Daddy's Girl (22 page)

A
fterward they lay happily together in the dark, and Nat rested her head on Angus’s chest, playing with the ends of his hair. “I’ve never slept with a ponytail before,” she said.

“I match my dog, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Nat was remembering the obedience school diploma on his wall.

“She’s a rescue dog, part Afghan, part golden retriever. She looks like a wacky lion.” Angus sounded completely relaxed. “My ponytail is exactly the length of her tail.”

“I don’t want to know how you measured that.”

“No, you don’t. Everybody thinks my hair is a political statement, but it’s just to match Miss Sally.” Angus cradled Nat closer. “God, you are so
little
. How does so much woman fit into such a tiny package?”

Giving new meaning to Gnat.

“I
love
your body.”

Nat smiled, too shy to say that she loved his, too. It turned her on that he was so much stronger and bigger. He made love outside the rules. She mentally replayed her favorite scene, and it almost brought her to another orgasm. Nat had just learned that she was a total sexist in bed, which is the kind of thing you realize when you sleep with a caveman.

“God, that was great. Don’t you think?”

Nat liked a Cro-Magnon who needed reassurance. “We both get As.”

Angus laughed softly. “I knew it would be terrific. I
called
it.”

Nat shifted happily on his chest. “So how premeditated was this seduction?”

“Not very. To be honest, it usually takes more than a toothbrush to get a woman into bed.”

“But you brought a condom.” Nat lifted her head to see him grinning in the dark.

“Correction. I brought three condoms.”

“You’re an optimist.”

“Oh yeah? Talk to me in twenty minutes.”

Nat laughed, and Angus hugged her close.

“You know why it was so great?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

“Because it’s love.”

Nat hesitated. “You think?”

“I know. I told you, straight up. I love you.”

“It doesn’t feel too soon to you?”

“It’s an emotional reaction, Natalie. You can’t time it or analyze it. Yes, of course, it will grow and blah blah blah, but it’s there right now. The important part, the
wow
. That’s love.”

The wow.
Nat soaked in the words. She knew what he meant. Had she ever felt the wow with Hank?

“It’s okay if you don’t know it yet, but you love me, too.” Angus sighed. “I swear, I am so tired. It must be the meds they gave me. You must be exhausted, too.”

“I am,” Nat said, but she was already planning her next move.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Let’s sleep now. We’re both tired.”

“I’ll get you out of here in the morning, and you’ll be safe.”

No way.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Nat had wanted to tell him about the floor plan and her new theory, but the less he knew, the better, for his sake.

“I already set my cell to wake us up,” Angus said. “We can’t miss the train. You need anything?”

“Hush, now.”

“Me, too,” Angus said. His furry chest rose with a deep breath, and in the next minute, she heard his breathing even into slumber.

She waited until he began to snore, then got up and hurriedly put her clothes back on. She gathered her files as quietly as possible, then grabbed her purse and coat and went looking for the money and cell phone he’d bought her. She found the money in the dark, but didn’t find the cell phone amid the clothes and shopping bag. She couldn’t risk waking him, so she gave up.

She tiptoed to the door, pausing to look at Angus’s sleeping form. She hoped he’d understand why she was running out on him. She opened the door a crack, slipped out, and closed it behind her with a whisper.

Wow.

Nat hurried into the frigid night air, pulling her coat around her and patting her purse for the tenth time, making sure the thousand dollars was staying inside. She needed to get away and fast, in case Angus woke up. She scanned the rundown street, which was lined with twin houses and small businesses. There was no traffic, no cabs or buses, and no pay phone in sight. An auto tag place looked closed, as did a tarot parlor with a flickering neon hand in its window. A take-out pizza joint stood on the far corner, and a few old cars were parked in a small lot in front—which gave Nat an idea.

She put on her pink glasses and NASCAR cap, and hurried to the restaurant. She threaded her way through the parked cars and opened the barred door, greeted by a steamy interior and the mixed aroma of oregano, cooked pepperoni, and cigarette smoke. The storefront contained only a few red tables, and one held a trio of teenagers hunched over a hamburger pizza with a pitcher of Coke. They looked up when Nat walked over.

“Excuse me, guys.” She pushed up her glasses. “Do any of you want to sell me your car?”

The teenagers burst into raucous laughter. The tallest one, a good-looking kid with a fake diamond earring, said, “Yo, dude, you for real?”

“Yes. I need a car, now. I’ll pay cash.”

“Cash
money
, dude?”

“Yes.”

A second kid, who had bad skin, said, “That’s not legal. You don’t have no title.”

A future lawyer.
“That’s okay with me. I don’t care.” Nat turned back to the tall kid. “Name your price, pal.”

“A million dollars.”

Or not
. Nat turned to the shortest one, who wore an Eagles knit cap. “What do you say? You got a car?”

“An ’86 Neon. Got 120,000 miles and no radio, but it runs good.” Eagles Fan cracked a lopsided grin. “S’my stepsister’s car.”

“I like Neons. You like cash?”

“Yes.” Eagles Fan’s eyes glittered. “And I totally hate my stepsister.”

“
Sell
it, dude!” the others shouted. “They’re gone the whole frickin’ weekend!”

“This is your lucky day, my friend.” Nat took the envelope from her purse, flashed the crisp bills, and counted them off. “I’ll give you three hundred bucks for the car, right now. Yes or no.”

“Three hundred dollars?” Eagles Fan’s young face lit up.

“Three hundred, dude! We can party all weekend!” They all laughed, and Eagles Fan was giddiest of all.

“Dudes, my stepsister will be so
pissed
! She’ll
burn
! She’ll
freak
!”

“Do it, dude!” the tall kid yelled. “They won’t even know ’til Sunday night!” They all slapped each other five over the table, yelling, “Excellent!” “Awesome!” “We rock
hard
, dude!”

“I’m doin’ it!” Eagles Fan grabbed for the bills.

Fifteen minutes later, Nat hit the road in an old blue Neon that had a perfumed powder-puff and a graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror. She drove past strip malls and houses, traveling as far away as she could before she found another cheap motel and pulled in. Angus wouldn’t find her here, and neither he nor the cops knew about the Neon. She locked the car and went inside to get a few hours of sleep before dawn.

She’d need energy to set her plan in motion tomorrow.

T
he sky was still black, and starbursts of frost remained on the Neon’s windows when Nat pulled into the Wawa parking lot. She checked the car’s clock. 5:30 a.m. So she was ahead of schedule. A couple in ski clothes got out of a black Jetta next to her, kissing and putting their arms around each other, and she shook off thoughts of Angus. He would already have awakened without her, and she hoped he’d understand. She thought of last night’s lovemaking, which had only improved with age, then put it out of her mind.

She looked around, making sure the coast was clear before she got out of the Neon. No cops were in sight, and only a few people were gassing up at this hour. She grabbed her purse, stepped out of the car, and headed into the convenience store in her pink glasses and NASCAR cap, startling at the front page of the thick Sunday newspapers on the front rack.

LAW PROF RUNS FROM LAW
, read the headline of the
Daily Local News
, and the lead photo was Nat with long, dark hair, from the law school’s website. She lowered her head. At least they didn’t have a shot of her in her disguise. She picked up a copy offhandedly, grabbed a cup of coffee, a bagel, and the sunglasses she should have gotten yesterday, then paid and hurried back to the Neon.

She read the article as soon as she got in the car, starved for news. Vice Dean McConnell was reportedly “shocked and surprised” at her criminality, and Nat felt sick inside. What would her students think? Carling and Warren? She could kiss tenure goodbye. Her parents, the “wealthy Greco family,” had no comment, and her heart ached for them. They had to be worried, too. She thought about calling them from a pay phone, but couldn’t risk their phone lines being tapped. They’d just have to trust her. She was on her own.

She skipped to a sidebar that reported that drugs and “a substantial amount of cash” had been found in her car, at the scene of Trooper Shorney’s murder. She raced through the rest of the article, which was so long that it had knocked all other news off the top half of the page, including Philly’s escalating murder rate, the federal prisoner whose trial was starting on Tuesday, and the war in Iraq. She set the newspaper on the passenger seat, twisted on the ignition, and drove out of the lot. She had lost one job, but gained another. Catching a killer.

She headed north in only sparse traffic to West Chester, while the sun tried and failed to sneak up on the sky, betrayed by splashy streaks of rose and violet. She had gotten the address she needed last night from information. She hit the gas and drove an hour, and by the time the sun was low in a cloudless sky, she had reached a winding street of white townhouses in a development called Heaven’s Gate, which proved hyperbolic.

She cruised past the sign at the entrance. Each townhouse sat stacked like a child’s tower of three blocks, with the garage door underneath a living room with a picture window. Minivans and other kid-friendly cars sat in the driveways. She double-checked the address she’d written on her hand and drove to the street. The Neon was the only car on the road, and she held her breath as she spotted a sign on the black mailbox of one of the houses.
THE GRAFS
.

Nat suppressed a bolt of fear but kept driving, facing straight ahead in the sunglasses and NASCAR cap. She found a parking space down the street, near the development’s Exit sign. It afforded her a full view of the Graf house in her outside mirror. She parked by the curb, determined to watch the house. Sooner or later Graf would have to show his hand, and if she wasn’t there when he did, nobody would be. And he wouldn’t be worried about her anymore; he’d assume she was on the run, trying to save her own hide. Only a lousy fugitive would be crazy enough to come back to Chester County.

She sipped her coffee and ate the bagel, keeping an eye on the outside mirror. When she finished breakfast, she reached for the Chester County Correctional file she’d stolen from Phoenix Construction and read through it. It contained lots of invoices for construction materials; cinderblocks, two-by-fours, sheets of drywall, bags of cement, and more two-by-fours. Her heart sank as she finished the last page. The file told her nothing more. The Dumpsters were her best hope, and she couldn’t check them out until tomorrow. She set the file on the seat and watched the house in the cold car.

Hours passed, nine to ten o’clock, then to eleven. Families drove in and out of the exit, in cars packed with kids. Nat kept her head down in the cap, fake-reading the newspaper. She flashed on Graf outside the Saunders house. She could believe him capable of murder, especially of a black man. But one question plagued her. Why hadn’t that been the first thing Saunders said to her, in his very last words on earth?

Suddenly, the front door of the Graf house opened, and a man stepped outside. It was Joe Graf. He was wearing his same quilted vest he’d worn at the Saunders house, on top of a flannel shirt. He paused to light a cigarette, cocking his head and cupping his hand, while the door opened again. A child emerged in white pants and a blue snow jacket.

Nat could tell even at this distance it was a boy. The child’s hair blew like a black fan in the wind, and his small legs churned as he ran to keep up with Graf. Graf caught the child’s hand and walked him, jumping along, to a black Bronco. He opened the car door and lifted the child inside, then presumably fastened him into a car seat. It wasn’t exactly the actions of a cold-blooded killer, and Nat figured this was either the dumbest or the smartest thing she’d ever done. She started the engine, drove out the main exit road, and waited a distance from the Heaven’s Gate sign. If Graf were leaving, he’d have to go out this way. In a minute or two, his black Bronco traveled out of the exit and onto the main road. Nat let two cars pass in front of her, then took off after him.

She tracked the black Bronco as it made its way through the suburbs, in increasing traffic. They wended their way through a busy Ship Road, then to Routes 100 and 113, a tangle of big-box stores, tanning salons, Office Depots, Toys “R” Us stores, and strip malls like the ones she’d seen the day before. The whole time, she kept her eye out for police cars. She followed Graf as he eventually switched onto an even busier Lancaster Avenue, going west, and at one stoplight she got so close she could see the child waving his hands in the backseat. She dropped back and let a truck get between them. In Paoli, the Bronco pulled off of Lancaster Avenue and took a right turn into a strip mall with a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Radio Shack, and, at the corner, yet another Wawa.

She pulled to the far side of the Wawa lot, so it would be hard to see her from the Bronco, and watched as Graf parked in the strip mall and emerged from his car, lighting another cigarette. He took a few puffs before he went around to the backseat of the car and opened the door. The cigarette clamped between his lips, he lifted the child out. Nat could see that Graf had an adorable little boy, no doubt a mix of his mother’s Asian blood and his father’s bad blood, not that she was jumping to conclusions.

Graf took the kid’s hand and walked him around the side of the strip mall to a storefront she hadn’t noticed when she pulled up: Kwan’s Karate Studio. She slumped behind the wheel of the Neon, dejected. She’d pegged Graf for a killer and all he was doing was being a great father. She eyed the traffic nervously. She was risking apprehension for karate classes? Graf went through the front door, disappearing inside the karate studio, and Nat settled in for the duration.

Suddenly the door to the karate studio opened, and Graf emerged. Nat ducked instinctively as he hurried to the strip mall, jumped back into the Bronco, pulled out of the space, and took off fast.

Go!
Nat started the ignition and followed as Graf made an illegal U-turn on Lancaster Avenue, then headed east. The two cars drove, with four cars between them, all the way back to where they’d come from. She hoped Graf wasn’t going shopping. She told herself to remain calm as she followed the Bronco and ten other cars into the parking lot at the Exton Square Mall, at the bustling intersection of Routes 30 and 100. She drove slowly, at the end of the line, as Graf parked the Bronco, jumped out, and hustled into Houlihan’s in front.

She pulled into a space at the back of the parking lot. What was going on? From Paoli to Exton, they had passed tons of other places to eat. Why hadn’t Graf stopped at one of them? Was he a Houlihan’s freak? Was anybody? She watched the door to the restaurant. A well-dressed older couple went inside, followed by a quartet of high school gymnasts in blue-and-white sweats.

She couldn’t see through the dark glass of Houlihan’s from this distance. She waited but he didn’t come out. What was he doing in there? He couldn’t be eating; it made no sense. He wouldn’t have enough time if he was going to pick up his son. She had to risk getting closer, to see. She straightened her cap, pushed up her sunglasses, and got out of the Neon. She walked toward Houlihan’s, lingering near the mall entrance, then peered inside.

Nat spotted him after a minute. Graf was seated at a small table near the window. He had a soda and appeared to be looking out the window. He had to be waiting for someone. Was he meeting that nice wife of his? Was he cheating on her? Nat kept her head down, under the hat brim. People walked by Graf’s table, but he kept looking out the window. In the next second, he checked his wristwatch.

Who was he waiting for?

“Excuse me,” said an older man in a leather coat, walking past on the way to the mall.

“Sorry.” Nat shifted over to let him pass, but he didn’t move.

“You a NASCAR fan? Me, too!”

“Sorry, it’s not my hat,” Nat answered. She didn’t want to be remembered or draw attention to herself. The man moved on, unblocking her view of a bright red pickup that was just pulling into the front of the parking lot. A black man in a Sixers cap and black down coat got out of the truck, hustled to Houlihan’s, and made a beeline for Graf’s table.

Nat squinted behind her sunglasses. Something about the man looked familiar. Were they friends? Did the man know Graf was a bigot? The man sat down opposite Graf, and they started to talk, their heads bent together. She kept watching. She figured that they couldn’t talk long because the karate lesson couldn’t last more than an hour. It had taken half an hour to get to here from the karate studio, in traffic. Graf didn’t have much time. That meant neither did Nat.

She pulled down her cap and went back to the Neon, walking past the red pickup. It was an F-250. The license plate was from Pennsylvania. She strolled casually around the back of the truck—which was when she saw it. A little Calvin decal. Where had she seen that before? A blurry picture flashed through her mind. Darkness. A patch of ice. The Ford F-250. The side of the driver’s face barely visible through the dark glass. Then she knew where she’d seen the man. He was driving the black pickup that had crashed into her and Angus.

Was it possible? She rechecked the license plate. It was Pennsylvania, not Delaware. But license plates could be switched. Pickups could be painted. It had been a few days. Could it be the same pickup? It couldn’t have looked more different from the black one. It was a loud cherry red, with shiny white pinstripes running along the sides. On the back of the truck bed was a memorial, painted in flowery white letters. It read,

IN MEMORY OF ANJELA REYNOLDS, 2002–2006.

Still.
Was it the same truck, painted red? Was it the same driver who had crashed into them? She looked around, but nobody was watching. Shoppers walked quickly because it was so cold. She reached into her pocket for her keys, stepped up to the side of the pickup, and walked between it and a Dodge Caravan, making an inch-long scratch in the side of the truck. A jittery black line appeared out of nowhere. The pickup was black underneath the bright red. It was the same truck and the same driver.

Whoa
. Nat turned and walked away, trying to act casual as she headed for the Neon. Questions clicked away in her brain, and she felt all her senses on alert. How did the pickup driver and Graf know each other? Had Graf had anything to do with the crash? Why would this guy have wanted to hurt her and Angus? Was he part of a drug ring? She wished she could talk it over with Angus, but she’d left the damn cell phone. She had to figure it out herself. It gave her a new plan. She would follow the pickup driver, not Graf, when he left Houlihan’s. She had almost reached the Neon when she heard a woman’s voice, shouting shrilly in the parking lot.

“Help!” a woman cried. “Help, somebody!”

Nat turned on her heel reflexively, and to her surprise, an old woman was pointing at
her
.

“Stop that girl!” The old woman had an open cell phone in her other hand. “She keyed that man’s truck! I saw it! I called 911!”

Nat froze, taking in the scene all at once. Shoppers stopped in their tracks and turned to her. The pickup driver and Graf came out of Houlihan’s. The old woman hollered to the pickup driver, waving her cell phone. He and Graf turned toward Nat. Graf’s expression changed after a beat, when he recognized her.

And came running at her.