The Shadow Box (9 page)

He would need cash. He doubled back to Columbus
Avenue, where he waited for his bank to open. Two hours
later he was stopping for gas on Connecticut's 1-95. He used a credit card to call Brendan Doyle. Doyle was out.
He left a message telling Doyle where he was going.

It dawned on him then that making those calls had been stupid. His home phone might well have been tapped. But even if no one was listening when he called that Hyannis hotel, he had guaranteed the room on his gold card. All
someone had to do was punch up his credit history and,
presto, there he is. Michael T. Fallon, Member since 1985.
Booked a room in Hyannis, stopped for gas at a rest stop
near New Haven, made a credit card call to his lawyer.

Add to that, the garage attendant had seen him come
down with a suitcase. The doorman had seen him just miss a delivery truck as his car shot out of the garage. Garage
attendants and doormen. Slip them twenty bucks, they'll
tell you anything you want to know.

And then there's his bank. The cashier had stared at
him, saw the way he kept looking over his shoulder as he cleaned out two accounts. More than twenty thousand dol
lars. Much of it in cash.
They would know he was running.
If he went to Hyannis, they  would have him by
morning.

“Michael . . . you do know how this sounds, don't
you?”

“
‘It gets worse. ”

“Who would have found you? Who are ‘they’?”

“I'm not sure.”

“
‘But you're convinced that they mean to kill you.''

“Doc . . . they tried twice.”

“If that's so, why didn't you go to the police?”

“You're not listening again. The police are after me,
too.”

It had started to snow as he reached Rhode Island. The
snow became heavy as he crossed the Massachusetts line.
By this time he was totally paranoid.

A van, two men in it, had been on his tail for at least
twenty miles. He couldn't see their faces through the
snow. Abruptly, he veered up an off ramp. The van fol
lowed. All he could think was that
they
had called ahead.
The men in the van were hired killers.

The road sign said Route 24. Fallon followed it south. He stepped on the gas, the van stayed with him. Then, on
a straight stretch of road, no other cars near, it tried to
pull out abreast of him. He jerked his wheel left, blocking it, as he groped for the big Colt Python that he'd hidden
under his seat. He had trouble gripping it. His right arm
had been broken at the wrist, and the plaster cast, although
crushed and crumbling, left only his fingers free. He
glanced back at the van through his mirror. The man in
the passenger seat had rolled down his window. He was leaning out.

Fallon found the heavy revolver, managed to cock it,
then lowered his own window. He eased his car to the
right and waited. Let them try. This time he was ready.

But a shout of “Asshole!” was all he heard.

The van sped on.

Fallon pulled off the road and sat until his heartbeat
slowed and his cheeks were no longer burning. If that man
h
ad reached his hand out, if only to flip a finger, Fallon
might have fired before he saw that the hand held no
weapon. But his mind, at least, had started working again.

The signs said this new road led to Falmouth. He would go there, find a motel, give himself time to think. But approaching Falmouth, other signs said that eight miles
farther, off to the right, was the town of Woods Hole and the ferry to Martha's Vineyard. The ferry ran year-round.
He followed those signs.

Martha's Vineyard would be better. Much better.

For one thing, it was an island. So was Iwo Jima but
the idea of a place surrounded by water seemed comforting
all the same.

For another, he had never been to Martha's Vineyard
so they'd have no reason to look for him there. In fact,
when he fails to show up in Hyannis, they'll think that
booking that room, even making that gas purchase, was a calculated ruse. They'll never imagine that his true destina
tion would be so close to the one he faked. They'll think
he's long gone in some other direction. Not in Massachu
setts, not even in New England. More likely, they'll guess
that he went south. Moon had gone south. They'll think
he went down to find Moon.

At Woods Hole, the ferry was just coming in. Only
three cars were waiting for it. Fallon bought a ticket and
followed them on board.

The sun had begun to set as the Woods Hole ferry
docked at Vineyard Haven. Michael drove up the ramp
and pulled over to a kiosk marked
Information.
He wanted
to ask about hotels but it struck him that he couldn't stay
here either. He knew that, in his state of mind, he would
be down here at the landing every day watching for cars
with New York plates. He looked at a wall map of the
island, got back in his car, and followed the signs to Ed
gartown on the far side of the island.

He recognized the waterfront area. It was a picture post
card setting that he had seen before in photographs but
the rest of the town was unfamiliar to him. A pleasant-
looking woman was towing groceries on a sled. He
stopped to ask her what hotels were open. Her smile faded
when she saw his eyes but she also noted the small Mer
cedes he was driving and decided that he was probably
too rich to be dangerously deranged. With the car in mind, she pointed him toward the Harborview Hotel, a luxury
Victorian on the west end of town.

The desk clerk had looked at him curiously as well.
Fallon couldn't blame them. A man, middle thirties, turns
up alone in the dead of winter. Clothing rumpled but ex
pensive. He hadn't shaved or showered. A filthy cast pok
ing out of his right sleeve. It left crumbs of white plaster
all over the front desk. But it could have been worse. The
big Colt Python had tumbled from his lap as he climbed
out of the car. Luckily, no one had seen it.

Even so, there would be talk. He knew that he shouldn't
stay too long.

“
But you did.
”

“Not there. After the first week I rented a house. From
that same lady.
”

“The one with the groceries?”

“It turned out she's a real estate agent. Her name's
Millie Jacobs.

“What . . . it said so on her sled?”

“She dropped by the Harborview. I think she smelled
money.
”

“Michael . . . isn't there someone you should call?
Someone who'll be worried?”

“I
did. I called Doyle.
”

“But that's when you were headed for Hyannis. He'll
know you never got there.”

“I'll call him. But not just yet.”

“You don't trust him either?”

“I
. . .
trust him. ”

“You hesitated just then. Why?”

”I don't know.”

He did trust Mr. Doyle. He'd been the Fallon family lawyer for almost forty years but, more than that, he was
a friend. More than that, Brendan Doyle was his godfather.
He'd been to his christening, his first communion, and,
after his father died, he had arranged Michael's adoption
by his Uncle Jake. Like Moon, he was practically family.

It was only that
...
the last time they spoke
...
he
thought he saw something in the lawyer's eyes. Something
he was holding back.

But Fallon shook that thought away. He had to stop
this. This grasping at shadows. There was no way in the
world that Brendan Doyle had turned against him.

The message he left said he needed some time to him
self. Later, in a week or so, maybe longer, he would call,
tell Mr. Doyle where he is and maybe where he's going
next. Who knows where. All he knew was that he was
never going back to New York City. New York would
kill him if he did.

“
Now it's New York again.
”
'

“Doc
..”

“First it's New York. Then it's a 'them.'
And now it's New York again.''

“
That city, Dr. Greenberg, killed everyone I ever cared
about. Except Moon and my mother. And I'm not even
sure about them.''

“And except this lawyer?”

“Yes . . . And except Brendan Doyle.”

Chapter 7

   The
doctor's
full name was Sheldon L.
Greenberg. His doctorate was
in
psychology. Fallon found
him easy to talk to because he wasn't real.
Actually, he
was
real. He just wasn't in Martha's
Vineyard.