Six Years (14 page)

But if Jed shot me now—even if he fired as I tried to surrender—it could be viewed as either self-defense or, at worst, a jumpy trigger finger. He would shoot and kill me and say that he thought I had a gun or something like that and, really, I already killed one man, according to Stocky and Thin Man Jerry. And all of these Vermont buddies would back Jed’s story and the only guy who would contradict them—yours truly—would be worm food.

There was more to consider. If I surrendered, how long would I be jammed up with the police? I was getting closer to the truth. I could feel it. They thought that I killed someone. Heck, I sort of confessed to it. How long could they hold me? A while, I bet.

If they nabbed me now, I’d probably never have a chance to confront Natalie’s sister, Julie.

“This way,” Thin Man Jerry said.

They started walking to me. Jed lifted his gun, keeping it very much at the ready.

I started to backpedal. My head felt as though it’d been encased in molasses.

“If someone is in those woods,” Stocky shouted, “come out now with your hands up.”

They moved closer. I slid backward a few more steps and ducked behind a tree. The woods were thick. If I could get deep enough in them, I’d be safe at least for a bit. I picked up a rock and hurled it as far as I could to my left. All eyes turned. Flashlights came on and shone in that direction.

“Over there,” someone yelled.

Jed led the way, gun pointed.

Surrender? Oh, I don’t think so.

Stocky moved next to Jed. Jed hurried his step, nearly running, but Stocky put up an arm to stop him. “Move slow,” Stocky said. “He might be armed.”

Jed, of course, knew better, didn’t he?

Thin Man Jerry didn’t budge. “This thing says he’s still over here.”

Again he pointed in my direction. They were forty, fifty yards away. Staying low in the thicket, I quickly buried the phone—my second lost in the past three days—under a pile of leaves and hurried away, trying to make as little noise as possible. I started moving backward, deeper into the woods, again trying my best not to make any noise. I kept a few rocks in my hand. I’d throw them if I needed to distract.

The others gathered back around Jerry, all moving slowly toward the phone.

I picked up my pace, getting deeper and deeper into the trees. I couldn’t see them anymore, just the flashlights.

“He’s close by,” Thin Man Jerry said.

“Or,” Jed added, seeing the light, I guess, “his cell phone is.”

I kept moving, kept low. I really didn’t have a plan here. I had no idea what direction to take or how far the woods went. I might be able to escape them, might be able to keep moving, but eventually, unless I found a way out of here, I didn’t have a clue how I’d get out of this.

Maybe, I thought, I could double-back to the house.

I heard voices mumbling. They were now too far for me to see them. That was a good thing. I could see the movement stop. The flashlight was lowered.

“He’s not here,” someone said.

Stocky, annoyed: “I can see that.”

“Maybe your tracker is off.”

They were, I guessed, right on top of where I’d haphazardly buried the phone. I wondered how long that gave me. Not much time, but probably enough. I rose to keep running and then it happened.

I’m not a doctor or a scientist, so I really can’t tell you how adrenaline works. I only know that it does. It had helped me move past the pain from that blow to the head, from my jumping through a window, from my landing hard on the ground. It helped me recover from running face-first into that tree, even as I felt my lip fatten, could taste the bitter blood on my tongue.

What I do know—what I was learning at that very moment—was that adrenaline is not limitless. It was a finite hormone found within our bodies, nothing more. It may be the most potent surge we know, but the effects, as I was quickly experiencing, were only short-term.

That surge eventually peters out.

The pain didn’t so much ebb back in as announce itself with the thrash of a reaper’s scythe. A bolt of pain ripped through my head, knocking me to my knees. I actually had to cover my mouth with my hand to prevent myself from crying out.

I heard another car coming up the drive. Had Stocky called for backup?

In the distance, I could hear voices:

“It’s his phone!”

“What the . . . he buried it!”

“Spread out!”

I could hear rustling behind me. I wondered how much of a lead I had and how well that lead would stand up to flashlights and bullets. Probably not very big or well. I once again considered the idea of surrendering and taking my chances. I once again didn’t like it.

I heard Stocky say, “Just back off, Jed. We can handle this.”

“It’s my land,” Jed replied. “Too much land for you two to cover.”

“Still—”

“My property, Jerry.” There was snap in Jed’s voice. “You’re on it without a warrant.”

“A warrant?” It was Stocky. “You serious? We’re just worried about your safety.”

“Me too,” Jed answered. “You got no idea where this murderer is hiding, right?”

“Well—”

“For all you know, he could be in the house. Hiding. Waiting for us. No way, bro—we are staying out here with you.”

Silence.

Get
up
, I told myself.

“I want everyone to stay in sight,” Stocky said. “No heroes. You see something, you scream for help.”

I heard murmurs of agreement, then flashlights sliced through the dark. They were spreading out. I couldn’t see people in the dark, just the bouncing beams of light. It was enough to know that I was really screwed.

Get up, dumb ass!

My head reeled in agony, but I managed to get to my feet. I stumbled forward like some kind of stiff-legged movie monster. I had made it about three steps, maybe four, when the flashlight sliced across my back.

I quickly jumped behind a tree.

Had I been spotted?

I waited for someone to call out. No one did. I kept my back against the bark. The only sound now was my own breath. Did that beam of light hit me? I was pretty sure that it had. But I didn’t know for sure. I stayed where I was and waited.

Footsteps coming toward me.

I wasn’t sure what to do. If someone had spotted me, I was finished. There was no way I could get away. I waited for someone to shout for help.

Nothing, except for the approaching footsteps.

Wait a second. If I had been spotted, why hadn’t anyone called out? Maybe I was okay. Maybe I had been mistaken for a tree or something.

Or maybe no one was calling out because they wanted to shoot me?

I tried to coldly consider that for a moment. Suppose, for example, it was Jed. Would he call out? No. If he called out, I might run and then Stocky and Thin Man Jerry would be on me too and it would be harder to kill me. But suppose he had spotted me with his flashlight. What then? If he had indeed seen me, if he knew that I was hiding behind this very tree, well, maybe Jed could sneak up on me alone, gun at the ready, and . . .

Ka-boom.

The footsteps were growing louder.

My brain tried to do that quick-calculating-reptilian thing again—it had already saved me, right?—but after a second or two of neuron burning, I came to a rather startling yet obvious conclusion:

I was finished. There was no way out.

I tried to gather my strength for a big-time sprint, but really, what would that do? I’d expose myself for certain and in the condition I was in I’d never get far. I’d either get shot or captured. Come to think of it, those seemed to be my only two choices now: shot or captured. I preferred captured, thank you very much. The question now was, how could I maximize my chances of captured over shot?

I didn’t have a clue.

A beam of light danced in front of me. I pressed my back into the tree and went up on my tippy-toes. Like that was going to help. The footsteps were getting closer. Judging by the sound and the brightness of the light, I would guess that someone was within ten yards of me.

Options flew in and out of my brain. I could stay here and jump the guy. If it was Jed, for example, I could disarm him. But any struggle on my part would not only reveal my location for sure, but if it wasn’t Jed—if it was, for example, Stocky—then it would be open season on using deadly force on me.

So what to do?

Hope that I hadn’t been spotted.

Of course, hope wasn’t a plan or even an option. It was wishing. It was fanciful thinking. It was leaving my fate in the hands of, well, fate.

The footsteps were only a yard or two away now. I braced myself, unsure what to do, leaving it to that reptilian part of my brain, when I heard a whisper.

“Don’t say a word. I know you’re behind the tree.”

It was Cookie.

“I’m going to walk past you,” she said, her voice low. “When I do, get right behind me and walk. Get as close to my back as possible.”

“What?”

“Just do it.” Her tone left no room for discussion. “Right up close.”

Cookie walked past my tree, nearly knocking into it, and kept going. I didn’t hesitate. I fell in line right behind her and followed. I could see flashlights in the distance, both on my left and on my right.

“That wasn’t an act, was it?” Cookie said.

I didn’t know what she meant.

“You loved Natalie, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I’m going to walk you as far as I can. We will hit a path. Take it to the right. Stay low and out of sight. The path will lead to the clearing where the white chapel is. You’ll know how to get away from there. I will try to keep them occupied. Get as far away as you can. Don’t go home. They’ll find you there.”

“Who will find me?”

I tried to move in sync with her, matching footstep for footstep like an annoying kid copying another.

“You need to stop, Jake.”

“Who will find me?”

“This is bigger than you can imagine. You have no idea what you’re up against. None at all.”

“Tell me.”

“If you don’t stop, you’ll kill us all.” Cookie veered left. I kept with her. “The path is up ahead. I will turn left, you head down to the right. Understand?”

“Where’s Natalie? Is she alive?”

“In ten seconds, we will be on the path.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re not listening to me. You’ve got to leave this alone.”

“Then tell me where Natalie is.”

In the distance I could hear Stocky yell out something, but I couldn’t make out the words. Cookie slowed her step.

“Please,” I said.

Her voice was distant, hollow. “I don’t know where Natalie is. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive. Neither does Jed. Neither do any of us.”

We hit a path made of crumbled stone. She began to turn to the left. “One last thing, Jake.”

“What?”

“If you come back, I won’t be the one saving your life.” Cookie showed me the gun in her hand. “I’ll be the one who ends it.”

Chapter
22

I
recognized the path.

There was a small pond to the right. Natalie and I had gone swimming there late one night. We got out, panting, lying naked in each other’s arm, skin against skin. “I never had this,” she said slowly. “I mean, I’ve had this, but . . . never
this
.”

I understood. I hadn’t either.

I passed the old park bench where Natalie and I used to sit after having coffee and scones at Cookie’s. Up ahead, I could see the faint outline of the chapel. I barely glanced at it, didn’t need those memories slowing me down right now. I took the path down into town. My car was less than half a mile away. I wondered whether the cops had located it yet. I didn’t see how. I wouldn’t be able to drive it very long—there was probably an APB on it too—but I didn’t see any other way of getting out of town. I’d have to risk it.

The street remained so dark that I was only able to find my car via memory. I practically walked right into it. When I opened the door, the car’s interior light burst through the night. I quickly slipped inside and closed the door. Now what? I was, I guessed, a guy on the run. I remembered seeing on some TV show where the fugitive switched license plates with another car. Maybe that would help. Maybe I could find a parked car and do that. Right, sure, except, of course, I didn’t have a screwdriver. How could I do it without a screwdriver? I searched my pocket and pulled out a dime. Would that work as a screwdriver?

It would take too long.

I did have a destination in mind. I drove south, careful not to drive too fast or too slowly, constantly hitting the gas and brake, as though the proper speed would somehow make me invisible. The roads were dark. That would probably help. I had to keep in mind that an APB wasn’t all-powerful. I probably had some time on my hands if I could keep off main roads.

My iPhone was, of course, gone. I felt naked and impotent without it. Funny how attached we get to those devices. I continued south.

Now what?

I had only sixty dollars on me. That wouldn’t get me far. If I used a credit card, the cops would see it and pick me up right away. Well, not right away. They’d have to see the charge come in and then dispatch a squad car or whatever. I don’t know how long that took but I doubt it would be instantaneous. Cops are good. They aren’t omnipotent.

No choice really. I had to take a calculated risk. Interstate 91, the main highway in this area, was just up ahead. I took it to the first rest area and parked near the back in the least-lit spot I could find. I actually cinched up my collar, as if that would disguise me, and headed inside. When I walked past the small rest-stop convenience store, something snagged my gaze.

They sold pens and markers. Not a lot of them, but maybe . . .

I thought about it for a second, maybe two, and then I headed into the shop. When I checked the small selection of writing utensils, the disappointment hit me harder than I expected.

“Can I help you?”

The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty. She had blond hair with streaks of pink in it. Yep, pink.

“I like your hair,” I said, ever the charmer.

“The pink?” She pointed at the streaks. “It’s for breast cancer awareness. Say, are you okay?”

“Sure, why?”

“You got a big bump on your head. I think it’s bleeding.”

“Oh, that. Right. I’m fine.”

“We sell a first aid kit, if you think that’ll help.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I turned back to the pens and markers. “I’m looking for a red marker, but I don’t see any here.”

“We don’t carry any. Just black.”

“Oh.”

She studied my face. “I got one here though.” She reached into a drawer and picked out a red Sharpie marker. “We use it for inventory, to cross out stuff.”

I tried not to show how anxious I was. “Is there any way I can purchase it from you?”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”

“Please,” I said. “It is really important.”

She thought about it. “Tell you what. You buy the first aid kit and promise to take care of that bump, and I’ll throw in the pen.”

I made the deal and hurried into the men’s room. The clock had to be ticking. A police car would eventually drive by major rest stops and check cars, right? Or wrong? I didn’t have a clue. I tried to keep my breathing even and smooth. I checked my face in the mirror. Ugh. There was swelling on my forehead, and an open gash above my eye. I cleaned it out as much as I could, but a big bandage would make me stick out like a sore thumb.

The ATM was next to the vending machines, but that would have to wait a few more minutes.

I rushed out to my car. My car license plate read “704 LI6.” The lettering in Massachusetts is red. Using the marker I turned the 0 into an 8, the L into an E, the I into a T, the 6 into an 8. I took a step back. It would never stand up to close inspection, but from any sort of distance, the plate did read “784 ET8.”

I would have smiled at my ingenuity, but there was no time. I headed back toward the ATM and debated how to approach the machine. I knew that all ATMs had cameras—who didn’t?—but even if I avoided being seen, the authorities would know it was my credit card.

Speed seemed more important here. If they had a picture of me, they had a picture of me.

I have two credit cards. I took out the max on both and hurried back to my car. I got off the highway at the next exit and started taking side roads. When I reached Greenfield, I parked the car on a side street in the center of town. I considered taking the nearest bus, but that would be too obvious. I found a taxi and took it to Springfield. Naturally I paid cash. I took the Peter Pan bus from there to New York City. Throughout all of this travel, my eyes kept shifting all over the place, waiting for—I don’t know—a cop or a bad guy to spot and nab me.

Paranoid much?

Once in Manhattan I hired another taxi to take me out to Ramsey, New Jersey, where I knew Julie Pottham, Natalie’s sister, lived.

When we reached Ramsey, the driver said, “Okay, bud, where to?”

It was four in the morning—clearly too late (or, depending on your point of view, too early) to visit Natalie’s sister. Plus I needed rest. My head hurt. My nerves were shot. I could feel my body quake from exhaustion.

“Let’s find a motel.”

“There’s a Sheraton up this way.”

They’d require identification and probably a credit card. “No. Something . . . cheaper.”

We found one of those no-tell motels designed for truckers, adulterers, and us fugitives. It was aptly named the Fair Motel. I liked that honesty: We aren’t great, we aren’t even good, we’re “fair.” A sign above the awning announced “Hourly Rates” (just like a Ritz-Carlton), “Color TV” (mocking those competitors who still use black-and-white), and my favorite part: “Now Featuring Towels!”

This place wouldn’t require ID or credit card or even a pulse.

The woman behind the desk was in her seventies. She looked at me with seen-it-all eyes. Her name tag read
MABEL
. Her hair had the consistency of hay. I asked for a room in the back.

“Do you have a reservation?” she asked me.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Yeah, I am,” Mabel said. “But the rooms in the back are full. Everyone wants a room in the back. Must be the view of the Dumpster. I got a nice room overlooking a Staples store, if you’d like.”

Mabel gave me a key to room 12, which ended up not being as nightmarish as I imagined. The place looked
fair
ly clean. I tried not to think what this room had probably witnessed during its lifetime, but then again, if I stopped and thought about it, I wouldn’t like to think about that in a Ritz-Carlton either.

I collapsed into bed with my clothes still on and fell into one of those sleeps where you don’t remember falling asleep and have no idea what time it is when you wake up. When morning hit, I reached for my iPhone on the night table but, alas, I remembered that I didn’t have it anymore. The police did. Were they going through it? Were they seeing all the places I had searched, all the texts I had sent, all the e-mails I had mailed out? Were they doing the same at my house on campus? If they had gotten a warrant to track me down via my iPhone, wouldn’t it stand to reason that they also had enough to search my place? But then again, so what? They wouldn’t find anything incriminating. Embarrassing maybe, but who didn’t have some Internet searches that were embarrassing?

My head still hurt. A lot. I smelled like a goat. A shower would help but not if I had to change into these same clothes. I stumbled into the bright morning sunlight, shielding my eyes like a vampire or one of those guys who spent too much time in a casino. Mabel was still behind the desk.

“Wow, what time do you get off?” I asked.

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Uh, no.”

“Because you might want to clean up a little before you make your big move. I got standards.”

“Do you have any aspirin or Tylenol?”

Mabel frowned, reached into her purse, and pulled out a small arsenal of painkillers. Tylenol, Advil, Aleve, Bayer. I chose the Tylenol, downed two, and thanked her.

“The Target down the road has a big-n-tall section,” Mabel said. “Maybe you want to buy some new clothes.”

Great suggestion. I headed over and bought a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, not to mention a few undergarments. I also bought a travel-size toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. My plan was not to stay on the run for very long, but there was still one thing I wanted to do before I surrendered to the authorities.

Talk to Natalie’s sister in person.

Last purchase: A disposable cell phone. I called Benedict’s cell, home, and office. No answer at any of them. It was probably too early for him. I wondered who else I should try and decided to call Shanta. She answered on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“It’s Jake.”

“What’s this phone number you’re calling from?”

“It’s a disposable phone,” I said.

There was a pause. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Two Vermont cops were looking for me.”

“Why?”

I quickly explained.

“Wait,” Shanta said, “you ran away from cops?”

“I didn’t trust the situation. I thought those people would kill me.”

“So surrender now.”

“Not quite yet.”

“Jake, listen to me. If you’re a fugitive, if law enforcement officials are looking for you—”

“I just need to do something first.”

“You need to surrender.”

“I will, but . . .”

“But what? Are you out of your mind?”

Maybe. “Uh, no.”

“Where the hell are you?”

I said nothing.

“Jake? This isn’t a game. Where are you?”

“I’ll call you back.”

I quickly hung up, mad at myself. Calling Shanta had been a mistake. She was a friend, but she also had other responsibilities and agendas here.

Okay, deep breath. Now what?

I called Natalie’s sister.

“Hello?”

It was Julie. I hung up. She was home. That was all I needed to know. The phone number for a taxi service had been prominently displayed in my motel room. I guess a lot of people don’t like to come to or leave the Fair Motel with their real cars. I called that number and asked for a cab to pick me up at Target. I ducked into the men’s room, did as much washing as a sink would allow, and changed into my new duds.

Fifteen minutes later, I rang Julie Pottham’s doorbell.

She had one of those screen-glass doors in front of the wooden one, so she could open one, see who it was, but still be locked behind the glass. When Julie saw who was standing on her front stoop, her eyes grew big and her hand fluttered toward her mouth.

“Do you still want to pretend you don’t know who I am?” I asked.

“If you don’t leave right now, I am going to call the cops.”

“Why did you lie to me, Julie?”

“Get off my property.”

“No. You can call the cops, and they can drag me away, but I will come back. Or I’ll follow you to work. Or I’ll come back at night. I’m not going away until you answer my questions.”

Julie’s eyes darted left and then right. Her hair was still mousy brown. She hadn’t changed much in the past six years. “Leave my sister alone. She’s happily married.”

“To whom?”

“What?”

“Todd is dead.”

That slowed her down. “What are you talking about?”

“He was murdered.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Oh my God, what did you do?”

“What? Me? No. You think . . . ?” This conversation was quickly spinning out of control. “It has nothing to do with me. Todd was found in the home he shared with his wife and two kids.”

“Kids? They don’t have kids.”

I looked at her.

“I mean, she would have told me . . .” Julie’s voice drifted off. She looked shell-shocked. I hadn’t expected that. I figured that she knew what was going on, was part of it, whatever the hell “it” was.

“Julie,” I said slowly, trying to get her refocused, “why did you pretend you didn’t know me when I called?”

Her voice was still far away. “Where?” she asked.

“What?”

“Where was Todd murdered?”

“He lived in Palmetto Bluff, South Carolina.”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense. You’ve made a mistake. Or you’re lying.”

“No,” I said.

“If Todd was dead—murdered, according to you—Natalie would have told me.”

I licked my lips, tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. “So you’re in touch with her?”

No answer.

“Julie?”

“Natalie worried this might happen.”

“What might happen?”

Her eyes finally found focus. They hit mine like a laser. “Natalie thought you’d come to me someday. She even told me what to say if you did.”

I swallowed. “What did she say?”

“‘Remind him of his promise.’”

Silence.

I took a step closer to her. “I kept that promise,” I said. “I kept it for six years. Let me in, Julie.”

“No.”

“Todd is dead. If there was a promise, I kept it. It’s over now.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Check the Lanford website. You’ll see an obituary.”