The Passenger (28 page)

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“You've said that before.”

“Be careful, Jo, they're looking for you. And that writer is like a dog without a bone.”

“Would that be Laura Cartwright?”

“Yes. How do you know her name?”

“She's been soliciting interviews online. Have you talked to her?” I said.

“She came by my house once. I told her I had nothing to say. Then I saw her again at the hospital when I was visiting your mother.”

“Not talking to her might come off as suspicious,” I said.

“I can't. I can't even look at her. She's got these blue eyes. On anyone else, I might think they were beautiful, but they just look cold to me.”

“Blue eyes?” I said.

“Ice blue.”

W
ITH ALL
of the phone calls I was making and cell towers I was pinging, I had to keep moving, even if it was only around the Eastern Seaboard. After I ended my earthshaking phone call with Ryan, I tossed my two cell phones and cashed out a thousand dollars from my Western Union card, lest someone decide to freeze my assets. I drove to the Amtrak station in Burlington. The next train wasn't until the morning, so I found yet another cheap motel and lay low for the night. I woke up at dawn, gathering all my worldly possessions in that tiny backpack, and drove to the station, parking in the long-term lot. I won't deny that Blue's appearance in my past life was of immediate concern, but I felt obliged to first deal with the Reginald Lee matter.

Only one train served the Burlington region. I bought a ticket from Essex Junction to Philadelphia. It all felt like a hell of a lot of work, more than ten hours and back on a train, just to make a phone call, but I'd had a few too many close calls in the past year. I was running out of luck. The ticket cost me $150. I slept on the train so I wouldn't have to get a room for the night. When I woke I felt that familiar slice across my back.

I arrived in Philadelphia around nine p.m. I strolled down Market Street until I found a drugstore that sold disposable cell phones. I purchased two and continued on my way until I ran straight into the Liberty Bell. For just a few minutes, I was a sightseer, reading about the history of the bell and its poor construction. I thought about Andrew and how he would have memorized the details of the bell. Like the clapper was forty-four pounds and it was made of copper, tin, and some other metals, including arsenic. I wished I could send Andrew a postcard.

After I played tourist, I continued downtown and found my way into the lobby of the Ritz. I stepped into the bathroom and tried to clean myself up so that the hotel staff wouldn't ask me to leave. I didn't have to look like a guest, but I definitely needed to look like someone who might intermingle with a guest. I powdered my face, wrapped a scarf around my shorn locks, and put on bright red lipstick. My winter coat was a bit ratty, so I stuffed it in my bag. I returned to the lobby and found a quiet seat in the corner. This was as good a place as any to make the phone call.

“Sheriff Lowell,” he said.

“Domenic?”

“Speaking.”

“I need your help.”

“Where are you, sweetheart? I'll come get you.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Tracing this call would be a waste of time and resources,” I said. “I traveled hundreds of miles to phone you.”

“You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “Can you think of any benign reason why a man would store over a dozen bags of fertilizer containing ammonium nitrate?”

“You called to talk about fertilizer?”

“Among other things,” I said.

“Less flattered now,” Domenic said.

“He keeps the bags in a temperature-controlled vault. The basement also holds a decent-size arsenal, plenty of ammunition, and several empty oil barrels.”

“Who is this man?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“How'd you end up in his basement?”

“I was house-sitting.”

“Does he know you were house-sitting?” Domenic asked.

“No.”

“Then it's not house-sitting.”

“Aren't you concerned about what this individual might be up to?”

“I'm extremely concerned,” Domenic said. “I'm also concerned about what you might be up to.”

“I just want to get him caught. That's all.”

“You need to stay away from this individual. He sounds dangerous to me.”

“I know that. That's why I called the police. But they just think I'm a bitter ex-girlfriend.”

“Darling, tell me where you are and I promise I will help you.”

“This is how you can help me. Tell me what I can do to stop him.”

“What you need to do is keep your distance from that man.”

“So you have no other suggestions for turning him in to the police?” I said.

“You could go to the police. Identify yourself. I suppose you could tell them you were homeless. That you broke into the house for warmth and then inform them of what you saw.”

“That's all you've got?” I said.

Twenty hours and $150 for nothing.

“I'd like to help you. Let me help you.”

“I have to go now, Domenic.”

“Whatever you're thinking about doing, sweetheart, please don't.”

“I'm not going to do anything.”

“I don't believe you,” Domenic said.

“We never had a chance to build any trust,” I said.

I was about to sever the phone call when he spoke again. “A body turned up at Dead Horse Lake about a week after you left. He hasn't been identified yet, but it's just a matter of time.”

I could still hang up, I thought, but that might look even more suspicious. “How unfortunate.”

“You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“No. But good luck with your investigation. Take care—”

“Wait. Remember when you left me on the side of the road?”

“I apologized for that already.”

“I'm not asking for an apology,” he said. “It could have been worse.”

“I could have done something with the peanuts,” I said. It had crossed my mind.

“You left me a bottle of water,” Domenic said.

“I did.”

“That was thoughtful.”

“I thought so,” I said.

“I pulled your fingerprints off of it.”

I couldn't speak. I could barely breathe. The last thing I needed was Debra Maze linked to my first two past lives. She was the guiltiest of all.

“Did you run them?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“What if I got a hit? Then I'd be the cop who let some criminal mastermind get away.”

“Mastermind. Now you flatter me. Is that the only reason?”

“No, it's not.”

“Good-bye, Domenic.”

T
HE CONCIERGE
at the Ritz started giving me the eye around two a.m. I took a taxi back to the train station and killed six hours contemplating my next move. By morning I was groggy and dazed and could barely keep my head upright as I waited in line for the Vermonter train. I didn't even notice the police officers until they were right in front of me.

“ID and ticket please,” a female officer said.

I just stared blankly back at her.

“ID and ticket,” she said again.

I reached into my wallet and showed the officer Sonia Lubovich's driver's license.

The officer looked at the photo of the vibrant and healthy Sonia in the photo and returned her gaze to me. He brow furrowed as she studied the photo again.

“Are you aware that your license is expired?” the officer said.

“It is?” I said. “No, I was not aware.”

She looked at me for a moment with sympathy and then shifted back to professional.

“Take care of that as soon as you get home,” she said.

“I will,” I said.

F
OR THE
first four hours of the train ride, I slept with my head rattling against the window. One could hardly describe it as a restful sleep, but it was enough shut-eye to get my wits about me. When I woke up, the train had just departed the New Haven station.

It was time to start hunting for a new name. I traveled from car to car, shopping for a new identity, the way some women pick out shoes. I found a promising option in her early thirties with long brown hair. Her nose and jawline resembled mine, but her lips were pumped with fillers and her forehead was as frozen as a clay sculpture's. I couldn't predict whether the natural or fake version would be on her driver's license photo, so I moved along to the next car, searching for a more viable option.

It wasn't until we passed the border into Connecticut that I found another person who might do. She was younger, maybe twenty-three, and she had at least fifty pounds on me. Our height and coloring, however, were about the same. As Blue once said, sometimes the best disguise is a thick layer of fat. At least this time I wouldn't have to go on an all-doughnut diet. You never know what someone might look like if they drop fifty pounds.

The plump woman, however, sat in a crowded car with her arm looped around her purse. I took a seat two rows away from her and waited for an opportunity. None arose. When the train conductor announced the next stop, Wallingford, my new name shrugged on her coat and shouldered her bag. She joined a knot of passengers by the exit door as I shoved my way into the fold. I took off my coat and threw it over my arm. My hand was grazing the plump woman's bag. As the train jostled into the station, I rummaged through her purse. When my hands felt a fold of smooth leather, I clutched her wallet and hid it under my coat. I shoved my way past the departing passengers and moved to the next car. I stepped into the lavatory and locked the door.

As I caught my breath, I opened the wallet and checked the ID. Her name was Linda Marks. A perfectly respectable name. I gazed at the photo and it's quite possible I was being overly optimistic, but I thought I could pass as Linda Marks.

The train came to a stop and the doors whined open. As I slid the restroom door into its pocket, a rough-looking middle-aged man blocked my passage out and shoved his way into the bathroom with me, locking the door behind him.

“I saw you,” he said.

“What did you see?” I said.

“Hand it over,” he said.

The thing about being a criminal is that it hinders your ability to call out other criminals, as I had just discovered with Reginald Lee. I took the wallet from my bag and handed it to him.

“It's yours,” I said.

He shoved the entire billfold, ID and all, in his backpack.

“Now your wallet,” he said, holding out his palm.

I had eight hundred and eighty dollars in my wallet and my Western Union card that I was not inclined to hand over. I sized up my opponent and couldn't see a promising end to any physical altercation. I pretended to be fishing around in my backpack as I freed the Western Union card from its pocket and let it fall to the bottom of my bag. Then I handed over the wallet, cash and all. The man whistled with pleasure when he saw the wad of cash. He plucked forty dollars from the stack and offered it to me.

“Travel money.”

“Fuck you,” I said, although I took it. “Now if you'll excuse me, I don't want people thinking we're having a rendezvous in here.”

“Next time wait until the conductor hits the brakes. Passengers are too busy getting their footing to notice a misplaced hand.”

“Thanks for your advice,” I said as I shut the door behind me.

I strolled to the end of the train and tucked myself into the last seat. I gave up on identity hunting for the day. I never saw the thief again. I arrived in Burlington at night. I drove to a motel, used my Western Union card, and checked in under Sonia Lubovich's name. I was wide awake after my journey, and my conversation with Ryan was still fresh in my mind.

The motel had a low-rent business center furnished with a photocopy machine and a computer. I logged on to the computer and created a profile under the name Amelia Lightfoot. I sent Laura Cartwright a single-word message.

Blue?

Five minutes later, Laura Cartwright wrote back.

What took you so long?

We exchanged a few more messages before Blue sent me a phone number and wrote,
We have some business to discuss
.

I performed a reverse lookup of the number she gave me. It was a prepaid phone, just like mine. I returned to room 209 and tried to figure out whether this was some kind of trap. Last I'd checked there was a thirty-thousand-dollar reward for information that led to my arrest, but I just couldn't see Blue playing me like that, especially with all of the dirt I had on her. I tried to be rational about the whole endeavor, but frankly, curiosity got the best of me.

I called.

“Laura Cartwright,” she said, but it was most definitely Blue.

I didn't say anything at first. I listened for any background noise that might be suspicious.

“Is that you?” she said.

“Yes,” I eventually replied.

“How has Debra Maze been treating you?”

“Not so great.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she said. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I wouldn't mind discussing Jack Reed.”

“Oh, him,” she said, sighing with boredom.

“He came after me, Blue. With a gun.”

“Shit. My apologies,” Blue said.

“Did you plan it? Did you know it might happen?”

“To be honest, I considered it a distinct possibility.”

“What if he killed me?”

“But he didn't, did he?” Blue waited patiently, as if the question were worthy of a reply.

“No, he didn't.”

“Did you tell him anything?” she asked. I could sense she was nervous, and I wanted to keep her off balance just a moment longer.