No Way Back: A Novel (2 page)

“No. Dos coches.” Two cars.

No one had told Lupe that.

He quickly radioed back. His uncle, who was having coffee at his hacienda, asked him, “Are you sure?’

“Sí
. Two white wagons. Anglos. They are passing the school now.”

That meant they would be in the square in a matter of seconds. Lupe gave the signal to the old man, who brought the cart across the narrow stone street, instructing the burro to stop. Coming down the hill, Lupe did see two white vehicles making their way down Calle Lachrimas, named for the Holy Mother’s tears.

“There are two!” he radioed Oscar, and looked up to the verandah across the square. “Both Anglos. Which one is it? Do you know the plate number?”

His uncle’s voice came back. “No. Let me check.”

The front car honked at the cart. The old man appeared to do his best, moving as slowly as possible, but he couldn’t block the road all day. The joke was, he’d probably had a hand in more killings than all of them!

“What do you want me to do?” Lupe asked again, as the old man cleared the road. “It must be done now?”

“Kill them all,” his uncle’s voice came back. “Let God decide.”

The old man gave the burro a whack, and the cart seemed to magically clear
the road.

By that time, Ned was going over the map. Ana had pulled out her Nikon and was snapping away at a little girl who waved back at her, going. “Oh, man, this is great!”

Sam put the car back in gear. “We’re rolling!”

All of a sudden several men in jeans with white kerchiefs around their faces stepped out from the buildings. From the square itself. Some were even on the rooftops.

The one in front of Sam seemed no older than himself, maybe even younger, looking at him with a dull indifference in his eyes.

They were all aiming automatic weapons.

No!
Sam wanted to tell them,
No, wait . . . You’ve made some mistake!
but the next thing he heard was a scream—Ana’s, he was sure—as the car’s front and side windows exploded virtually at once, ironlike fists slugging him all over like the hardest lacrosse balls he had ever felt, and then the explosions seem to just go on and on, no matter how much he begged them to stop. On and on, until the boy pulling the trigger in front of him was no longer in his sight.

WENDY

CHAPTER ONE

H
e
was
handsome.

Not that I was really checking anyone out, or that I even looked at guys in that way anymore—married going on ten years now, and Neil, my youngest, my stepson actually, just off to college. I glanced away, pretending I hadn’t even noticed him. Especially in a bar by myself, no matter how stylish this one was. But in truth I guess I had. Noticed him. Just a little. Out of the corner of my eye . . .

Longish black hair and kind of dark, smoky eyes. A white V-neck T-shirt under a stylish blazer. Late thirties maybe, around my age, but seemed younger. I would’ve chalked him up as being just a shade too cool—too cool for my type anyway—if it wasn’t that something about him just seemed, I don’t know
. . .
natural. He sat down a few seats from me at the bar and ordered a Belvedere on the rocks, never looking my way. His watch was a rose-gold chronometer and looked expensive. When he finally did turn my way, shifting his stool to listen to the jazz pianist, his smile was pleasant, not too forward, just enough to acknowledge that there were three empty seats between us, and seemed to say nothing more than
How are you tonight?

Actually the guy was pretty damn hot!

Truth was, it had been years since I’d been at a bar by myself at night, other than maybe waiting for a girlfriend to come back from the ladies’ room as part of a gals’ night out. And the only reason I even happened to be here was that I’d been in the city all day at this self-publishing seminar, a day after Dave and I had about the biggest fight of our married lives. Which had started out as nothing, of course, as these things usually did: whether or not you had to salt the steaks so heavily—
twice
, in fact—before putting them on the grill—he having read about it in
Food & Wine
magazine or something—which somehow managed to morph into how I felt he was always spoiling the kids, who were from Dave’s first marriage: Amy, who was in Barcelona on her junior year abroad, and Neil, who had taken his car with him as a freshman up at Bates. Which was actually all just a kind of code, I now realized, for some issues I had with his ex-wife, Joanie. How I felt she was always belittling me; always putting out there that she was the kids’ mother, even though I’d pretty much raised them since they were in grade school, and how I always felt Dave never fully supported me on this.

“She
is
their mother!” Dave said, pushing away from the table. “Maybe you should just butt out on this, Wendy. Maybe you just should.”

Then we both said some things I’m sure we regretted.

The rest of the night we barely exchanged a word—Dave shutting himself in the TV room with a hockey game, and me hiding out in the bedroom with my book. In the morning he was in his car at the crack of dawn, and I had my seminar in New York. We hadn’t spoken a word all day, which was rare, so I asked my buddy Pam to meet me for a drink and maybe something to eat, just to talk it all through before heading home.

Home was about the
last
place I wanted to be right now.

And here it was, ten after seven, and Pam was texting me that she was running
twenty min late
: the usual kid crisis—meaning Steve, her hedge-fund-honcho husband, still hadn’t left the office as promised, and her nanny was with April at dance practice . . .

And me, at the Hotel Kitano bar, a couple of blocks from Grand Central. Taking in the last, relaxing sips of a Patrón Gold margarita—another thing I rarely did!—one eye on the TV screen above me, which had a muted baseball game or something on, the other doing its best to avoid the eye of Mr. Cutie at the end of the bar. Maybe not looking my 100 percent, knockout
best
—I mean, it was just a self-publishing seminar and all—but still not exactly half-bad in an orange cashmere sweater, a black leather skirt, my Prada boots, and my wavy, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Looking decently toned from the hot-yoga classes I’d been taking, texting back to Pam with a mischievous smile: B
ETTER
HURRY
. V.
SEXY
GUY
@
BAR
AND
THINK
HE
’
S
ABT
TO
MAKE
CONTACT
. *
GRIN
*

And giggling inside when she wrote me back: H
ANDS
OFF
,
HON
! O
RDERED
HIM
ESP
FOR
ME
!

T
HEN
BETTER
GET
YOUR
ASS
HERE
PRONTO
:-) I texted back.

“Yanks or Red Sox?” I heard someone say.

“Sorry?” I looked up and it was you know who, who definitely had to be Bradley Cooper’s dreamy first cousin or something. Or at least that’s what the sudden acceleration in my heart rate was telling me.

“Yanks or Red Sox? I see you’re keeping tabs on the game.”

“Oh. Yanks, of course,” I said, a glance to the screen. “Born and bred. South Shore.”

“Sox.” He shrugged apologetically. “South
Boston
. Okay, Brookline,” he said with a smile, “if you force it out of me.”

I smiled back. He was pretty cute. “Actually I wasn’t even watching. Just waiting for a friend.” I figured I might as well cut this off now. No point in leading him on.

“No worries.” He smiled politely.
Like he’s even interested, right?

“Who happens to be twenty minutes late!” I blurted, thinking I might have sounded just a bit harsh a moment ago.

“Well, traffic’s nuts out there tonight. Someone must be in town. Is he coming in from anywhere?”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “Park and Sixty-Third!” Then I heard myself add, not sure exactly why, “And it’s a
she.
Old college friend. Girls’ night out.”

He lifted his drink to me, and his dark eyes smiled gently. “Well, here’s to gridlock, then.”

Mr. Cutie and I shifted around and listened to the pianist. The bar was apparently known for its jazz. It was like the famous lounge at the Carlyle, only in midtown, which was why Pam had chosen it—close to both her place and Grand Central, for me to catch my train.

“She’s actually pretty good!” I said, suddenly not minding the thought of Pam stuck in a cab somewhere, at least for a while. Not to mention forgetting my husband, who, for a moment, was a million miles away.

“Donna St. James. She’s one of the best. She used to sing with George Benson and the Marsalis brothers.”

“Oh,” I said. Everyone in the lounge seemed to be clued in to this.

“It’s why I stay here when I’m in town. Some of the top names in the business just drop in unannounced. Last time I was here, Sarah Jewel got up and sang.”

“Sarah Jewel?”

“She used to record with Basie back in the day.” He pointed to a stylishly dressed black woman and an older white man at one of the round tables. “That’s Rosie Miller. She used to record with Miles Davis. Maybe she’ll get up later.”

“You’re in the business?” I asked. I mean, he did kind of look the part.

“No. Play a little though. Just for fun. My dad was actually an arranger back in the seventies and eighties. He . . . anyway, I don’t want to bore you with all that,” he said, shrugging and stirring his drink.

I took a sip of mine and caught his gaze. “You’re not boring me at all.”

A couple came in and went to take the two seats that were in between us, so Mr. Cutie picked up his drink and slid deftly around them, and asked, motioning to the seat next to me, “Do you mind?”

Truth was, I didn’t. I was actually kind of enjoying it. And I did have a rescue plan, if necessary. I checked the time: 7:25.
Wherever the hell Pam was!

“So this friend of yours,” he asked with a coy half smile, “is she real or imaginary? Because if she’s imaginary, not to worry. I have several imaginary friends of my own back in Boston. We could set them up.”

“Oh, that would be nice.” I laughed. “But I’m afraid she’s quite real. At least she was this summer. She and her husband were in Spain with me and my . . .”

I was about to say
my husband
, of course, but something held me back. Though by this time I assumed he had taken note of the ring on my finger. Still, I couldn’t deny this was fun, sitting there with an attractive man who was paying me a little attention, still reeling from my argument with Dave.

Then he said, “I suspect there’s probably an imaginary husband back at home as well . . .”

“Right now”—I rolled my eyes and replied in a tone that was just a little digging—“I’m kind of wishing he was imaginary!” Then I shook my head. “That wasn’t nice. Tequila talking. We just had a little row last night. Subject for tonight with friend.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear. Just a newlywed spat, I’m sure,” he said, teasing. This time I was sure he was flirting.

“Yeah, right.” I chortled at the flattery. “Going on ten years.”

“Wow!” His eyes brightened in a way that I could only call admiring. “Well, I hope it’s okay if I say you surely don’t look it! I’m Curtis, by the way.”

I hesitated, thinking maybe I’d let things advance just a bit too far. Though I had to admit I wasn’t exactly minding it. And maybe in a way I was saying to my husband,
So see, David, there are consequences to being a big, fat jerk!

“Wendy,” I said back. We shook hands. “But it sure would be nice to know where the hell Pam is. She was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” I checked the time on my phone.

“Would it be all right if I order up another of whatever you’re drinking?” He raised his palms defensively. “Purely for the imaginary friend, of course . . .”

“Of course,” I said, playing along. “But no. One more of these and I’ll be up at that piano myself! And trust me, I wasn’t playing with anyone in the eighties . . . Anyway”—I shrugged, deadpan—“she only drinks
imaginary
vodka.”

Curtis grinned. “I’m acquainted with the bartender. Let me see what I can do.”

My iPhone vibrated. Pam, I was sure, announcing she was pulling up to the hotel now and for me to get a dirty martini going for her. But instead it read:

W
END
, I’
M
SO
SORRY
. J
UST
CAN
’
T
MAKE
IT
TONITE
. W
HAT
CAN
I
SAY
. . . ? I
KNOW
U
NEED
TO
TALK
. T
OMORROW
WORK
?

Tomorrow?
Tomorrow didn’t work. I was here. Now. And she was right, I did need to talk. And the last place I wanted to be right now was home.
Will call,
I wrote back, a little annoyed. I put down the phone. My eyes inevitably fell on Curtis’s. I’d already missed the 7:39.

“Sure, why don’t we do just that?” I nodded about that drink.

I’m not sure exactly what made me stay.

Maybe I was still feeling vulnerable from my fight with Dave. Or even a little annoyed at Pam, who had a habit of bagging out when I needed her most. I suppose you could toss in just a bit of undeniable interest in the present company.

Whatever it was, I did.

Knowing Dave was out for the night on business and that it was all just harmless anyway helped as well. And that there was a train every half hour. I could leave anytime I wanted.