The Escape Artist (12 page)

What would Ellen say if Kim asked permission to paint on one of the walls of her new apartment? She’d better not ask until she could offer Ellen something more than two months rent.

She’d sat up late the night before, counting her money. She had forty-eight hundred left, and she knew the computer and printer and supplies were going to take an big bite out of that. There would probably be about twenty-five hundred left after her purchases today. That would be all that stood between her and starvation. She would have to find work quickly.

Computer Wizard was an enormous building standing alone in an expansive parking lot. She knew very little about computers. She could operate the word processing program she’d learned at the bank and that was about it.

She put Cody in the stroller and walked resolutely across the parking lot. The salesman who greeted her at the door was no older than twenty. He reminded her of Jim when he was younger—perfectly groomed, a little too bright-eyed, and ready to set the world on fire.

“I’d like to buy a personal computer,” she said. “I’ll be using it primarily for word processing.”

It was as if she’d pushed a button. He was instantly off and running, talking about megabytes and memory and serial ports and CD-ROMs, and she wished she were back in Boulder. There were loads of people in Boulder she could turn to for guidance in buying a computer, Linc being the obvious first choice.

When he paused for breath, she threw herself on his mercy. “I don’t know about any of that stuff,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me what I need,” she said.

“Well, why don’t you take a look at what we’ve got?” he suggested. He began showing her computer after computer, until the machines turned into one massive pile of plastic in her mind. She had to admit, though, that these computers were a lot more fun than the one she’d used at work. The salesman let her play with a graphics program, and as she twisted shapes and curved lines and changed fonts, she got an idea for a brochure she could use to advertise her word processing business. This was going to be fun.

She finally settled on one of the computers. It came with everything she could ever imagine wanting, and then some. She forced the salesman to slow down his spiel and tell her in detail about the features. She made him tell her enough so that she no longer felt anxious when she touched the keys. Then it was only the price tag that gave her fear. If she bought this particular computer, she’d have too little left. What if Cody suddenly needed medical care and she had no money?

“I love it,” she said, reluctantly taking her hands from the keys. “But I really can’t afford it.”

“Hmm,” the salesman said. “Well, I think you’re in luck.”

She looked at him with hope. He was so slick that she doubted the veracity of anything he told her, but she badly wanted to be in luck.

“Look over here.” He walked toward the register.

She followed him, pushing Cody, who was now asleep in the stroller. On the counter next to the register stood a computer very much like the one she’d been using, but this one had a large red label stuck on the monitor, and the price on the label was hundreds lower than any other price she’d seen.

“Is this the same model?” she asked.

“The very same,” he said, his hand resting on the top of the monitor.

“Then why is it marked down?”

“Because it’s an open box.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone bought it and then decided they didn’t want it, for one reason or another. So they returned it, but we can’t sell it as new, even though, in reality it is new.” He winked at her as though that was their little secret. “But since we can’t sell it as new, it becomes a real bargain. Plus, the guy that had it left a ton of software on it, so whoever buys it gets a bonus.”

“Can I see what’s on it?”

“Sure.”

He turned it on, and she began perusing the various programs. There was the word processing program she was accustomed to using, as well as a financial program—it would be a while before she’d need that—and some games and a screen saver. Very tempting, but the “open box” concept worried her.

“It’s nice,” she said, “but why would the person bring it back? Something must be wrong with it.”

“Oh, there could be a zillion reasons why someone would bring a computer back, none of them having to do with the quality of the product. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure this particular computer was just a loaner.”

She eyed him suspiciously. He looked as though he was thinking fast.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said. “I remember now. One of our customers brought in their own computer for repairs, but they needed one to use while theirs was being fixed. So we loaned him this one.”

She didn’t believe a word out of his mouth. It didn’t matter, though. She wanted this computer. “Can I bring it back if I decide I don’t like it?”

“Of course.”

What was there to lose? “Okay then,” she said. “I’ll need a printer, too.”

The salesman helped her pick out a printer, along with a simple graphics program, some paper, and few other supplies.

It wasn’t until all her purchases had been loaded into her car that she noticed the large art supply store across the street. She stared at it for a moment, wondering if she were being given some sort of sign. First there were the murals, now a huge art store had suddenly popped up in front of her. Maybe it was time for her to start drawing again.

It was a challenge getting across the highway with the stroller, but she finally made it. She spent nearly an hour walking the aisles of the store, immersing herself in the scents and sensations that had meant so much to her as a teenager, and when she finally walked out the front door, she was carrying a sketch pad and a pencil set, the first she’d owned since she was sixteen years old.

She waited until Cody was in bed that evening before setting up the computer on the oak table in the dining area of her living room. She had never gotten a computer up and running on her own before, and she approached the task slowly and methodically. Everything worked as it was supposed to, and she was proud of herself for putting it all together without help from anyone. Still, she was worried. Why had the previous owner returned the computer? Would she learn what was wrong with it at the worst possible moment? She could see herself with a hard-won word processing job, a tight deadline, and a broken computer.

Not only had the previous owner of the computer loaded some of his own software on it, but he’d left a file on it as well, and she hoped he’d made a copy of it before turning the computer in. She opened the file, wondering if perhaps he had left his name on the document. Maybe she could call him to ask the real reason behind his returning the computer.

The document was a two-page list of names and addresses, tagged with curious information.

Katherine Nabors, 448 Labrador Lane, Annapolis, 47, 2 children, 2 adults. September 21, 8:30 a.m., home.

Sellers, Sellers, and Wittaker, 5588 Duke of Gloucester Street, Annapolis, every damn day of the year: Use October 17, 2 p.m. (so all will be there).

Ryan Geary, 770 Pioneer Way, Annapolis, 51, elderly couple, November 13, 9 p.m
.

There was another page and a half of similar cryptic listings of individuals and a couple of businesses. Kim wanted to clear them off her computer, but she couldn’t bring herself to delete them when they might still be needed by their creator.

Reluctantly, she called the store, but the salesman who had worked with her had already left for the night.

“Well, maybe you can help me,” she said to the woman who answered the phone. “I bought an open box computer there this afternoon, and there’s a file on it that obviously belonged to the person who had the computer before I did.”

“Well, I’m sure if it was important they would have made a copy of it before they brought it in.” The saleswoman sounded as if she didn’t want to be bothered.

Kim wasn’t so sure the woman was right. If the person had thought to copy the file, wouldn’t they also have thought to erase it from the hard drive?

“Well, I was wondering if you might want to call that person to tell them that—”

“No, it’s not necessary,” the woman said. “It’s your computer now. Go ahead and erase it.”

Kim hung up the phone with a grimace. The store had made its sale. What did they care if some poor soul woke up tomorrow morning desperately needing this list of names? She copied the names to a floppy disk before erasing them from the hard drive, then she slipped the disk into her top dresser drawer so it wouldn’t get mixed up with her own work. She couldn’t remember if she’d given the woman at the store her phone number, but she wasn’t about to call back. She couldn’t afford to be that memorable in anyone’s eyes.

It was midnight by the time she got to bed, and she lay there feeling the pain of her isolation. She wished she could call Linc to tell him she’d set up a computer entirely by herself, just as she’d wished she could tell him about every other new adventure she’d experienced this past week. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t tell a soul. And she rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head to block out the loneliness.

Over the next couple of days, she taught herself the graphics program for her computer. She designed and printed business cards for herself, then created matching brochures, hoping that the colorful, eye-catching composition would make up for her slim credentials. She got a directory of businesses from the Chamber of Commerce and stuffed envelopes labeled with the addresses of one hundred businesses in the town. She bought stamps, and on Sunday, dropped the stack of envelopes filled with her brochures and business cards into the mailbox outside the post office. She stared at the mailbox for a moment after she heard the stack fall to its metal floor with a thud. She’d done her best. Now she’d just have to wait.

She was still by the mailbox, her hands on the bar of the stroller, when she spotted a young couple standing in front of the post office building. They were in their twenties, she guessed, and they were oblivious to the world. The man was leaning against the building, the woman pulled tightly against him in an embrace, and he was kissing her. The woman’s head was tipped back and her blond hair hung in waves over her shoulders. The kiss was no simple peck on the cheek, but deep and passionate, yet careful and tender all the same. Kim stayed frozen, facing the mailbox as though fascinated by it as she watched the couple from the corner of her eye. Her lips tingled. She wanted to be that woman, being gently ravished that way. And she wanted the man to be Linc.

The man slowly raised his hand up the woman’s side until he reached her breast. With her eyes closed, the woman tipped her head back even further, away from his mouth, as though she needed space to catch her breath.

Kim forced herself to turn away. She began pushing the stroller in the opposite direction from the couple, her thoughts torn between astonishment over their brazen, public display, and pure, unadorned jealousy. She knew it would be a while before she would get the image of them out of her mind.

She walked farther from her apartment than she had at any time since her arrival in Annapolis, and she knew it was a form of sublimation. Her brain was clogged with prurient thoughts and impossible yearnings, and she planned to walk until her mind was clear again.

She was in an unfamiliar neighborhood when she came to a house surrounded by yellow police tape. The house was small and square, with gray siding and black shutters, and it sat close to the sidewalk. A carefully tended flower garden filled the space between the sidewalk and the narrow front porch of the house.

Apparently, there’d been a fire in the house. The porch was blackened, and the ragged looking opening where the front door had been was covered by plastic sheeting. Above the porch, the roof appeared to be on the verge of collapse.

Two women stood in the street in front of the house, pointing and talking. Curiosity got the better of her, and Kim pushed the stroller slowly toward them.

“What happened here?” she asked when she’d gotten close enough for them to hear her.

“An explosion,” the older woman said.

“They think it was a bomb,” the second woman added. She was dark-haired and quite a bit overweight. “The gal who lives here opened an express mail package that someone left on her porch, and it blew up in her face.”

“How horrible,” Kim said. “Is she—did she survive?”

Both women shook their heads.

“We didn’t know her,” the older woman said. “We’re just out for our daily walk and we’d heard about it and decided to come see.” She looked at the house and shuddered. “Terrible sight,” she said.

Kim’s already shaky sense of security grew instantly more precarious. “Annapolis seemed so safe to me,” she said.

“Oh, it’s a perfectly safe town,” the older woman reassured her. “This sort of thing never happens here.”

“No place is safe,” the other woman said. “You just can’t get away from crime and violence.”

Maybe not, Kim thought, but she could get away from this neighborhood. She said good-bye to the women and began walking in the direction of home.

AFTER DINNER THAT NIGHT
, she moved the radio to the shelf behind her bed and tuned in to the station that carried Linc’s show, even though he wouldn’t be on the air for another hour. It had been a week and a half since she’d seen him. He would have taped tonight’s show this past Wednesday, when he most definitely would have known what she’d done.

She sat on the bed with her sketch pad and pencils while she waited, listening to the classical music from the public broadcasting station, drawing anything that caught her eye in the bedroom: the crib, the window, the closet door. The pleasure of drawing, if not the skill, quickly returned to her, and she filled the entire hour—and several pages of the sketchbook—with drawings of the objects that made up her new life.

She put the sketchbook on the floor when Simon and Garfunkel began singing “Song for the Asking,” and she got beneath the covers to wait for Linc to speak. He’d be featuring the Byrds that night, he told his audience when the song was over, and as he talked about the history of that group, Kim listened for any trace of emotion in his voice. She was certain that she heard it. The police had probably put him through the wringer. He was not a favorite of the Boulder police department to begin with. There were still some cops in Boulder who had been around when her father was killed. A few of them had actually been at the scene. They undoubtedly remembered finding her father in a pool of blood on her bedroom floor, her mother lying unconscious beside him. They’d remember Susanna sitting numbly at her desk, while Linc sat stoically on the edge of her bed, the gun resting in his hands. Some of the police felt that Linc got off way too easy, and it irked them that a man who’d served time for murder could end up a popular public figure. She hoped they would be able to put their negative feelings about him aside and believe him when he said he’d known nothing of her plans.