No Way Back: A Novel (18 page)

I drove north from Rye and pulled off I-95 in Bridgeport and drove around the city until I found a large, multistory garage downtown. I took a ticket and drove through the gate, then found an open space up on the third floor, which I assumed would be far less trafficked.

At first I just sat there. For an hour. Realizing I was finally safe. For my heart to finally calm.

I knew I had to change how I looked. And maybe switch out the license plates on the car, if I was going to continue to use it. I also knew I needed another phone. They now had Joe’s in their possession, and it might well lead them to mine.

As soon as it was dark, I got out and found a Honda with Connecticut license plates in the same row as mine. I took off the front plate, using a wrench I’d found in the spare tire tool set in the back of the Explorer. It would probably take a while for the Honda owner to even notice it was gone. Then I took off the rear plate on the Explorer and replaced it with the Honda’s.

I ventured out, my face hidden behind sunglasses and in an old Mount Snow baseball cap I found in the back of the Explorer. Downtown Bridgeport wasn’t exactly the best neighborhood at night.

I found an open bodega on Congress Street and picked out another disposable phone, as well as a slice of pizza and a beef empanada, the first food I’d have all day. I also grabbed a box of blond hair color and a pair of scissors.

As I stood in line to pay I found myself behind a woman who was counting out change. A cop came in and got in line right behind me. My heart almost jumped through my chest. I stood there, blood rushing, totally freaked out of my mind, sure that I was giving off this aura, like,
You know that woman who’s wanted for the murder of her husband and that Homeland Security agent . . . well, hey, I’m here, buddy. Take a look. Right in front of you!

“Next, please.” The cashier looked at me. I tried to block what it was I was buying on the counter, certain it would give me away.

I paid with cash, muttering, “Thanks,” and averting my face, hurried out of the store. Exhaling, I headed back to the garage. I asked the attendant there—a Middle Easterner who was more absorbed in a soccer match on the tiny TV than in me—if there was a bathroom. He pointed to the rear of the first floor.

The door was open. I didn’t even need a key. I locked it immediately behind me and looked at myself in the greasy, cracked mirror: the harried uncertainty in my eyes; my face pale from nerves. I ripped the scissors out of their package and held them up to my hair—my beautiful hair that I had worn thick and below my shoulders ever since I could remember, that people always looked at with envy, and began to chop away. Fistfuls of it, sheared off. I stuffed them into the plastic bag from the bodega. I kept cutting and shearing, until I looked and my hair fell to my shoulders.

It all meant nothing to me anymore.

I opened the box of color. I had always been some kind of dark brown with occasional streaks of henna. But I bent over the sink and poured the goopy, amber-colored liquid all over my hair and massaged it in, averting my eyes from the mirror. I waited a few minutes, then rinsed it out, washing the viscous liquid down the drain. When I looked up, I saw a completely different face. One I barely even recognized. But filled with nerves and shame.

I went back to my car, unable to free my mind of what had happened to Joe. He had been so brave for me. I needed to find out how he was. I had to take the chance.

I called Bellevue Hospital and nervously asked the operator for an update on his condition. She asked if I was family, and I answered yes. I was transferred to another line; it took forever to connect, which began to get me a little edgy.

“May I help you?” a man’s voice finally answered. “You’re inquiring about Joseph Esterhaus?”

Suddenly it ran through me that they might be thinking I would call in and were tracing me as I spoke.

“Hello?
Private Patient Information. May I help you?
Hello?
”

I hung up. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know how to do any of this! I was ashamed to be so cowardly. Joe had put everything on the line for me.
Joe, please, just make it through.
I closed my eyes.
I’m praying for you, Joe. Please . . .

I’d never felt so alone or isolated. I just needed to feel close to someone. Anyone. I thought of my stepson. He’d probably be at his uncle’s. I thought it was worth the risk.

I punched Neil’s number into my new phone. After what had come out, I wasn’t sure if he would even want to talk to me.

It rang—once, twice, three times. I anxiously waited to hear his voice.
Come on, Neil, please!

I just wanted to hear my stepson’s voice. To tell him I loved him. He’d just lost his dad. I only imagined the anguish he must be experiencing. And feeling . . . not knowing the truth. Thinking I had done it . . . By the fourth ring I was dying.
Please, Neil, pick up.

Then I caught myself. I had no idea if he had been to the police. They might have his phone under observation too. Was it possible that they could trace incoming calls? Even a quick one, from an unregistered number?

I didn’t know.

I cut off the call.

I put down the phone, my heart as aching as it had ever been. I missed Dave so much. And I was missing my dad. If he were alive, he’d be the first one I would go to. I had never felt so overwhelmed or so alone in my life.

The hell with it,
said a voice that leapt up inside me.
They’re my family! I’ve lost my husband too!
I rifled through my bag and took out my iPhone. I remembered reading somewhere that a text message couldn’t be traced. That that was how Wall Street honchos looking to avoid a paper trail were communicating with each other these days. I scrolled under Contacts to my son’s.

What would I even say?

I began to write:

I
KNOW
WHAT
YOU
MUST
THINK
. B
UT
DON
’
T
BELIEVE
IT
,
HONEY
. I
DIDN
’
T
KILL
YOUR
DAD
. I
SWEAR
! I
MISS
HIM
TERRIBLY
,
JUST
LIKE
YOU
MUST
NOW
.

I
WISH
I
COULD
TELL
IT
TO
YOU
MYSELF
,
BABY
. Y
OU
HAVE
TO
TRUST
ME
.

I
WISH
I
COULD
TELL
IT
TO
YOU
ALL
.

I closed the phone and let my head go back against my seat, the blood draining from me.

I heard a loud
beep
and a car lock go on. I jumped. A couple got into their car directly next to me, sending my heart clawing up my throat. I sank down, hiding myself in my seat.

And I began to cry.

Knowing I was so alone and in such trouble. Knowing anyone who knew me probably thought I was a murderer. Or a lunatic.

Knowing my husband was dead. Because of me. That people wanted to kill me, and I didn’t even know why.

Now Joe . . .

Suddenly my phone vibrated on the car seat. My heart leaped up. I grabbed the phone and checked the screen. For a moment, I was excited, almost giddy.

It was Neil.

With a lifted heart I checked out his reply. But what I read sent a shiver down my spine.

D
ON
’
T
WRITE
ME
AGAIN
.

H
OW
COULD
YOU
HAVE
DONE
THIS
, W
ENDY
?

H
OW
?

He had it all wrong. Just like I thought he would. Like the world would. I was about to tell him to just hear me out when another text came through.

I
DON
’
T
WANT
TO
HEAR
FROM
YOU
AGAIN
. J
UST
TURN
YOURSELF
IN
, W
ENDY
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I
was sitting in a stolen car, on the run, inside a dank and freezing garage, but Neil’s answer left me colder and more alone than ever. I found an old blanket in the back that Jim and Cindy must have used as a ski warmer and wrapped myself in it.

I was scared to be out here on my own, even more scared at the thought of turning myself in. I knew the only way to prove my innocence was to find proof that the agent who’d shot Curtis in that hotel room was engaged in some kind of nasty business that resulted in both of their deaths.

I just didn’t know how.

From the car, I googled Curtis on my iPhone. What came back was that he had written articles for publications like
The Atlantic
and
The New Yorker
and some online magazines like
Mother Jones
and
The Daily Beast
on topics such as the financial meltdown and the war in Afghanistan, with titles that seemed to focus on some form of government or corporate corruption. I had to know what he was working on when he was killed. Did I dare call these publications? I knew that would be insane. What could I possibly say? That I was a reporter looking into Curtis’s death? Should I try to find his agent or maybe a friend? The first call I made, I was certain the police would be all over me in minutes.

I scrolled through his phone again, through his e-mails and photographs. I stopped again at the one of the pretty Latina-looking woman in the hospital gown. There were other photos of Curtis with his friends, seemingly in party mode. Further along, I found several in a mountainous terrain, which now I figured was Afghanistan. In several of them Curtis was decked out in combat gear with soldiers and villagers. I also found a shot of him and a younger woman who looked like she might be his sister around a table with an older couple who I guessed were his mom and dad.

A shudder of emotion came over me. A mother’s emotion, as I looked at Curtis’s mom, surrounded by her children. Proud, happy eyes that reflected what would have been in my own, only days ago.

It suddenly occurred to me that that might be a way. She might be able to help me. If it were me, if I had lost my son, I would want to know—I’d
have
to know—the truth about what really happened up there. Not just what the news was saying.

The truth—how my son died.

At the bar, Curtis told me he hailed from Boston. I went through his contacts until I came up with a number marked Home. A 607 area code. It was after 9:00
P
.
M
. I didn’t know where his parents would be right now. In Boston, or even in New York, maybe, claiming the body? It was just a few days ago that they had lost their son.

I figured it was worth a try.

I clicked on the number and waited with trepidation until the fourth ring, when a woman finally answered. “Hello?”

I felt paralyzed. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how she might take me. As some crazy accomplice in their son’s death? Someone wanted by the FBI? Or just a panicked, promiscuous woman?

“Mrs. Kitchner?” I uttered haltingly.

The woman hesitated. “This is Elaine Kitchner. Who is this?”

“Mrs. Kitchner, I’m sorry to bother you. I know this is a difficult time. I realize you just lost your son.” I heard a man’s voice in the background, asking, “Who is it, Elaine?”

I sucked in a breath and said the only thing that came to my mind. “This is Wendy Gould. I don’t know if you know my name. I just thought you might want to know what happened up there. In that hotel room.”

I was met with silence. And who could blame her? Her son had been shot at point-blank range under mysterious circumstances. It was being portrayed in the press as if he’d shot it out with a government agent. And that I was there.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, her tone stiffening.

“It’s not a joke, Mrs. Kitchner. And please, please don’t hang up. I was in that room with your son when he was killed. I was there.”

I waited; the silence grew stonier the longer it went on. She was probably trying to decide if this was some kind of crank, or just some freak who wanted to cause her pain. I knew she might hang up on me at any second.

“Please, Mrs. Kitchner, the last thing in the world I’m trying to do is cause you any pain. I’ve lost someone myself. I just need to talk with you. It’s vitally important.” I was almost in tears.

“How did you possibly get this number?” she finally replied.

“Please don’t hang up! I know what this must seem. But I’m not some psycho. I’m a mother too, and a mother who, right now, watched her husband get killed and can’t even talk to my own son. I can’t even call the police. I can only imagine you would want to know what happened to Curtis. Because it’s not like what anyone’s saying . . . and I lost the person I loved most in the world last night too. So
my
life’s been taken from me as well . . .”

I heard her husband in the background, trying to take the line from her.

“You were with him?” she asked expectantly.

“Yes, I was.” The words flew out of me, jumbled and rambling. “Your son wasn’t in a shoot-out, Mrs. Kitchner, like it’s been portrayed. He was murdered. In cold blood. By an agent from the Department of Homeland Security. I saw it happen! I know. I was up there with him, and I know that doesn’t make me look particularly good, or reliable, and for that I’m truly ashamed, though in truth, that doesn’t really matter much right now. But an agent of the U.S. government found his way into his hotel room and shot your son at point-blank range. He tried to plant a gun on him, to make it appear that Curtis had a gun too, which he was about to fire. Which he did not. There wasn’t any fight. Curtis barely even touched it. He was murdered. The agent went to kill me too. The only reason I got out alive was because the gun he tried to plant on Curtis fell across the bed to me, and I shot him in self-defense.”