The man began digging through the pockets of the jacket he had taken from the coffee shop and which he wore over his own jacket, first the outside and then the inside. His face lit up when his hand slipped into the inside pocket; a second later he pulled out a brown leather wallet.
“Looks like our luck hasn’t run out completely,” he said, peering into the wallet. “There’s about a hundred dollars here.”
“You’re not really going to steal that, are you?”
He heard the disappointment in her voice and gave her a look. “Young lady, at this point it’s already stolen. Might as well not let it go to waste. Besides”-he glanced down at her bare feet-“you could use a pair of shoes.”
Ashley closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “We need to go to the police.”
“As I told John, that isn’t a viable option.”
“I can call my boss at the paper.”
“And what would he do?”
“Whatever is going on here, it’s major news. He can get it out in front of millions of people. We don’t have to keep running.”
He paused long enough to offer up a sad smile. “If only it were that easy.”
“Then let me do it. I’ll go and speak with my boss. We can expose these people.”
“Young lady,” he said, keeping his pace brisk, “what makes you think your boss isn’t already involved with these people? He may very well not be, but I’m certain someone in that organization is, and they won’t let any of the news come to light. In fact, there’s a distinct possibility they’ll kill you just like they killed my daughter and her family.”
Ashley stopped abruptly, the words causing her to go cold. “That’s … crazy.”
Another smile, this one more wry than sad. “It is what it is. The fact is we are not safe right now. We need to get to Weehawken as soon as possible.”
He turned away from her and hailed a taxi. Almost immediately one glided to a stop beside them. He opened the back door, motioned for her to climb in first. She didn’t move.
“Come on, get in.”
Ashley said, “Is your name really Eli?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Melissa told me your name was Frank.”
A look of unease passed over his face. Swallowing, he said, “There was a lot my daughter didn’t know about me.”
“Am I going to die?”
The question caught him off guard. At first it didn’t look like he knew how to answer her. Then, his face hardening, his eyes filling with confidence, he said, “Yes, unless you stick with me.”
twenty-nine
By the time we leave the city, the day has waned into twilight.
Duncan drives us in his Jaguar up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the George Washington Bridge. It’s a long detour, especially to where I want to be, but I keep thinking back to what those guys said in the SUV, how they didn’t want to get trapped in the tunnel, and while I don’t know much about what’s going on, getting trapped in a tunnel doesn’t sound like a good idea. Of course, it’s just as possible to get trapped on a bridge, but if that were to happen, at least you can jump off the side and hope the fall doesn’t kill you, and if it doesn’t, hope not to drown before swimming back to shore.
Duncan does a good job of not asking too many questions. He tried when he first picked me up, all curious because I’ve never called him to pick me up before and why was I talking in code (“Like, I understand this is the bar we first met at when you came back to the States, but why didn’t you just say so?”), but after a while he gave up trying to understand the significance of my silence, and so he just drives, up the parkway, across the bridge, and then south down US 1.
The traffic is heavy, so maybe a half hour passes by the time we reach Weehawken. Duncan doesn’t turn off the highway, though, because I never told him we were headed to Weehawken. Instead he takes us toward Hoboken, and I direct him to some side streets, checking the side mirror every half minute to make sure we’re not being followed. I eventually have him pull off and stop along the curb.
“Thanks for doing this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. And the money, too-I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
He waves a dismissive hand, shaking off the five hundred bucks in twenties he gave me and which are now folded snug in my jeans pocket.
I reach for the door.
“John, what’s really going on here?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing is what’s making you act like someone’s out to kill you.”
Am I really that obvious?
“Look, Duncan, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me today, and for the past four years.”
I reach for the door again but stop when Duncan asks, “Is this about your sister?”
I pause, thinking it over. “I’m not sure. It’s about a lot of things.”
“Whatever it is, man, whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m sure we can work it out. You need a lawyer? I can get you a lawyer.”
“A lawyer isn’t going to fix this.”
“I’m worried about you, John. You never know when to stop.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember when we went skydiving? I was scared out of my mind. But you, man, you looked like you had done it a hundred times before.”
“It was my first time, too.”
“I know it was. Just like when we went bungee jumping. Just like when we got into that shark cage. Every time you talked me into doing some crazy shit, I went along with it because I thought it would be fun, but I was always scared out of my mind. But you … you almost seemed bored by it.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is you’ve always been living on the edge, man, always staring death in the face. I’d hate to see you finally embrace it.”
Headlights from behind fill up the interior of the Jaguar momentarily before blinking out.
I glance back over my shoulder and whisper, “Shit.”
“What is it?” Duncan checks the rearview mirror, slumps down in his seat. “Fuck, man.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I say, but I know that can’t be true. Bad luck has been following me all day. Of course, it could be a coincidence, but I don’t like those chances. I also don’t like that I’m stuck in Duncan’s car, that Duncan is stuck here, too, a sudden accomplice.
A police cruiser has pulled up behind us. Two cops are inside, and they’re both now stepping out of the car. We’re on a side street, a few cars going up and down, a few people out on the sidewalk. The light isn’t the greatest, so maybe that’s why the cops use their flashlights as they approach the car, shining the beams first in the backseat of the Jaguar, then into the front, at our faces.
Duncan powers down his window. “Evening, Officer. What seems to be the problem?”
The cop keeps shining his flashlight at Duncan’s face. “Is this your car?”
“Yes, sir.”
The cop recites a number and street name-our apartment. “Is that your address?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What brings you across the river tonight?”
“Just meeting some friends for drinks. Did I do something wrong?”
“Not you.” The cop leans down to look at me through the window. “Is he close by?”
Duncan frowns at me. He says to the cop, “Excuse me, Officer?”
The end of the cop’s flashlight connects with tip of Duncan’s nose, all with a snap of the wrist. It’s not a hard snap, but it’s effective, and blood immediately squirts everywhere.
“Jesus,” the other cop says. “Steve, what the hell are you doing?”
The cop keeps his gaze on me. It hasn’t wavered this entire time. “I’m going to ask you again, and this time I’m not going to be so nice to your friend. Is he close by?”
When I don’t speak, the cop replaces the flashlight with a butterfly knife. It has a small handle, the kind that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand, and all at once the blade is open and plunging into Duncan’s throat.