Nowhere to Run

by Mary Jane Clark

  He wished that son of his had bigger cojones. Wayne was such a disappointment.

  Chapter 57

  “Can we, Mommy?” asked Tara.

  “Yeah, Mom, can we?” Thomas seconded.

  Why not make the morning a complete success? To heck with balanced lunches and spoiled appetites. Life was short. She doubted Jerome, if he could, would look back on his life and wish that he had eaten less junk food.

  “Okay,” Annabelle answered.

  The twins let out a collective “Yea!” as they crossed Bleecker Street to the Magnolia Bakery.

  In the window of the tiny shop, a young woman spread thick icing in shades of pink, green, and yellow on top of generously sized cupcakes. Tubs of peach and blue sprinkles and candy flowers waited nearby, ready to complete the decoration. Once they were inside, sugar cookies, blueberry muffins, and cheesecakes beckoned from the glass display cases.

  “I want a green cupcake,” said Thomas.

  “I want a pink one,” his sister chimed.

  Annabelle got a dozen of the chocolate drop cookies Mike liked and some of the peanut butter ones she adored and paid for the order. The kids were barely out the door when they begged not to have to wait until they got home to eat their treats.

  “Let’s go over to the playground for a little while,” Annabelle suggested. “You can eat them there.”

  It didn’t take much to convince them. The Bleecker Playground on Abingdon Square was one of their favorite haunts. There the three of them sat on a bench, warmed by the noonday sun, as Annabelle distributed the cupcakes from the paper bag.

  Thomas struggled to peel the paper back from his cupcake.

  “Take off your mittens, honey. I’ll hold them for you.”

  The child obeyed, handing the red mittens to his mother, and she stuffed them into her coat pocket. Reaching into the bakery bag, Annabelle pulled out a cookie for herself and watched with pleasure as her children ate, the icing coating their little lips and spreading onto their rosy cheeks.

  A little fun never killed anyone.

  Chapter 58

  Yelena Gregory, FBI agents, New York City Health Department officials, and police homicide detectives. Joe Connelly mentally weighed which formidable source was causing him the most agita as they combed through the Broadcast Center on what should have been a quiet Saturday.

  Yelena was straining to keep control.

  “We’ve never had a murder in the history of the Broadcast Center,” she murmured as they watched Edgar’s sheet-covered body being rolled out of the cafeteria. “And we potentially have another one out there in a hospital in New Jersey.” She gave Joe a piercing stare. “KEY stock closed down yesterday. Monday will probably be worse. What are we going to do?”

  “We’re doing all we can, Yelena. Mostly, we have to let these professionals do their jobs.”

  Joe knew that the idea of sitting back and waiting didn’t sit well with Yelena Gregory. She was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed with quick results. What was going on here was to a great extent out of her control, and she couldn’t like that one bit.

  “Everyone here is going to be looking to you, Yelena,” he reminded her. “They will need to be reassured that everything is going to be all right.”

  The corner of Yelena’s mouth lifted in a wry half smile. “How do I tell them that when I don’t even know if I believe it myself?”

  Chapter 59

  Thirty-one Highland Place was abuzz with activity. Police cars flanked the HAZMAT truck parked in front of the Victorian house. Neighbors who ventured out to see what was happening were told to go back inside their homes. Both ends of the street were cordoned off to keep cars and pedestrians away.

  Inside the house, men, suited and masked, methodically worked their way through the rooms where Jerome Henning lived. On the second floor, a desk drawer was opened, and a gloved hand pulled out a test tube.

  A neighbor’s telephone call to the news desk hot line led the Garden State News Network satellite truck to Maplewood. Unable to gain access to Highland Place, the van parked on the next block.

  “Let me scope things out,” ordered the reporter, leaving the truck operator and the cameraman to set up. He was trespassing, he knew, as he cut through the yard of the house that backed up to the Henning place. When he got to the row of boxwoods that separated the backyards, a policeman stopped him. PATROLMAN ANDREW KENNY was engraved on the identification badge.

  “Don’t go any further, bud.”

  “Press, Garden State News Network, Officer Kenny. But I’m just doing my job, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I know, but you’ve got to go back.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Sorry. No dice. Now get going,” the officer ordered.

  Trying to figure out what he would do next, the reporter turned and started to leave just as the back door of the house opened.

  “Hey, Andy,” came the yell. “We think we found the anthrax in the guy’s desk drawer.”

  Chapter 60

  Her son pulled on the mittens that had been stashed in her pocket.

  “Those mittens are getting pretty ratty looking, Thomas,” Annabelle said. There was a hole in the thumb section, exposing Thomas’s skin. “We’ve got to get you a new pair.”

  It wouldn’t even require a trip to the store. On their way home from the park, a street vendor offered a colorful array of hats, scarves, and gloves. Annabelle usually liked to stuff the kids’ Christmas stockings with those types of things, but she was in her “why wait, life is short” mode. It would be nice to have the twins decked out in new scarf-and-mittens sets when they went to the parade on Thanksgiving morning.

  They picked out a green-striped cap and mittens for Thomas. Tara wanted purple.

  It wasn’t even worth washing the old mittens and dropping them off at a Goodwill bin.

  “Just throw them in that garbage can, Thomas,” instructed his mother, pointing to the receptacle as they turned the corner at Perry Street.

  Chapter 61

  “I’m going to Chumley’s for a beer with the guys,” Mike announced.

  Annabelle looked up from the laundry she was folding, noticing with pleasure that her husband had actually shaved. His hair was washed, his fingernails clipped. He wore her favorite navy crewneck sweater, which set off his blue eyes, and a pair of faded but pressed jeans. Except for the fact that his pants hung more loosely than she remembered, Mike almost looked like his old self. His old handsome self.

  “You are?” she asked with surprise. Then quickly added, “That’s great, honey. Have a good time.”

  She couldn’t remember the last time Mike had gone out with his friends. Once he had cherished the camaraderie but, over the last months, he had shown so little interest in their treasured brotherhood. The guys called often to see how Mike was doing, to encourage him to come down to the firehouse to spend some time together. Mostly, Mike would refuse to come to the phone, leaving Annabelle to make lame excuses. That he wanted to go out and meet them for a beer was a good sign.

  “Should I hold dinner?”

  “No. I’ll probably grab something there. I suddenly have a yen for one of those burgers.”

  Appetite. Another good sign.

  He actually stopped to kiss her on the cheek before he walked out the door. With a warm feeling, Annabelle finished putting the folded clothes away. The twins were content, playing in their room with Legos, building their own unique version of a castle. Her husband had gone out to meet some of the guys for a beer. Everything felt almost normal again.

  Fortified, she braced herself for a call to the hospital.

  Jerome was still in critical condition.

  Chapter 62

  Gavin eyed the striking redhead who walked past the bank of amaryllis decorating the Ritz-Carlton bar. He’d like to get himself some of that.

  She must have felt his eyes on her, because she turned to look at him straight on. He smiled and lifted his brandy snifter
in salute. She turned away.

  He took a large, quick swallow of his drink and threw a ten-dollar tip on the small table, eager to get away now. If Marguerite had let him come home, he wouldn’t be in this situation. It was embarrassing. Here he was sitting in a hotel bar five blocks from Ground Zero, lusting after a woman who looked to be a good thirty years younger than he was.

  Well, nobody could blame him for the last part. One minute with that wrinkled harpy Marguerite, and any man worth his salt would understand why he was forced to look elsewhere.

  Screw Marguerite—and the horse she rode in on. If she was so damned worried about her own safety, he was going to see that he was very pampered in his exile. This hotel was the place to do it. He’d heard the Ritz-Carlton in Battery Park was terrific, and he had been wanting to try it out. Catering to the financial world’s haute clientele, the hotel had all the amenities and then some. There was a technology butler to help with computer problems and a bath butler to draw a long, restful soak in the tub. Gavin’s Art Deco–style room looked out over New York Harbor, the hotel providing a telescope in every room to get a closer look at the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, or even the skippers who sailed their boats into the Hudson River. The marble bathroom was stocked with thick lotions and beauty potions and the fluffiest towels. Two plush robes hung in the closet, waiting to wrap guests after the massages that could be ordered given in the room. Even those pillows last night were the most luxurious he had ever slept on.

  Unfortunately, KEY News wasn’t going to pick up the tab for his weekend stay in the city. He’d have to pay for it himself. But it was worth it, and he could afford it.

  Standing in the elegant lobby, Gavin decided he was hungry. He’d go upstairs to the other bar, have another drink, and order something light to eat. Taking the elevator to the fourteenth floor, he got off at Rise. He chose a table near the window and settled down to admire Lady Liberty aglow in the harbor while he waited for his food.

  “Gavin Winston? What are you doing here on a Saturday night?”

  Gavin rose to shake his stockbroker’s hand. “I could ask you the same question, Paul.”

  “Oh, you know, Saturday, Sunday, I’m always doing business. Are you by yourself, man?”

  Gavin hesitated. He didn’t want to have to invite the broker to sit down, but he couldn’t see a way around it.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Okay, a quick one. Glenlivet, rocks.”

  After a few sips of the alcohol, the talk turned to Wellstone and the SEC investigation.

  “Are you a little nervous, Gavin? We all are.”

  “You only have to be nervous, Paul, when you have something to hide.”

  Chapter 63

  Beth swirled from side to side, eyeing herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her closet door. She wasn’t sure if she would end up wearing the new outfit tomorrow to Linus’s party. The brown crushed velvet skirt was becoming, falling midcalf, elongating her form and making her look thinner, but she worried that it was too conservative for Linus’s tastes. She wanted him to take notice. But, after all, it was a football party. She couldn’t go prancing in there wearing cocktail attire.

  Beth held her breath, sucked in her stomach, and wondered what Lauren Adams would be wearing. She always seemed to have just the right thing. It certainly did not hurt that Lauren was a perfect size 6.

  Beth took off the skirt and arranged it on the bed, knowing the manicure scissors were in the vanity drawer. Taking them out, she carefully snipped the tag that was stitched on the inside of the skirt. She might be a size 16, but she didn’t need to be reminded of it every time she dressed. And if, just if, her skirt was to find itself parted from her body, she didn’t want to risk Linus’s seeing the embarrassing double digits.

  She had been trying. She really had. Going to the Weight Watchers meetings, counting her points, keeping her food journal, taking the stairs rather than the elevator. It was hard, but she knew if she could just lose the extra baggage, she could get Linus to come around, to view her as a woman, not merely his capable employee.

  She had already lost ten pounds. Forty sticks of butter, the Weight Watcher leader said to visualize it. Yet there was so far to go. And now the holidays were coming. Traditionally for her, Thanksgiving kicked off a six-week eating binge. Beth didn’t know how she was going to get through the season this year. She had to keep her eyes on the prize, not let herself be distracted. The long-term goal was Linus. She had to remember that.

  Her stomach was growling now. She wrapped herself in a roomy robe and walked down the hallway to the small kitchen. Opening the freezer, she scanned the contents and selected a Lean Cuisine dinner. A minuscule Salisbury steak and a dollop of mashed potatoes. Five points.

  While the microwave hummed, Beth made the notation in her journal and computed the points she could consume for the rest of the day. She’d have enough left for a bag of low-fat popcorn and a diet Coke when she watched TV tonight. She hoped that would be enough to fill another Saturday night alone.

  The diet dinner took no time to down. As she scraped every last bit of gravy from the plastic dish, Beth wondered if a case of anthrax would lead to weight loss.

  It might be worth it.

  Chapter 64

  Mike still wasn’t home when Annabelle turned on the eleven o’clock news, and she was starting to be concerned. But the lead story diverted her from worry about her husband.

  “People in Maplewood, New Jersey, are anxious tonight after health department officials confirmed that anthrax was found in the home of thirty-six-year-old resident Jerome Henning. Henning, a producer for KEY News, is in critical condition in Essex Hills Hospital, suffering from inhalation anthrax poisoning.

  “Authorities searched Henning’s home this afternoon, finding the white powder that tests showed to be anthrax. Earlier in the week, on the KEY News morning show, KEY to America, Medical Correspondent Dr. John Lee claimed to display anthrax. Tests on that substance indicated that it was not the deadly powder but was, instead, powdered sugar. Tests done at selected spots in KEY News offices showed no contamination, but the building is going through more extensive testing this weekend.

  “Police and federal agents are trying to put the pieces of the anthrax puzzle together, along with investigating another sad twist. The body of forty-two-year-old food-service worker Edgar Rivers was found this morning in the freezer of the KEY cafeteria. Rivers had been stabbed in the back.”

  Annabelle listened in shock, trying to take in the enormity of the newscaster’s words. She didn’t know Edgar well, hadn’t ever had a long conversation with him, but she’d instinctively liked him and felt happy when she saw him in the hallway or in the cafeteria. He was a familiar part of her weekday life, and the news that he had been stabbed to death not twenty feet from where they so often exchanged smiles and pleasantries left Annabelle feeling both sickened and terrified.

  Edgar. The happy man who cheerfully delivered their refreshments in the morning, his smile warm and welcoming, his shirt starched and pressed, his shoes polished with care. The pride he took in his job evident for all to see. What about those sweet little boys who so clearly adored their uncle?

  Who would want to hurt that poor sweet man? Was Edgar’s murder somehow connected with Jerome’s poisoning? Was her stolen tote bag not merely another random theft in Manhattan—did the thief know exactly what he wanted?

  Annabelle sat back on the sofa, suddenly aware of the soreness in her shoulder. She grabbed the telephone to call Constance, then remembered that her friend had gone to Washington to visit her mother and wouldn’t be back until Linus’s party tomorrow.

  She wished Mike would come home. Annabelle didn’t feel good about being the only adult in the apartment tonight.

  Chapter 65

  He needed another CD holder. There was no more room on the entertainment center shelves for his ever-growing accumulation. Painstakingly filed by category—pop, jazz, country, rap—t
he compact discs stood side by side in an impressive music library. Russ was proud of and fanatical about his collection. But the CDs, along with the DVDs and videotapes, were taking over the apartment.

  He needed more closet space too. A man on television had to have the right clothes, and he had been doing his best to separate himself from the entertainment reporters and movie critics on the competing networks. No navy blazers or bow ties for him. He’d invested a small fortune in suede, leather, and Italian silk. It bothered him every time he crammed a costly garment into his stuffed closets.

  It was time to move. And now he could afford it. He was just waiting for a bigger place in the same building to become available. Or perhaps, if he was lucky, that pill in the apartment next door would decide to move. He could buy her co-op and knock through the wall, enlarging his place.

  She was always complaining, that one, about the noise coming from his apartment. He played his music too loud, too late, she claimed, and she couldn’t sleep. She was a coward, to boot. She never confronted him face-to-face, only slid her nasty letters of protest under his front door. He would be thrilled to see her go.

  Inspired, Russ snorted a line of cocaine, slid the new Matchbox Twenty disc into the stereo, and piped up the volume. His foot tapped and he hummed to himself as he began to sort through the pile of mail. Bill, bill, bill, bill. He tossed them aside, unopened.

  At the bottom of the pile, he found what he wanted. He ripped open the white envelope and smiled.

  It was nice to have another steady source of income, but he’d have to be more careful in the future. With Linus on the warpath, Russ couldn’t be so blatant in his praise of lackluster films.