The Stranger Beside You (19 page)

•  •  •

Marcus was scared to death.  They were on a highway outside the city.  Every headlight on the road filled him with dread.  He was scared to death but couldn’t let Sadie see it, because she needed to know that he was strong enough for the both of them.  He checked his mirrors obsessively.  Traffic thinned with every mile he put between them and their neighborhood in New Jersey.  He drove with both hands on the wheel.  The gun was under his seat.  The Ford minivan had Connecticut plates. He had left behind both the Escalade and the Hummer because he was certain that both of them had been rigged with remote beacon transmitters months ago.     

They had the radio turned down.  The kids in the back were having fun.  The initial fear had passed.  They didn’t understand the rationale for the sudden road trip, but were making the most of the notion of missing at least one day of school. 

Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror.  He lingered on Josh and Ashton.  The sting of guilt hit him for the thousandth time.  How had he let this happen?  What had he been thinking?  The situation had escalated beyond the breaking point.  Their father was dead, and now those two young boys were in imminent danger. 
What a fool I’ve been
, he thought.  At that moment he was as paranoid as he had ever been in his life.  Every time a new set of headlights blinked into view in the mirror his pulse quickened.  He half expected one of Mr. Z’s goons to appear at any moment and run them off the road. 

Marcus was nervous.  He had no idea yet how this would end.  All he had known was that someday he might have to make a run for it with his family, to evacuate their home at a moment’s notice and flee into the night, and now here they were.  The cabin was only an hour away.  The miles came and went, the highway unfolding patiently within reach of the headlights.  He had planned, but had he planned well enough?  Out of pure nervous reflex, Marcus reached a hand down between his legs and touched the gun, just to make sure it was still there.

•  •  •

I was alone in the dark. 

Todd and Ramón had left me and gone to join the writhing bodies on the dance floor but had promised to not stray far.  I needed the security of having them close, if only for the night.  They promised to drop me at JFK in the morning.

“I still love you, Tom,” I whispered.  “I want to hate you, but I can’t help myself.  I guess I’m glad I never knew who you really were.”

For the first time since his death I really allowed myself to let down and cry.  The tears came fast and hard.  It was like a weight lifted from my shoulders.  The tears streamed down my face to the couch.  The tears didn’t last long.  I gave myself only five minutes to grieve.  Now it was time to suck it up and move on. 

I found my pay-as-you-go cell phone and dialed our home number.  It rang several times before I heard Tom’s voice deliver the outgoing message.  The sound of his voice gave me chills.  It was almost as if I could reach out and touch him.  I interrupted by hitting star and then entering our code.  A digital recording informed me that I had three unheard messages.  I waited for them to play.  The first was a wrong number.  The second was a parent of a friend of Josh’s who had just heard about Tom and had called to ask if I needed anything.  The third voice mail message had been left by Mr. Hogan, my school principle: 

“Mrs. Nelson, Lawrence Hogan here.  Again, I want to offer my condolences on behalf of the school faculty for the loss of your husband.  I didn’t know him well, of course, but…well…anyway, I wanted to call and let you know that I found the business card I mentioned before, the one the lady FBI agent gave me.  I told you I’d keep looking, and, well…it turned up right where I thought I’d put it.  Guess I overlooked it.  My age is catching up, you know.”

By now my brain hurt.  So he had found Daphne Fleming’s card.  I could barely muster the strength to care.  She was dead, and Tom was dead.  I knew now that she hadn’t simply been a crazed stalker, lurking in the shadows to threaten her lover’s family.  Apparently there had been more to it than that.  Much more.  The relationship with Tom had developed because she had started out investigating him for his unlawful activities at work.  Now her interview with my employer at least made some kind of logical sense. 

“Her name was Special Agent Alana Armstrong.”

I sat bolt upright and clutched the phone hard against my ear.

Had he said
Armstrong
?  That didn’t make sense.  What about Daphne Fleming?

“And now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I remember her visit very well.  She was very short, with short spiky red hair.  She was a very attractive young woman, very intelligent and quite serious.  Anyway, hope this helps.  Again, take all the time you need.  Goodbye.”

I felt a chill.  Daphne Fleming had beautiful blonde hair, not short spiky red hair.  Who was Special Agent Armstrong?  I stood in the dark, feeling dizzy and confused.  Daphne Fleming had not visited Mr. Hogan.  She had not been stalking me.

Then it came to me.  I flashed back to the night the FBI rang our doorbell and arrested Tom.  There had been a female agent with them.  She was a very serious looking woman with short spiky red hair.  Yes, I could see her.  I pictured her very clearly.  Now I had a name to go with her face, and I suddenly had a bad feeling about her.

31

Daphne Fleming was getting used to staying on the move.  She had slept in a different bed every night for the past three weeks and had quickly become an expert on how to live in total anonymity.  Rule number one was to use cash only because cash transactions didn’t leave a paper trail.  Rule number two was to only move about at night because daylight was the enemy when one needed to dwell in the shadows.

Today her hair was long and black.  It was one of a handful of wigs in her bag.  The length and color changed every two or three days.  In the morning she would transform once again, perhaps back to blonde, long or short, with a hat and dark glasses, but nothing flashy or sexy that might attract attention.  The idea was to look as plain and dull and forgettable as possible.  She felt she had succeeded. 

It was 10 p.m. and time to move again.

The motel was a few miles from Georgetown.  She liked D.C. but had seen enough of it.  She would be happy to finally move on.  The parking lot was quiet.  It was late enough for people to be settling in for the night.  A few moths flitted around the light outside the door.  Daphne studied the streets and the parking lot.  Traffic was light.  She shouldered her bag and left the key on the table.  She left the lights off and slipped out the door.  She was excited because the long wait was finally over.  An hour ago she had received a short text message on her disposable cell phone.  It had read simply:  ALL IS WELL – ETA 11P.M.

32

Daphne could see the lights of the capital in the distance.  She was tired of living in the dark.  She longed for sunshine and blue skies.  She took a taxi to Independence Avenue.  The National Mall stretched out before her.  The air was electric with a chorus of nocturnal insects.  She glanced around.  There were still a few pedestrians wandering about, but the park grounds were mostly still and quiet.  She walked quickly, glancing over one shoulder and then the other, mostly out of habit.  She couldn’t imagine having been followed.  If they knew where she was, they would have killed her by now.

She turned at the Vietnam Memorial and pretended to read the names etched into the massive granite walls.  Again her eyes darted quickly, alert to any movement in the shadows, but she was quite alone.  She stood at one corner of the Reflecting Pool.  A billion stars were visible in the silver, mirror-like surface.  Her cell phone chimed once.  There was a new text message:  ICU.

Daphne glanced up.  She had to squint against the dark but she spotted a figure silhouetted against the towering backdrop of the Washington Memorial in the distance beyond the far end of the Reflecting Pool.  The figure raised an arm.  Daphne waved back.  She hurried down one side of the pool and they met somewhere near the middle and embraced.

He wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re safe,” she said.

Tom Nelson nodded.  “At least I’m alive.”

33

Tom wore a ball cap and a light jacket with the collar turned up.  They whispered as they walked. “I was worried,” she said.  It felt so good just to have someone to talk to again.

 “They totally bought it.  Everyone believes the body they pulled from under the train was me.”

“Are you certain?”

“One hundred percent.”

She huddled close to him.  She felt secure for the first time in weeks.

“What about Mr. Z’s inside man at the FBI?  Do you think he suspects anything?”

“Absolutely not.  Trust me, we pulled it off.”

Together they hurried across Constitution Avenue and walked hand-in-hand beneath the glow of sodium vapor lamps.  A rush of bats orbited the top of an elm tree, their wings beating against the ninety-degree air.

“How much time do we have?” she asked.

Tom shook his head.  “Honestly, I have no idea, but there’s not a minute to waste.”

Tom flagged down a taxi.  They huddled together in the backseat and didn’t speak until they were back on foot.  They found a diner that was open and ducked into a booth near a front window.

“I haven’t eaten well,” she said.

“That makes two of us.”

“I was so relieved to see your face.  There were too many things that could have gone wrong.”

“We both got lucky.”

“Tell me how it went down with Special Agent Welsh and the cop.”

Tom leaned his head back against the padded booth.  “I was scared out of my mind.  I knew the plan, and I knew they were both in on the illusion, but they both had guns and I knew things could turn bad at any moment.  I hammered them pretty hard at the car and then I ran like hell.  It looked and felt real.  I don’t think anyone standing nearby could have known that it was all an act, and then Welsh fired a couple of rounds down in the subway.  The sound was deafening.  I’m sure he was only firing blanks, but it sounded totally authentic.  The people waiting on the subway platform scattered like the world was coming to an end.  It was awesome, and it was absolutely terrifying.”

“That’s incredible.”

He glanced nervously at the window.  The sidewalk seemed quiet.

“I’m sick of checking over my shoulder every two minutes,” she said.

“I think we are in the clear.  We’ve bought ourselves at least a few days.  But, really, to most of the world we are officially dead.  There is no reason for anyone to be looking for us.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“Since I died, you mean?”

She grinned and nodded.

 “No,” he answered, “Not really.  An hour here and there.  I’ve been on the move nonstop.”

The food arrived.

Twenty minutes later they were back on the street.

“I’ve scouted a place for us to stay,” she said.

“Good.  Lead the way.”

It was a hotel a few miles from the White House.  Tom paid cash for two double beds.  He went to the window and peered through the drapes.  There was no view.  They sat on the beds facing each other and there was a moment of silence.

“Do you really think we can pull this off?” she asked.

“We don’t have much choice,” he answered.

34

The cop’s name was Karpowicz.  His address was a third-floor apartment in the Bronx.  He was married with four kids and he was career NYPD.  Price had noted Karpowicz’s name in Special Agent Welsh’s report and pulled up the cop’s file online using the Bureau’s internal computer network.  He had never heard of Karpowicz, but he was on his way to meet him.  It was late when Price phoned from a block away and they agreed to meet at a coffee shop on the corner.

The place was mostly deserted.  They picked a table at random and Price bought the cop some coffee and a Danish. 

“I’m just following up on what happened the other morning,” Price said.

The cop shrugged.  “It’s all in my report.”

“That guy assaulted you?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you holding up? 

Karpowicz smirked, glanced away.  “I’ll be fine.”

Price studied him carefully.  “You saw him go under the train?”

“No.  I came flying down into the subway and about heard Special Agent Welsh fire the first shot.  Never had a clean view of the suspect.  By the time I caught up with Welsh, the suspect had already jumped down on the track and fled into the tunnel.  A few seconds later we heard the train and it was over.”

Price listened.  He nodded slowly.

Karpowicz toyed with his Danish, took a bite, and sipped some coffee.

 “He was a banker,” Price said.

“Who?”

“Tom Nelson.  The suspect.  The man that jumped you.”

The cop shrugged.

Price nodded.  “He made his living sitting behind a big desk on Wall Street.  Nice white-collar job.  Good money.  The kind of job that makes a man soft around the edges.  Not a lot of hand-to-hand combat involved.  I wouldn’t think a man like that would be worth much in a street fight.”

The cop had another bite of Danish jammed in his cheek.  He was starting to fidget a little, touching his ears and nose, glancing away like it was a nervous tick.

“Well, he seemed to hold his own,” Karpowicz said.

“That’s got to be kind of embarrassing, right?”

“How so?” 

“Come on, a federal agent and one of the NYPD’s finest get their clocks cleaned by some dough boy from the suburbs.  If it were me, I wouldn’t want a rumor like that to gain too much traction around the precinct.”

“What can I tell you?  You never know what a man like that is capable of.”

“He was cuffed and everything, but he still managed to put Special Agent Welsh on his ass and he nearly choked the life out of you.  I can still see the marks on your neck.  How’d you managed to get him off of you?”