The Passenger (29 page)

“I told him
everything
,” I said.

She was quiet for a spell and then she spoke.

“I understand. He can be very persuasive. But I'm not going by Amelia Keen anymore, so it seems unlikely he'll be able to track me.”

“I think it's very unlikely,” I said.

“And why is that?”

“Because I killed him.”

“How?” she asked. I'd never heard a single word loaded with so much delight.

“With the gun you gave me.”

“How magnificent. That was
his
gun, you know. Did you make it look like a suicide?”

“Nope. I'm pretty sure it looked like plain old murder.”

“Tell me everything, and please don't spare me a single detail.”

“I've said enough. You talk.”

“What do you want to know?” Blue said.

“For starters, who the hell was the guy we buried in that state park?”

“You haven't figured that out?” Blue said, disappointed.

“No. Care to enlighten me?”

“Lester Cartwright. Laura's husband, the widower.”

“Wait, you killed Laura Cartwright's husband? The guy we met in the funeral home?”

“ ‘He's no longer with us' is the phrasing I prefer.”

“Why?”

“Because you said he killed her. Don't you remember talking about that?” Blue asked.

“I don't remember talking about killing him.”

“Do I have to clear everything with you?” Blue said.

“Not everything. But I would love it if you told me what you're doing in my hometown.”

“I'm writing a book about the murder of Melinda Lyons. She was quite a girl, wasn't she?”

“She was.”

“I can see why you were jealous of her.”

“I wasn't that jealous.”

“You were a little jealous. I better run. I've got an interview in fifteen minutes.”

“No one is going to talk to you, Blue.”

“Your mother already did. In fact, I have an almost-confession on tape. I doubt it would hold up in court, though. She was clearly drunk.”

“I heard she got sober,” I said.

“She did. But I had to get her un-sober to get her to talk.”

“Blue, what is it that you're doing?”

“I'm trying to clear your name,” Blue said.

“So far it looks a lot more like you're trying to set me up.”

“Then you are misunderstanding my motives. After what you've done for me, I owe you this. I'm going to fix everything. Trust me, Nora.”

I felt a shiver so deep, it was like being frozen in an ice cube. It was the first time anyone had called me by my real name in ten years.

W
HATEVER
moral compass Blue abided by eluded me. So far as I knew, she was living this life by choice; it wasn't thrust upon her. I had witnessed her heartlessness, but there was some part of me that also believed in her loyalty, believed she really was trying to clear my name.

When we parted ways in Austin, with her gun in my glove compartment and her ID in my purse, she had already calculated the most likely course of events that my life as Debra Maze would take. She knew Jack would track me down. She might have even clued him in to my whereabouts. She knew that Jack would be thrown off his game when he saw me and not her. She took a gamble on whether I'd shoot him or not. She probably figured her odds were fifty-fifty on me or Jack. She was willing to risk my life, but now she owed me a debt. And Blue's debt might be the one thing that could save me.

I wondered what Blue was like before all of this happened. Was her trigger finger as quick at the beginning of her run as it later became? I didn't want to end up like her, but I could see how my situation was like an ax, chopping away at the decent, upstanding citizen I used to be. I was now capable of doing things I would never have considered when I was young. I had my own debt, a debt to the world I felt I had to pay before I could justify any attempt at starting my life over again. Because my crimes prevented me from going through the proper channels to apprehend Reginald Lee, I had to adopt a different tack.

I checked out of the motel late the next morning. I drove back to Saranac Lake and picked up a bottle of bourbon and lighter fluid along the way. I checked the mailbox to 333 Church Lane: still untouched. As I drove up the driveway, I saw no sign that Reginald or anyone else had visited his property since my departure.

I had my Thanksgiving feast in Reginald Lee's home. It was turkey-and-rice soup and pumpkin pie filling out of a can. I had a couple shots of bourbon to clear away the cobwebs. It was one of my saddest days on record, but I just reminded myself that I was in transition. I didn't think Reggie could stay away too long, but I decided he needed an incentive to come home.

I wasn't sure if Reggie knew any of his neighbors, but if he did, I'd make it known that someone was making use of his home. I lit a fire in the wood-burning stove and waited. Three hours later there was a knock at the door. I didn't answer. There was another knock and then the sound of a man's voice.

“Reggie! Reggie, you in there?”

The man kept knocking for maybe five or ten minutes. I was worried he might have a key, but he eventually departed. I looked at the clock. It was 3:34 p.m. I figured Reggie wouldn't live more than a few hours' drive from his arsenal. I got to work. I crawled down to the basement and moved several bags of fertilizer out of the refrigerator. I took the propane tank from his backyard grill and lugged it down the steps. I returned to the main floor and fed a few more logs onto the fire. I put on three sweaters, one of Reggie's winter coats, a skullcap, and mittens over gloves. I stole one of his guns from his arsenal—I didn't think he'd miss it—and shoved it in his coat pocket. I hunkered down under the porch, as if it were a bunker.

One hour and forty-five minutes later, I heard a pickup truck barrel up the snow-covered driveway. He parked right next to my Jeep and searched the perimeter of his property. I had extinguished all of the lights inside his house, minus the fire. He treaded cautiously up the steps. The door was slightly ajar. It squeaked on its hinges as he slowly swung it open. I took off my gloves, curled my hand around the gun, and crawled onto the porch as he stepped inside.

He turned on the light and saw the hatch door to his cellar wide open and on display.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Take a seat,” I said with the gun aimed at his back. “We need to talk.”

Reggie turned around and saw me. He had a full beard and long brown hair. I guessed his age was around forty-five. He wore a flannel shirt, a hunting jacket, and a skullcap. The gun didn't seem to scare him. It just made him angrier.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Sit down,” I repeated.

He took a seat on his scratchy plaid couch. He couldn't take his eyes off the hatch door.

“Who are you with?” he said. “FBI? Nah, you look too fucked for that. DEA?”

I thought it best not to answer.

“Reggie, why don't you tell me what you were planning on doing with all of that combustible material in your cellar.”

“What combustible material?”

“Those fifteen bags of fertilizer containing ammonium nitrate that you keep in a temperature-controlled vault.”

“I like to garden, come spring.”

“And all of those guns?”

“Deer hunting.”

“You don't need a semiautomatic weapon for deer hunting,” I said.

“Sometimes you do,” Reggie said.

“Tell me what you were going to do.”

“I ain't telling you shit,” Reggie said.

I could almost feel the heat of his anger. He looked me dead in the eye, challenging me. It was as if he couldn't even see the gun I had trained on him. I took a cell phone from my pocket and tossed it on the couch next to Reggie.

“I want you to call 911 and tell them you have dangerous chemicals in your house that you wish to dispose of.”

Reggie gave me a scrutinizing gaze. He glanced over at the phone but didn't pick it up.

“Why haven't you called for backup yet?” Reggie asked.

“I thought we could work this out on our own.”

Reggie looked puzzled. He scanned his house, noticed a bag of trash in the corner, piled high with spent canned goods.

“You been staying here?”

“Pick up the phone, Reggie.”

He didn't.

“You're no one, aren't you?” he said.

He had that right.

“I'm no one,” I said.

Reggie smiled. His teeth were yellow and gray. The last traces of fear left him. I shot out the window to get Reggie's attention. He didn't even flinch, while my entire body vibrated from the blowback.

“Why don't you get the hell out of here and we'll call it a day?” he said as he got to his feet.

I picked up the lighter fluid and doused the couch with it. Then I got the butane lighter by the stove and held it over the couch.

“Make that call,” I said. “Or I'm going to burn this place down.”

Reggie charged toward me. I shot him in the arm. He stumbled a few steps back, righted himself, and glanced over at his bloody arm. I didn't bother giving him a second warning. I clicked the lighter. Within a few seconds the entire couch was engulfed and smoke had filled the room. I could see Reggie weighing his options. I tried to steer him in the right direction.

“It's over, Reggie. Why don't we get out of here?”

It seemed like some of the fight had left him. He stared at the blaze and then nodded his head. He turned around and slowly walked to the front door. I followed him, maybe a little too closely. He suddenly spun around and backhanded me. I fell to the ground. Reggie landed a solid kick to my ribs.

I pulled the trigger. The second bullet hit him in the gut. He looked surprised. He took a few steps forward and crumpled to the ground moaning in pain. My eyes were watering from the smoke and fire. I got to my feet and headed for the door. Reggie tried to get up, but he kept falling down.

“Show me some mercy,” Reggie said.

“What do you want?” I said as I turned around.

“I'm already dead. So shoot me right this time. You owe me that.”

I thought that maybe I did. I raised the gun one last time.

“God forgive me,” he said.

I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him in the forehead. His head tipped to the side like he was taking a catnap. I ran out of the house, guzzling air when I stepped outside. I jumped into my Jeep, backed out of the driveway, and floored the gas until I was at the mouth of Reggie's driveway. I stopped for a second and looked through the rearview mirror. The tiny house had been transformed into a wildfire.

I hit the gas and pulled onto the main road. I drove maybe a quarter of a mile and then I heard the angry thunder and felt a series of small earthquakes. I pulled onto the shoulder and looked through my rearview mirror again. Reggie's house was gone; just the fire remained, a fire as bright as day. It was then I realized it was over. I'd used up at least eight of my nine lives. I doubted I had much time left as a free woman. I thought I should see something beautiful.

I drove to the Albany train station, parked my car with the keys in the ignition, and checked the departure board. There were no more trains that night. I bought a ticket for the ten a.m. Empire Service and checked into a cheap motel.

I didn't sleep. For seven hours, I stared at the stucco ceiling and saw Reginald's face again and again—first that look of defiance and then resignation.

If you murder someone once, even with a tenuous argument for self-defense, you can blame it on chance, being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong name. But the next time you kill someone, you have to start asking the hard questions. Is it really self-defense or a lifestyle choice? When you kill another human being in cold blood, you kill part of yourself. Until that moment I had always hung on to a shred of the old me. I knew who I was deep down. It was different now. Ten years on the run, and I was finally the cold-blooded murderer they'd always said I was. My conscience would haunt me like a shadow. I would never be able to close my eyes again without seeing Reginald Lee's face.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I boarded the train to Niagara Falls. I held my gaze on the landscape for the entire six hours, trying to forget who I was and who I had become. When I detrained, I quickly checked into a lodge under the reliable, but expired, Sonia Lubovich name. I dropped my bags in my room and strolled straight to the falls.

The sound was deafening. The mist felt cleansing. It was impossible to think of anything ugly standing before so much power and beauty. This would have been as good a place as any to throw in the towel. But I wasn't quite ready for that. I took the gun out of my pocket and threw it into the falls. If that wasn't the best place to dispose of a weapon, I don't know what is.

As it turns out, most people don't visit Niagara Falls in winter. I had the luxury of walking the cold streets alone. All of the things you see in movies—the
Maid of the Mist
, the Cave of the Winds (that long wet walk along those red stairs)—were closed for the season. I remembered them from watching
Niagara
with my mother as a child. Mom idolized Marilyn Monroe. They were nothing alike, aside from unfortunate choices with men. Still, getting to see that giant frozen waterfall made me feel like an average tourist. I stayed outside as long as I could manage the cold. Then I strolled back to town, found a motel with a bar, and ordered an Irish coffee to warm my bones.

I tried hard to sit quietly and enjoy the comforting burn of hot whiskey in my throat. I tried hard not to think about what the next day would bring, even though I had a clear and concise plan. I tried hard not to steal the wallet of the woman at the bar flirting with a man who paid her no mind. For her, the evening would provide a double insult, but I had to do it. Sonia Lubovich's expired ID might not get me where I needed to go. The flirting woman, who would wake up alone and without her wallet, looked just enough like me, and I had found that that was all it took. I left the bar and stepped out into the cold air.