No Way Back: A Novel (6 page)

“Okay.” I nodded against his chest. I shut my eyes, as if I could wish this whole nightmare away.

“This other guy,” Dave said. He pulled himself away from me. “The one who you . . .”

I knew perfectly who he meant. The one I went up there with. “Curtis.”

He shrugged. “What do you know about him? Who is he? What did he do?”

“I don’t know anything about him, Dave. I just met him at the bar.” I winced, hearing just how that sounded. “He just sat down, while I was waiting for Pam. I don’t even know if Curtis is his real name. Wait a second, I took his phone . . .”

“You took his phone?”

“From the room. I thought I might need it. To help me prove what happened.”

I ran up to the bedroom and came back with my bag. Dave had turned on the television. It was almost 11:00
P
.
M
. “This had to have made the news . . .”

I dug around in my bag, searching for his BlackBerry, and found it, at the bottom next to my iPhone.

I put the bag down and a weird feeling came over me. Something didn’t seem right.

Like something was missing.

I sifted through my purse, finding my makeup kit, my e-reader, trying to figure out what it was. Then it hit me.

My tote bag. With my program and some materials from the conference. It wasn’t with my bag or on the kitchen island, where I put things down when I come in.

A feeling of dread came over me.

“What’s wrong?” Dave asked.

“Something’s not here.” I went out the kitchen door to the garage and searched around my Audi. It wasn’t there either. I recalled I’d had it at the bar. I’d even joked to Curtis about it. And I remembered taking it up to the room. I’d thrown it on the floor along with my bag and coat. We weren’t exactly focused on that then. But in my haste, I must’ve left it.

For the third time that night my insides turned to a block of ice.

I came back in, my face no doubt white. Dave looked at me. “What’s missing?”

“My program. From the conference I went to today. It was in a tote bag. Along with some other stuff. It’s not here . . .”

“Our life is falling apart. Who gives a shit about the fucking tote bag, Wendy?”

“You don’t understand . . . it’s not the program.” I could have cared less about my goddamn program.

It was that it said
Wendy Gould. Pelham, New York
on the printed label on the cover.

It could identify me.

My heart clutched in horror. The people looking for me, who had tried to kill me twice to keep what I had seen quiet . . .

They probably had my name right now!

CHAPTER SIX

D
ave, we have to leave,” I said, urgency crackling in my voice.

“We will. I just want to see if it’s public yet. Then I’ll call Harvey—”

“Dave, you don’t understand. I think they know who I am. We have to get out of here now!”

That was the moment the news came on. The lead-in sent a shiver down me: “A shooting in a room at a posh midtown hotel, and two people are dead.”

I watched in horror.

The reporter came on and described how an unspecified victim had been shot in his room at the “posh” Hotel Kitano, along with a second victim—details still unclear—“who was rumored to be a possible government agent.”

She said that a third person was being sought.
A woman
, who might have been in that room when it all happened, and who had fled the scene.

My stomach wound into a knot.
I
was that third person.

The person they were looking for was me!

The newscast went on. By this time they’d have found the tote bag. So they had to know who that third person was. More than three hours had passed. If the police knew,
why weren’t they already here
?

The only possible answer hit me. And it didn’t make me feel any better. If the NYPD had it, they’d have been here by now. The neighborhood would be lit up with flashing lights. They wouldn’t have even mentioned a third person on the news . . .

They would already have me in custody.

But if the people who had killed Curtis had found it first,
they’d
want to keep the whole thing quiet. They might not hand it over so quickly. They’d be just as scared that I’d be in the hands of the police and divulge what I had seen, which they’d want to cover up.
Which meant . . .

I felt my throat go dry.

Which meant they might be heading here themselves, at that very second. To finish the job.

Their role in all this could remain secret as long as I stayed away from the police.

Or was dead.

Suddenly I became encased in sweat. We weren’t safe here. We had to get out of here now.

“Dave, I’m going to get dressed. It’s not safe to be here. You wanted to go to the police. So let’s go! Let’s just get out of here now!”

I ran to the bedroom and threw on some jeans and a fleece pullover. Back in the kitchen I grabbed my bag and Curtis’s phone. We headed into the garage and climbed into Dave’s Range Rover, me behind the wheel.

I opened the garage door and turned on the ignition.

Dave put his hand on my arm. “We’ll make this all work out, Wendy . . .”

“I know,” I said. “Thanks.” I started to back out.

Suddenly a bright light enveloped us from behind. Headlights from a vehicle at the end of our driveway.

“Hands in the air!”
someone yelled.
“Out of the car! Now!”

I spun around in fear.

It was over. The police were here. I let out a deep breath, ready to comply. Thinking what I was going to say.

Then I saw that the light was from a black SUV. A single SUV.

“It’s them,”
I said. I grabbed my husband’s arm, terror running through me. “Oh, Jesus, Dave, they’re here.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
omeone stepped out of the passenger’s side of the SUV and cautiously approached us along the circular drive, his gun extended from the top of the semicircular drive.

Dave turned to me. “Wendy, you said these people were from the government. I’ll talk to them.”

That’s when I looked out the window and saw the same black agent who had shot at me at the hotel perched behind the SUV’s open driver’s door.

My heart almost exploded in fear.

“David, we can’t go out there!” I seized his arm. “These aren’t the police. You heard what I told you. They’re here to kill us!”

“Kill us?”
His tone was as skeptical as it was uncomprehending. “Wendy, we have to go out there. I’ll call Harvey. I promise, I’m not gonna let them take you without knowing where—” He started to open the door.

“No! Don’t!”
I screamed, reaching over to him. “You’re not going out there, Dave!”

There was no time to convince him. I threw the car into reverse and floored it. With a roar, the Range Rover lurched out of the garage and shot right at the oncoming agent, who dove out of the way.

I gunned it toward the SUV.

“Close the door!” I screamed at Dave, twisting around to see behind me. “Close the fucking door!”

He couldn’t. We smashed full force into the grill of the government SUV, Dave’s door flying open. I was jolted out of my seat, my head hitting against the sun roof. The black agent disappeared. I didn’t know if I had hit him or not. I didn’t care! I had to remind myself that these weren’t the good guys—they were covering up a cold-blooded murder. That I was the one trying to save our lives.

Two shots rang out. Not loud cracks. More like muted thuds. Suddenly the rear windshield splintered and my heart almost clawed up my throat. Dave looked at me, his gaze bewildered as mine was fearful and panicked.

If there had been any doubt what these people were here for, it was clear now.

I jammed the car into drive and floored it again, this time forward. Dave’s door was still open, the car’s wheels screeching.

“Wendy!”
he shouted. I hit the gas and steered toward the far entrance of our driveway.

By then, the first agent had risen to his feet. He ran ahead to block our way out, his weapon trained on us.

I bore down on him, prepared to run him over.

This time he leaped out of the way on Dave’s side, firing as we sped by.
“No!”
Another shot thudded into us from behind, the rear windshield shattering. Another hit the side as I turned.

“Dave, close the fucking door!”

He reached for it in desperation, bullets flying into the car. The agent was emptying his gun. I heard a horrifying
“Oooof”
over the rain of glass and the engine roar. I looked at my husband. His head pitched slightly forward and he had a glazed look in his eye, and I realized in panic what had happened before I saw the blood flower on his chest and his hand drop limply to his side.

“Oh my God, David!”
I screamed in horror.

Even as I rambled over our front circle, our eyes met for an instant. Our last instant. I’m not sure if there was anything in them anymore, just a kind of blankness and futility, as if he was somehow letting me down. It was a look I’ll carry with me the rest of my life.

Frantically, I lunged for him, as we bounced over the Belgian block, the force of the turn pitching him to the side. And then Dave slid, fell out of my grasp, and onto the pavement like some lifeless sack of grain, as I turned the corner of the driveway onto our street.

I slammed on the brakes and stared at him in horror.
“David!”

I knew he was dead. The glassy eyes staring blankly up at me. And dead only because of what I’d done. Staring up at me, like some disturbing image I’d seen on a news clip, someone else’s husband, twisted, inert, two dark blotches on his chest.

Another shot pinged through the car from behind me, and I saw Agent Number One running toward me. I knew if I stayed even a moment longer, I’d be dead as well. I looked one last time at Dave.

My heart was crumbling.

I hit the gas, the Range Rover lunging forward. I sped away, tears flooding my eyes. I drove down my dark, sleeping street, anguish tearing at me. Disbelief. I told myself that this was only some horrifying, nightmarish dream and screamed at myself to wake up from it. Now.
Wake up!

Please.

But as I sped through the darkened town, cutting down side streets and weaving through a parking lot only a resident would know to make certain I wasn’t being followed, not knowing where I was driving, only that I had to get away, as far away from this as I could; I knew with certainty it was no dream.

Oh, Dave . . .

And I saw clearly how it was all going to look once it became public. That I’d killed a government agent in a panic after being caught in a stranger’s hotel room, and now, having escaped the law enforcement agents who had come for me, I’d gotten my husband killed too. How, after an argument the night before, I’d betrayed him. I could just hear Pam on some news clip tomorrow reinforcing the whole thing. How down I had sounded. How desperate I’d been to meet her at the hotel.

And even if the police did somehow believe me about how the shootings there went down, how would the people who did this ever let me be, having witnessed what I had? How would I ever feel safe again, knowing they had to cover this up too?

They would never let me be free.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
drove.

I’m not sure for how long or how far. Until I felt far enough away that I was certain no one was following me. Every set of headlights that flashed in my mirror sent a shiver of dread rattling through me. Several times I was sure I’d been found. Several times I froze, rigid with fear, waiting for the inevitable siren or flashing light.

But it didn’t come.

I came to my senses on the Hutchinson River Parkway, heading north. A few miles up, I merged onto 684, just getting as far away as I could. Then Route 22 into Dutchess County. I finally stopped, from sheer exhaustion and the throes of grief taking over me. That time of night, I was practically the only car on the dark road. I pulled into a dark, closed-up gas station and cut my lights. It was going on 1:00
A
.
M
. My heart had barely slowed a beat since the shooting.

I started to sob. Deep, shame-filled sobs, everything starting to come up all over again, my forehead slumped on the wheel. My body convulsing. Over and over, I pictured Dave’s empty face staring up at me. That final, befuddled look in his eye, how he didn’t understand. How could he? His final word to me simply a helpless plea. “Wendy!”

And I knew he was dead only because of me. Because of what I’d done. How I’d betrayed him.

I screamed to no one,
“Why did I ever go up to that room?”
And no one answered. Tears cascaded down my cheeks.

I reached across the seat for my bag, fumbling for something I could use to dry my eyes.

Instead I found Curtis’s phone.

An unstoppable urge came over me to hurl it as far away as I possibly could. Since I’d set eyes on him, it had only brought me hell. I opened the door, took the phone in my hand, and went to fling it into the darkness.

Then I stopped. Suddenly it occurred to me this might be the one thing that could help me.

There had to be something in it that would show what Curtis was into. Why he was being targeted. Who his killers were, and why they wanted him dead. What had Hruseff said?
“This is for Gillian . . .”

It might well be my only chance to find out. I knew in the morning I’d be a hunted woman, sought for a connection to one murder and complicity in another. And that even I, if I looked at the situation through impartial eyes, would likely be convinced I was guilty. Until I knew why they wanted Curtis dead, I’d be a wanted woman. I’d never see my children again. I’d be running for the rest of my life.