Unknown Remains (12 page)

“What did you tell Diane?”

“I didn't tell her anything. Nine-eleven happened, and I thought, This is my way out.”

Sculley sipped his whiskey. “You still have the money?”

Jack nodded.

“Why don't you give it to them.”

“You think they're going to forget what's happened, take it, and wish me good luck?”

“Then you're going to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

“I already am.”

“They're not going to stop till they find you. If you're not worried, you should be.” Sculley sipped his whiskey. “Am I getting through to you?”

“Why do you think I'm leaving?”

“What about Diane? Don't you feel anything for her? You've put her in a tough situation.”

“I feel bad, but there's nothing I can do about it.”

“Call her, tell her you're alive, tell her what happened.”

“And then what?”

TWENTY

That evening, Jack took a taxi to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to Fort Lauderdale in the name Richard Keefer, showed his new driver's license to the ticket agent, and paid in cash. He waited at the gate thinking about Diane, feeling guilty after talking to Sculley, picturing her in the big house alone and afraid. There was nothing he could do. They'd threaten her, but he knew they wouldn't hurt her. She would just have to get through it.

The plane landed at nine thirty. As they taxied to the gate, the pilot announced that the temperature was seventy-eight degrees. He walked out of the terminal and felt the warm, humid air. Jack had the new driver's license, but no credit cards to go with it. He had Chuck Bellmore's American Express and license, but he and Chuck looked nothing alike.

He took a cab to Pompano Beach and got out at Atlantic Boulevard and A1A. He walked toward the flashing neon motel signs and stopped at the Sands, a beige two-story building on the beach, with a swimming pool behind it. Beyond the pool he could see the Atlantic Ocean. The white Sands sign flashed on and off, and under it a smaller sign said Vacancy. He checked in and went to bed.

Jack was getting
dressed, fitting cufflinks through holes in the cuffs, buttoning the shirt and tying the bow tie, finally doing a passable job on the fourth attempt. He sipped a Stoli and tonic, trying to settle his nerves. He had been jittery all day, which somehow seemed fitting, since he was getting married in an hour. He wasn't worried that he'd made the wrong choice in a wife. He had not been attracted to another
girl since he'd met Diane two years earlier. What might've thrown him off a little, he was going into uncharted territory. Jack had never lived with a woman. Sure, they had spent part of every week together, but he could go back to his place and she to hers. After today, there was nowhere to go.

He had met Diane Jackson at Joe Sculley's wedding. Ilene, the girl Joe was marrying, and Diane were friends. Even before the wedding, Sculley had bugged Jack about asking her out. “I'm telling you she's something. Trust me, will you? You're going to thank me.”

And then he saw Diane in the church before Joe and Ilene's ceremony, and he felt something in his gut. Jack and Diane were paired during the wedding, walked down the aisle together, sat next to each other at dinner. Jack couldn't believe he had put her off for so long, although it was more about not trusting Sculley's taste in women.

On their first date, Jack picked Diane up at her apartment and took her to a bar. They had drinks and dinner, talked about books and movies. Jack suggested seeing
Wall Street
, a midnight show at a multiplex not far from where they were. On the way to the theater, he stopped and bought a bottle of cabernet, a couple plastic cups, and a corkscrew. They sat in the last row so no one could see them drinking. They finished the bottle, and Diane started nodding off. That was the last thing Jack remembered. He woke up first. The screen was black, the lights were on, the theater was empty. He looked at his watch and woke Diane. She looked around and said, “Where is everybody?”

“Gone. It's four in the morning.”

“What? Why didn't someone wake us up?”

“Good question.” They got up and went in the lobby. The lights were on but no one was there. “Let's get out of here.” The doors they had entered four hours earlier were now chained from the inside. He looked out at the dark empty parking lot and saw his car. Now what?

Diane said, “Should we call the police?”

“I left my phone in the car.”

“We'll use the pay phone. Do you have any change?”

Jack dug his hands in his pockets and shook his head. He turned, scanning the lobby, walked over to a furniture grouping, and picked up a leather chair with a metal frame that weighed as much as a bag of cement. He dragged it to the doors.

“What're you going to do?”

He picked up the chair and swung it into a floor-to-ceiling window flanking one of the double doors. The chair exploded through the glass and landed outside the building. Jack kicked out shards until the opening was big enough to fit through, and they ran to the car, jumped in, looked at each other, and started laughing.

They were inseparable after that, Jack telling Diane it was the best first date he had ever been on, and two years later, they got married.

Jack remembered how
good Diane had looked in church, coming down the aisle, escorted by her father, the ex-cop who'd struck it rich running a successful home security company. He remembered scenes from the reception, his drunk groomsmen running down the first fairway at ultraconservative Darien Country Club, hoping Diane's father didn't get put on probation for sponsoring boorish behavior.

He remembered the same group, later, jumping off the diving board into the pool in their rented tuxes. Diane's father told Jack it was okay to shake things up, give the country club rule-followers something to talk about.

They honeymooned in Tahiti, an island off the coast named Moorea. The hotel rooms were grass-roof huts built over the turquoise water. He and Diane were in love; all he wanted to do was touch her and kiss her.

Jack now felt the hot sun on his face and opened his eyes, blinking in the bright glare, forgetting for an instant he was in a motel room in Florida, morning sun streaming through the open slats in the blinds.

He turned on the shower and stood under the water. He dried off and put on the same clothes he had worn for the past two days. He had an ocean view and stood at the window, looking out at the waves crashing on shore, wondering what he was going to do. After all that had happened, coming to southern Florida seemed like a good idea. He knew the area and had everything he needed to start over, start his new life. There were a couple of problems he would have to take care of first: getting a credit card in his new name, then renting a car and finding a place to live. He also needed a cell phone and clothes.

First he went to the post office and got a post office box. You had to have an address to get a credit card. Then he went to the SunTrust Bank he had passed earlier, opened an account with three grand he'd withdrawn a few days before 9/11, and filled out an application for a Visa. Darlene, the assistant manager, said it usually took a few days, but she could expedite the proceedings because he opened the savings account with cash money.

“Are you new in town, Mr. Keefer?”

“I arrived yesterday.”

“You're gonna love it here,” Darlene said, smiling. “I'll tell you that. The Arbor Day Foundation named Pompano a Tree City USA community for its commitment to forestry for the fifteenth year in a row, but don't quote me.”

“No kidding,” Jack said, already bored. “That's wonderful.”

“And don't miss Music Under the Stars the second Friday of every month.” Darlene paused. “Do you like shells, Mr. Keefer?”

Jack gave a fake smile, not sure where she was going with this.

“You have to see the Broward Shell Show. It's at the Emma Lou Olsen Civic Center—all these super-talented shell crafters showing off their works of art. And there's way more than that too.”

Jack got out of there as fast as he could, worn out from small talk.

There was a shopping center across the street. He walked through the parking lot and moved along the concourse passing storefronts,
stopped at a men's clothing store that had outfits for old-timers in the window, mannequins decked out in casual resort wear. He went in and bought a couple pairs of shorts, four golf shirts in assorted colors, a bathing suit, sandals, socks, and underwear.

At Pompano Drugs, he bought a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, razors and shaving cream, a beach towel, tanning lotion, and sunglasses. He took everything back to the motel, shaved, brushed his teeth, and changed into the bathing suit. Now he stood in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, looking at his pale chest and stomach, imagining Diane in the room, hearing her say, “Jack, how could you do this to me? You were my rock.”

TWENTY-ONE

“You were McCann, where would you go?”

“Somewhere warm,” Ruben said.

“That narrows it down.” They were in Cobb's Toyota parked on Ericson Place across from the apartment building. It was cold out. You could see your breath, and there was frost on the windshield.

“I guess it depends how much money I had. Puerto Rico for sure.”

“Yeah, they'd never think to look for you there.”

Ruben, all churched up in a black sport jacket and striped shirt, gave him a dirty look.

“Hey,” Cobb said, looking out the side window. “There he is, blue overcoat, tan sport cap, briefcase.” He watched Joe Sculley come out of the apartment building and head south along the outer edge of the sidewalk close to the street. Sculley walked to the end of the block, turned right.

Ruben said, “Sure it's him?”

“Trust me.”

“Let's go get him then, uh?”

“You want to take him now, in broad daylight?” They were creeping in heavy morning traffic on Varick Street.

“Why not?”

Cobb could think of a few reasons—all of them breaking the laws of New York City. “What're you gonna do?”

Ruben told him, and it didn't sound too bad, New Yorkers being uncaring, who-gives-a-fuck kind of people. Would anyone care if
something happened to a lawyer with a briefcase? Then Cobb thought, hold it, kidnap a lawyer, people might cheer them on, give them a medal. Up ahead Sculley walked, occasionally looking over his shoulder.

“What's he doing?”

“I don't know. Maybe he's paranoid, thinks he's being followed. You might be too, someone broke into your house, hit you with a sap.”

“You think I'd let that happen?”

“Well, if someone snuck up behind you, you didn't see it coming.
Bam
.” Cobb slapped the dashboard with an open hand.

“I'd hear the motherfucker.”

“What if you didn't? You get hit, you're out cold.”

“I can take a punch. I don't think it would put me out.”

Was anything easy with this guy? “Well, everyone else in the fucking universe, it would, okay?”

“You don't know that.”

“Just go do the job, how's that sound?”

Ruben made a fist, gaudy diamond ring on the middle finger, making a face, faking like he was going to throw a punch, and broke into a big smile. “Thought I was going to do it, didn't you?”

Jesus, Ruben, would've been a psychiatrist's dream. Thirty-nine going on twelve. Cobb slowed down and let him out. The car behind him honked. Cobb opened the window and motioned the driver to come around him. Guy in a Benz drove up next to Cobb and flipped him off. Cobb grinned and nodded, wanted to follow the guy, shoot his tires out. “Count your lucky stars, asshole.”

Ruben was almost to Sculley, closing the gap fast, when Sculley got into a taxi and shut the door. Cobb went fifty yards, picked up Ruben, and followed the cab to a high rise on Wall Street, pulled over in a no-parking zone. “Why don't you wait here,” Cobb said. “I'll see where he's going.”

For once Ruben didn't say anything. Cobb got out and Ruben got behind the wheel. He followed Sculley into the building, into a crowded
elevator up to the fifty-fifth floor, and down the hall to a law firm, Cobb hanging back, letting Sculley put some distance between them.

This was the difficult part, trying to figure out what someone was going to do. Should they wait for Sculley to go to lunch? Or wait for him in front of his apartment? Cobb saw himself sitting in the car all day, breathing Ruben's cologne. Maybe there was another way.

Cobb went through the big floor-to-ceiling glass door that had four names on it, into the lobby, and up to the slick granite reception counter. The receptionist wore a black tapered headset, talking to someone as Cobb approached. She finished the call, looked at him, and said, “May I help you, sir?”

“Duane Cobb here to see Mr. Sculley.”

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Cobb?”

“I do not. But I'll bet Joe will make some time for me. Tell him I was recommended by Jack McCann.”

Cobb wandered over to one of the couches, sat and picked up a
National Geographic
, opened it to an article on the headhunting tribes of Borneo, Cobb wondering where Borneo was. There were pictures of shrunken heads and Dayak warriors who carried spears and machetes and looked like native chinks. Apparently headhunting was a sport in Borneo. Jesus, it took all kinds.

Maybe they should do that to Jack when they caught him, cut off his head, shrink it in boiling water, and give it to Frank as a souvenir, let him hang it from the rearview mirror of his limo.

“What can I do for you?”

Cobb looked up at Sculley standing in front of him, closed the magazine, and put it back on the table. “Somewhere we can go and talk?”

“About what?”

“The mysterious whereabouts of Jack McCann.”

“I'm sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news. Jack passed away tragically on nine-eleven. We believe he died when Tower One collapsed.”

“Except that I saw him in a Midtown hotel day before yesterday.”

“I'm sure you're mistaken.”

“No, I saw him all right, and I know you've been talking to him.” Cobb paused. “He called you that morning, didn't he? First plane had already hit, Jack dials your number, called you before his own wife. What'd he say?”

“The building was severely damaged, a lot of people were dead. Jack didn't know if he was going to make it out.”

“How's your jaw, by the way?”

Sculley gave him a knowing look. “What'd you hit me with?”

“A lead-shot sap.”

“Don't be surprised if the Ridgewood Police show up at your door. They got your license number.”

“You're making that up. They never saw me. Tell you what, I'll give you one more chance.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I'm telling you the way it is. Where's Jack?”

Sculley raised his voice. “Get the hell out of here.” He turned and glanced at the receptionist. “Ann, call security.”

“That's how you're gonna play it, huh? Okay, I'll see you around, Joe.”