s partially illuminated by lights from a huge mansion next door, the one with the circular stone driveway.”
“Yes, I see it.”
“That’s my rental. It’s what I call home until the situation with the big colonial next door gets resolved.” She put a hand on his arm. “Sam, let’s make a plan. I don’t mean to treat this lightly, like some silly spy movie. Although it does remind me of playing secret agent with my son. We had wonderful games of intrigue that would sometimes go on for days.”
“You must have been a fun mom.”
“Actually, it was Ernest’s idea. He wanted Alex to know that imaginative alternatives to video games really exist and can be even more fun.”
“Smart,” he said, impressed. “So what do you have in mind?”
She stepped to the sliding glass doors.
“If I think it’s unsafe, I’ll put a cactus in my bathroom window. It’s in a bright blue pot. You’ll be able to see it with the binoculars, which are there on the counter.”
“Fine.”
“You do the same. If there’s something iffy going on, take this empty wine bottle with the candle stuck in it, and put it on the railing of the little porch out there beyond the sliding doors. No need to light the candle. I’ll see it fine with my own binoculars. And by the way, everyone in this town has either binoculars or a high-powered telescope. It’s de rigueur for life on the lake in Sparta. So if you’re inspired to try skinny-dipping, be advised that you will be observed, videotaped and probably uploaded to YouTube.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said, knowing that compared with the last two-and-a-half days of his life, this was going to be a holiday.
Before she left, they kissed briefly in the boathouse doorway.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Central Park Zoo, New York City
The California sea lions have always been the box office stars of the Central Park Zoo.
The two men stood behind a happy gaggle of day campers watching the seals romp and perform in the rocky pool. The children and their counselors wore orange T-shirts emblazoned with the words, “New Hope Cathedral Day Camp, Easton, Pa.”
McCanliss, aka Ice Skater, was the older and taller of the two. The younger, shorter man, Durgan Donnursk, aka Copper Miner, had the figure of someone diligent about exercise and calorie intake.
“So you’ve heard nothing?” Donnursk asked.
“Nothing since yesterday near The Argonaut Hotel.”
“Is he shacked up?”
“Unknown. I’m looking into that possibility,” McCanliss said. “I’ve got one lead in northwest Jersey. I plan to hit that tomorrow morning. State and local Boy Scouts will join in. You can come along if you like.”
“Oh, I will come along,” Donnursk said. “You can be certain of that.”
McCanliss didn’t like his tone.
“Look, Durgan, you’re here for Q-and-A so you can file a report about Bethel to the coat-and-tie assholes on the home shop’s tenth floor. So do me a favor. Could you just do your job without getting up in my grill? What do you say?”
Two angelic campers turned to look at the older man using foul language. A camp counselor enveloped them in his right arm, discreetly returning their attention to the sea lions.
Donnursk ignored the insult. “I heard he’s broken the Dear John code. Your screw-up in Bethel allowed him to download it. Now he’s actually broken it? I mean, Jesus, Harry.”
“Let me ask you something, Durgan, since you’re so plugged into the tenth floor. Is there any truth to the rumor that the file is named ‘QB69’? As in Queen Bitches?” McCanliss was set to break into sarcastic laughter.
“Harry, just answer the question. I’m not here for jokes.”
McCanliss sighed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. He broke the code. Well, he’s broken one entry that I know of. But that single entry happens to mention Op Over Easy.”
Donnursk was stunned.
“Goddamn, Harry. Do you know how much damage that can do?”
This time, several campers heard the younger, shorter man swearing. They glanced with discomfort at one another. Their counselor turned to stare daggers at the two men, who ignored him and casually stepped away from the frenetic huddle of kids cheering the performing sea lions.
“Aw c’mon, Durgan,” McCanliss said. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Well, the tenth floor thinks it’s that bad. They’re crapping footballs over this.”
“Look, neither of us knows for certain what Op Over Easy really was. Technically, it’s all rumor. Even at our level. So if it gets out in the press, they can just deny it. Like always. They can just call it nonsense like the Air Force does for all the assholes who think
Martians landed at Area 51.”
“Harry, this is not some Area 51 bullshit. This is Operation Over Easy. We know what it was. It was the 1960s program that became the DFC. And the DFC is now you and me. It’s our job. It’s who we are. It’s the reason we do what we do for our country.”
“Yeah, yeah,” McCanliss said with an eye roll.
“Goddammit, Harry, wise up. This is your granddaddy’s syphilis popping out in our bloodstream two generations later.”
“Okay, all right already. I’ll nail Teagarden and put a stop to it. That’s what my grant of supreme authority allows. I will nail him.”
“No, Harry—we—will nail Teagarden. We are now a team working with approval for dual supreme authority. You fucked up in Bethel, so no more solo. The tenth floor is making us a duo. That’s what I’m here to tell you. We’re a unit.”
This time it was McCanliss who was stunned. His nostrils flared around the thick scar under his nose. Donnursk liked seeing that. It made him feel he had the upper hand.
“That’s right, Harry. I’m not here for a mere Q-and-A to file a report to the tenth floor. We are officially a squad of two—yoked. Partners. And let’s hope I’m not too late, because if he’s decoded the entire Dear John File, learned about Operation Over Easy and everything that involves, then goes public, well then—we—are—all—fucked. You understand? American history in the second half of the last century will be revealed to be a total lie. Our enemies will love it, and our international allies will totally bail on us for being a historic fraud. Do you understand? That is how serious this is.”
He stopped talking as they strolled deeper into the zoo. They entered the penguin house and emerged on the other side.
“And there’s something else, Harry. Who the hell is Svetlana Gelayeva and why is she dead?”
Flight of the Fox Page 12