The Girl She Used to Be (19 page)

I can’t look him in the eye any longer. I meagerly answer, “I did.” I stare at my freshly painted toes. “I hope I didn’t get
you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m here because I’m concerned about you.”

My eyes return to his face. “It’s okay, Sean. Jonathan is okay. Everything is okay.”

He gives me a restrained smirk. “
Nothing
is okay. Do you know who you’ve put your trust in?”

“I know about his family and… I’m all right with it.”

Sean leans in and whispers louder. “Am I to understand that you’re all right with the people who had your parents murdered?
The people who ruined your life?”

Over the recent days, I have subconsciously converted my units of rage for the Bovaros to units of affection for Jonathan.
In any case, he’s got a point and it angers me, so I hit back with the only ammo I’ve got. “No, Sean,
you
are the people who ruined my life. All the morons from the Justice Department are the people who ruined my life.”

He sighs. “How long have you known Johnny?”

“He goes by
Jonathan
.” I sound like a little kid.

“Not to his friends and family back home, he doesn’t. Do you have any idea who this man is, the kinds of things he’s done?”

My instincts tell me that I’m right to be with Jonathan and right to distrust Sean, but no matter how many times I try to
convince myself, at the end of the day, Sean is wearing the white hat and Jonathan is wearing the black.

“What is it you want?”

“I want you to come with me, Melody. I want you to talk to some people.” He moves back a little. “Look, I’m not the right
guy to explain things or cook the deals or even pamper you. I’m a marshal, and that means I have a specific job: to hunt and
to transport and to protect; I leave everything else to the other folks.”

I glance over my shoulder and the spa employees are still staring at us. When my eyes meet theirs, they all turn away quickly.
I had friends for half a day.

I turn back around. “I made a promise to stay here. I’m not going to break it.”

Sean looks at his watch. “When are you meeting him again?”

“Five o’clock.”

He nods. “All I’m asking is that you come with me now for a few hours. And, if after these folks have talked with you, you
still want to return to this hotel, well… I’ll get you back here by five.”

I stare at Sean and his gaze is oppressive and I can see how he manages to intimidate.

“Not one minute past five, you understand?”

He nods and his shoulders slump a little, like this is the first deal he’s ever closed.

I reluctantly walk back into the spa, clear my throat, and quietly say to one of the clerks, “Um… something sort of came
up and I won’t be able to meet the rest of my appointments.” I glance at myself in the mirror behind her and I look and feel
cleaner and more natural than I have in my entire life. I do not want to go.

“Well, I, uh,” the clerk stutters, as though her service was really for Jonathan and not me, “I hope you enjoyed your time
with us… and that you’ll visit us again.” She says this like it’s half statement/half question.

“Yeah, well, here’s the weird thing: I’m coming back in a few hours and I’m going to pretend I was here all day. Is that okay?”

Her smile sours, warps into a friendly frown. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” I turn to walk away. “You were paid for all my, uh… ?”

The smile returns. “Handsomely.”

I’m not sure if she’s referring to cash or the guy who gave it to her, but I don’t have time for a discussion; the sooner
I leave the sooner I can return. And I am determined to keep my promise to Jonathan.

Something is not right. Sean drives us out of Baltimore and does not say a single word. Not only that, but I’m seated next
to him in the front seat, like they understand I’ve given up on them and they have no intention of genuinely protecting me.

We drive half the distance to Washington and just as I am about to break the silence and ask him what is going on, he takes
one of the exits for Columbia, Maryland. We drive by my old neighborhood and I see where I worked and where I lived and where
I eavesdropped on little Jessica and where I purchased pizza every Tuesday night. It’s like returning to the scene of a crime.
My body involuntarily shakes and though it seems like I’ve been gone forever, it’s only been a few days.

“Why did you bring me back here?”

Sean says nothing and before I know it we’re on some parkway that leads us to the countryside, where the estates get larger
and larger and the road gets narrower and narrower and the land on each side eventually turns to miles of corn and soybeans
and before the road nearly ends, Sean pulls into a parking lot for an abandoned Baptist church and waits.

“What’s going on?” I ask nervously. “Will you answer me?
Why are we here?
”

In the distance, I see a rolling dust cloud, and at the head is yet another Ford product, this one bigger than the Explorer
Sean and I are waiting in. It zooms up the road and pulls right next to us and two men get out and open the doors and I am
pulled from one and pushed into the backseat of the other. And just before they close the door, I see Sean staring at me and
he smiles a little. Then, as the door shuts, everything goes black.

Literally.

It is a black Ford Excursion with black leather seats, a black interior roof, and black controls. And the windows are black—not
tinted, black—and there is a window in front of me, like in a limousine, and it’s black too. I can’t see a thing.

“Light?” I ask.

A few seconds later, the man next to me flips a switch and says, “I’m Deputy Marshal Williamson and we’re taking you to the
WITSEC Safesite and Orientation Center. We’ll be there in approximately eighteen minutes.”

I stare at the heavyset, middle-aged man with a fresh high and tight. “Come again?”

“You’ve never been there, according to your file.”

I continue my staring but I’m not really looking at him at all; I’m confused. “The Safesite and Orientation Center?”

He keeps speaking but looks straight ahead, as if he’s watching the road instead of the dark void. “It’s where people are
… reborn, I suppose.”

“Well, why the black windows? I’m not that much of a threat, am I?”

“The black windows aren’t to keep people from seeing in.” He finally turns to me. “They’re to keep you from seeing out.”

I look down, pretty much because there is nothing else to look at, and I’m amazed at the quality manicure and pedicure I received
hours earlier. I can’t help but think they’ll be destroyed before Jonathan ever gets to see them. I have a brief fantasy of
digging my freshly painted fingernails into the side of Sean’s neck.

After a solid fifteen minutes, the car shimmies and I can tell we’re going down, fast, and we hit concrete and suddenly the
car’s wheels are crying as we make repeated sharp turns. Then we stop and the engine goes off and the doors unlock and everyone
exits the vehicle, except me; I’ve learned to wait for instructions.

And, sure enough, the marshals converse for a moment—they’re all business—then ask me to step out of the car. I do.

They escort me down a long carpeted hallway and into a receiving area that looks almost as classy as the entrance to the Renaissance.
There are one-way mirrors spaced sporadically in the walls and cameras whirring inside black globes. I slow my pace. I’m sure
my mouth is ajar; I just hope there isn’t any saliva running down my chin.

“What is this place?” I finally mumble.

“It’s where we bring everyone entering the program. It’s a one-stop shop, a state-of-the-art center designed to protect and
re-invent.”

Williamson points at various items in the facility as we walk, commenting on all of the hidden benefits, selling me on it
like I’m a child reluctantly dumping a parent off at a nursing home. He explains how the doors here are bolted and can only
be opened by WITSEC inspectors, how the hallways are monitored with video cameras and motion detectors, how one witness will
never know that another is here, and how they’ve housed up to five families at a time. He tells me how the center has a solid
exterior and another completely separate interior so that nothing can get through, explosives or otherwise, and how they have
gates and fences that keep out intruders and uncleared vehicles.

He tells me how they’ve got document specialists and trained personnel to help people get all their new IDs and records in
the fastest manner; psychologists and psychiatrists in residence to help folks being relocated better understand the changes
ahead—and to help with any outstanding fears and issues they may have; lawyers who build a contract into what they call a
Memorandum of Understanding—that is, the details of the specific agreement for a relocated witness and his or her family so
they can be certain what they’re getting in return for their help; inspectors available to discuss and develop a plan for
where the witnesses would like to be relocated, where they can watch videos of the targeted areas and get a better understanding
of terrains and expenses and lifestyle options.

If this was why Sean wanted me to come here, that he hoped this spectacle might turn my tide, he was way off. I am certainly
impressed by the facility—by the government’s forethought, comprehensiveness, and commitment. But right now I am nothing more
than a paroled prisoner strolling through the halls of the penitentiary that once housed me. And all the chimerical, fancy
detail work cannot change the predestined outcome of another cycle through the system. This place is nothing more than a Porsche
with the engine of a Buick.

Deputy Williamson continues his comprehensive coverage until I ask the burning question. “Where was this when my parents came
into the program?”

He pauses and looks at the marshals beside me. “It wasn’t completed until 1988, after your family was already in the program.”

I consciously have to remove the bewildered look from my face. “No one ever gave us psychiatrists or relocation options or
a Memorandum of Understanding.”

Williamson touches me on the shoulder and tilts his head as if to say
Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’m just a marshal and you need to complain to someone else
. Now more than ever I wish I hadn’t come. Even as I have dismissed the lot of them, they seem to find a way to get under
my skin. And rankle.

As my blood pressure rises, I’m ushered into a dark, plush conference room where four men are waiting—no one I recognize—and
they stand when I enter like they’re the surest of southern gentlemen.

“Hello, Melody,” the first man says, equally practiced and sinister. I stand with my hands at my sides and Williamson nods
to the group and leaves me. “You’re looking well. Very healthy.”

“I wasn’t six hours ago.” I give a snide smile. “You caught me on a good day.”

“Can we get you anything? Something to eat or drink?”

“Let’s move this along. I have to get back to Baltimore.”

First Man frowns and looks at the others. “Very well. Please have a seat.”

I sit, but am quickly annoyed that four pairs of eyes are observing me at once.

First Man says, “My name is Hugh Donovan; I’m the assistant director of the U.S. Marshals Service. This man next to me is
Miguel Sanchez, Justice. Next to him is Special Agent Lou Foncello with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And the man at
the end is Abraham Greenberg, our chief psychiatrist here at Safesite.”

“I always wondered what happened to stooges four through seven.”

Donovan sighs a little and looks over at Agent Foncello.

“It’s our understanding,” Foncello says, “that you’ve not been satisfied with your experiences inside WITSEC.”

I chuckle. “Dissatisfaction lends itself more to buying a blouse with a hole in it or eating a bad cheeseburger.” I stare
at him like I’m trying to make him burst into flames.

“Right. Well, either way, we’d like to make it better.”

I sit back in my chair for a moment. “What are you guys, some hybrid customer-satisfaction panel?”

Donovan gets this supercilious look on his face. “Melody, you are in the presence of some of the smartest and greatest minds
at Justice.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s the square root of negative four?”

“Two. No, wait…”

“Chew on that for a while. I’m going back to Baltimore.”

“Melody,” says Sanchez, “the purpose of this panel is… well, we’re here to make your life better.”

“Did you say life or
lie
? If the government lifts a finger to my lips one more time, I swear I’ll bite it off. I do not need another artificial life.”
I turn and look at Donovan, who is squinting toward the ceiling, still pondering how to derive the square root of a negative
number. I decide to set him free. “It’s an imaginary number, Hugh. I thought for sure you’d grasp that concept considering
your recurrent influence in the lives of the imaginary.”

Sanchez picks up where he left off. “What we’re offering is an artificial life, yes, but a
wonderful
life. Anything you want—within legal reason.”

I pause to think. “Meaning?”

“You would stay right here, at Safesite, while we re-create who you are, so that when you leave, there is no waiting. The
whole process would take less than two weeks. No months of hotels and waiting for work. We have folks who’ll draw up a memo—a
contract, if you will—outlining exactly what we have offered, right down to the job, location, and subsistence checks. And
we’re willing to be generous.”

I swallow. “Why?”

Sanchez leans forward and smiles in a way that makes me feel like a perp. “You can help us, Melody.”

I widen my eyes. “Thank goodness, because keeping you guys happy is my deepest desire.”

“Jonathan Bovaro,” he says, using the name as a knife to cut my sarcasm. “He seems to have manipulated you quite a bit.”

“Interesting you put it that way. Maybe we should focus on how he managed to find me in the first place. Might be time to
officially change the term from
witness protection
to
witness relocation
.” I clear my throat. “Besides, no one has manipulated me.”