Am I a great partner, or what?
The Leatherstocking Trail was a gorgeous haven of woods and wetlands, and the strip I was talking about, the southern section of the bigger, fifteen-mile-long Colonial Greenway loop, was where Tess let off steam instead of taking it out on a thousand bucks’ worth of MacBook.
Several of the roads that ran roughly north-south through the east-west trail gave easy access to it, which meant that, overall, the trail was a flawless way to expose a tail or physical surveillance, being no more than two hundred feet wide in most places and giving no consistent cover. Even better, the overcast weather meant that drone coverage would be difficult to pull off unnoticed-assuming they even knew we were here-which, I hoped, wasn’t the case.
Tess and I knew each other’s thought processes well enough for me to be pretty sure that she would hit the trail from somewhere near its eastern end, maybe at Fenimore, and walk west, while she would expect me to approach from the opposite end, which was exactly what I was about to do. If we needed to make a quick getaway, then either car would be an option.
I had been waiting in the Caprice for about twenty minutes and was now as sure as I could be that I was alone. I grabbed the flashlight and one of the Glocks from Lendowski’s holdall-his or Deutsch’s, I had no way of knowing which-climbed out of the car, crossed Pinebrook, and struck out along the trail. After about a thousand yards, I passed the sign stating that I had crossed from New Rochelle into the town of Mamaroneck.
There was just enough light for me to see my way without the flashlight, the combination of dull moonlight and light pollution from the town revealing islands of snow in a sea of thick foliage made up of ash, maple, oak and others trees that were beyond my limited knowledge of upstate flora. The only other thing I knew was that there was poison ivy dotted along the trail. Given how swimmingly everything had gone these last few days, I decided I wouldn’t be surprised if I fell face-first into some before the night was out.
I figured it would take me no more than twenty minutes to pick my way to the center of the trail, which was where the Sheldrake River forked. This was the part of the trail farthest from an intersecting road, and therefore a perfect place to meet. I hoped Tess would think the same.
With my line of sight constantly flicking between the ground and the trail, I continued eastwards.
When I reached the only intersecting road between where I had left the car and the river, I checked in both directions before continuing on my way. Ten minutes later the trail opened out into its widest and most isolated area, where it crossed the easternmost of the two river forks.
I slowly skirted the perimeter, eyes and ears alert for any sign of movement. Apart from assorted nocturnal creatures, I was alone. I concealed myself behind a cluster of trees on the north side of the area and waited.
After another five minutes I heard the faint sound of someone approaching from the east. Less than a minute later, the sound resolved into clearer footfalls. Then Tess appeared. Alone and carrying what I recognized to be Kim’s denim backpack.
She stopped and turned to look back the way she had come, ears straining for any sound behind her.
There was nothing but silence around us.
I watched as she moved into the clearing and waited, then I stepped out from behind the trees.
“Tess.” As low as I could say it and still be heard.
She swung her head, saw me, and walked around the edge of the clearing toward me, her pace picking up with each step.
We closed the ground toward each other in seconds, then fell into each other’s arms, Tess having dropped the backpack to the ground.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
We stayed like that for a long time. The only thing either of us needed right then and there was the warmth of the other’s body.
We finally broke apart.
Her face flooded with concern. “You’re OK, right? The drug? You’re OK?”
“It did the trick,” I said. “The jury’s still out on any long-term effects.” Then I looked her up and down, and the garb sank in. “You’re Kim?”
She half smiled. “I may decide to stick with this look. What do you think?”
“As long as you don’t go getting tats and piercings all over you, young lady,” I said, wagging my finger.
“We should stop. This is getting creepy.”
“Agreed.”
I waved at her attire. “So Kim-she helped you with all this?”
“She didn’t just help-she gave up a date with Giorgio for it.” My face obviously telegraphed my confusion, so Tess added, “He dropped me off.”
I smiled. Kim-Tess’s mini-me-she was key to why we were standing here. I gazed at Tess’s eyes, which appeared dark in the bleak light, but which I knew to be exactly the same shade of green as Kim’s.
“She’s everything that’s great about you.”
She thought about this for a moment. “And Alex has none of your obsessive traits. Yet.”
I nodded. She was right, of course. But none of that mattered. Right now, I was just so damn happy to see her. And I couldn’t have done it without Kim. Or without a silly dad-lesson I’d insisted on one rainy Sunday afternoon a couple of years back.
I’d wanted her to learn Tess and my cell phone numbers, as well as our home number, by heart. I’d explained to her that just because no one knows anyone’s number any more didn’t mean that everyone has suddenly become immune to losing things. I mean, seriously, who remembers anyone’s number these days? Lose your phone when you’re out and it’s unlikely you’d know how to contact anyone because your phone now functions on behalf of-and often instead of-your brain.
So as decreed by Kim, the three of us-we figured Alex was still too young for this-had memorized each other’s phone numbers, her flawless logic being that if she had to learn our numbers, then we should have to learn hers too, an argument she had won at the time by pouting till we agreed. And had just won again, uncontested, since I was able to send Tess the fake text message from a burner phone that didn’t have her number stored in it.
It was the other message, though, that had led Tess here.
I had decided to contact her indirectly, and thought of a couple of options. One was to go through Kurt, then something better dropped into my mind. I found an Internet café and created a fake Facebook account using some photos I’d cut and pasted off some of Kim’s friends profiles, then used that to post a comment on a recent photo of hers. The comment had to get through her rapid-fire fingers and her ruthless indifference filter, and it needed to tell her it was me, without announcing it to the guys in the Stingray van. So I’d used a name that was bound to get her attention.
One of the first times I met Giorgio when he and Kim started dating, I lightheartedly referred to him as Georgie Boy, which went down like a lead balloon. I had intended it as a term of endearment, channeling a nickname Jerry used for George on “Seinfeld.” I mean, it wasn’t like I was calling him Boy George or cracking any lame Armani puns. I’d explained its origin and, given that I get a bit evangelical when it comes to the Seinfeld canon, I’d talked about George’s other nicknames, most notably T-Bone and my favorite, Art Vandelay. Still, the resistance was noted, and “Georgie Boy” only rarely saw the light of day. I was still waiting for the day I’d be able to sit through box sets of the series with her, but there always seemed to be another Pretty Little Liars hogging any available viewing time she had.
So “Georgie Boy” had put a “Like” on one of Kim’s photos, along with a comment that asked “How’s Stacy’s mom?”-a reference to a song we liked and joked about-with a winkie face. It had taken a couple of minutes, but when she’d replied-presumably after showing it to Tess-“She’s got it going on, Art!” with a laughing emoticon, I knew she’d got it. So I commented back, “I can’t mow her lawn! How about a quickie on the Zen walk instead?” with a tongue-out emoticon. She’d replied “8OK!” with two of the tongue-out faces.