Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  In an instant, a mist of glittering water hisses from the black hose connected to one firefighter’s triple-size extinguisher. The flames sizzle in protest. The gray smoke hisses into white. Through the fire and water and smoke and steam and the sounds of the sirens and the still-howling alarm, I watch one firefighter shoulder through the chaos toward Ebling.

  “He’s, he’s—dangerous!” I yell. I step back into the house, heading for the living room. If they can be inside, I can be inside. I need to warn them about Ebling, and show them where I kicked the gun. “And there’s a gun in the—”

  “You need to be outside, ma’am.” A black-suited monolith in a white helmet, with breathing tank strapped to shoulders, doesn’t wait for me to follow directions. He picks me up, clamping two huge gloved hands around my arms, and moves me toward the open front door in about one second.

  “There’s a gun in the—” I’m in midair. The phone clatters to the floor. My feet are not touching the ground. I’m still talking. There’s stuff they need to know. “A gun in the living room. And there’s someone upstairs. Listen! They could be in trouble. You should—”

  He deposits me on the front step.

  “Move away from the house, ma’am,” the firefighter instructs me, pointing one gloved finger in my face. “The fire’s already out. I’ll check upstairs.”

  More sirens. More red lights. An ambulance screams up in front of 1 Bexter, a Brookline police car right behind it. Doors slam. Radios squawk. The front windows of the cottage fly open. Every motion is hyperspeed. Two EMTs, ninja-tough in black jackets stenciled Brookline EMS across the back, hoist an aluminum stretcher up the front steps, then wheel it through the open door.

  “Upstairs,” I call after them. “I could show you—”

  But they’re gone.

  “Charlie McNally?” Officer Jeff Petrucelly, followed by another blue-uniformed Brookline police officer, trots up the walkway to the front porch. Last time I saw him he was interrogating Bexter faculty about the death of Alethia Espinosa. “What’s going on here?”

  “The Head, from Bexter,” I say, grateful that someone already knows who I’m talking about and actually wants to talk to me. I know I sound on the verge of tears. And I guess I am.

  “I think the guy in the living room shot him. He’s upstairs. I don’t know. He might be dead. There’s a gun in the living room. I kicked it under the—”

  But Petrucelly and his partner, no longer listening, are already sprinting inside.

  “Don’t leave,” Petrucelly commands over one shoulder. “Do not leave.”

  Suddenly, my knees are weak. I can barely stand up. I may have escaped. But Josh. Penny. Where are they? My purse, cell phone inside, is probably a pile of ashes right now.

  Hanging on to the wrought-iron railing with both hands, I lower myself to sit on the bottom step of the front porch. The Head is probably dead. And Ebling is in bad shape. Were they in it together? It’s terrifying, and sad, and so tragic, that a beloved pillar of the Bexter community could be twisted and corrupted by greed and desire and, I don’t know, envy. Byron Forrestal is dead. Killed by a money-hungry loser who had no remorse about tormenting people over secrets from their past. And who finally turned on his own partner in crime.

  I lower my head into my hands, staring in dread at the concrete walkway. What if the Head and Ebling got to Josh and Penny? I have to go home. I have to check on them. I start to get up. But I’m trapped. The police ordered me not to leave. My locked car, parked in the driveway, is blocked in by the ambulance.

  The tips of my fingers are white with cold, my rear is freezing on the concrete, and I’m grateful for my thick sweater. I pull the turtleneck collar high over my chin, then push my bare hands up under the sleeves. It’s dark. Frigid. And I’ve never felt so alone. Or powerless. Or afraid. When I look up, I’m shocked to see stars, every constellation glittering, arrayed across the winter sky. Like nothing happened.

  “Miss McNally? You said someone was upstairs?”

  The voice behind me is a firefighter, wet droplets glistening on his uniform, a deputy’s white helmet strapped into place. He smells of fire and smoke and water. A smear of soot crosses one ruddy cheek.

  “Yes, yes, upstairs,” I say. Turning, I jump to my feet, straining to the left, then to the right, trying to see what’s going on behind him inside the house. The smoke is almost gone and the way is clear, but the firefighter is blocking my view.

  “The Headmaster, Byron Forrestal,” I say, pointing. “He’s upstairs.”

  The firefighter is shaking his head. No.

  “No what? No, he isn’t there? He has to be. I mean, he might be hurt. Maybe you didn’t look…”

  “We checked everywhere, ma’am.” The deputy’s voice is dryly confident, puffing into the cold. “I know Headmaster Forrestal, of course. And he’s not—”

  Then I see his face change. With raised eyebrows, he points a gloved hand, one canvas-covered finger directing me to turn around.

  The Head. Is trotting up the front walkway.

  Framed in hat and coat and scarf, his face is the picture of fear and confusion.

  “What on earth? How did this start?” He looks at his house, then the firefighter, then me, then this house. His face goes bleak. Sagging with terror. “My collection?”

  “It’s all fine, sir, nothing badly damaged,” the deputy says. “We got here in time. You’ll have to replace a rug, and your living room couch and a chair. It’s smoky, but nothing some ventilation won’t cure. We got the vent fans going now. The EMTs are still working on Mr. Ebling, but he’ll make it.”

  “Ebling? Why was—” The Head steps toward the front door, pointing. “I need to go inside.”

  “Miss McNally?” The firefighter faces me briefly, holding up a palm to stop the Head. “We saved your purse, but your coat’s a goner. Sir? You can come inside in a minute or so. After the EMTs leave.”

  The deputy turns on his heel, saying something into his squawking shoulder radio, and heads back into the house.

  I couldn’t be more confused.

  “Ebling told me you were upstairs.” I ping-pong my gaze between the Head and the house, reconciling actual reality with Ebling’s concocted version. The third murder—was me. He was going to try to frame the Head for my death. But how?

  Suddenly, I get it. When the Head got home, I’d already be shot dead on the rug, killed with the Head’s pistol. Ebling would kill the Head, then pretend to find us both. He’d say I’d uncovered the Head’s scheme and confronted him. He’d killed me, and then himself. It could have worked.

  But the Head doesn’t know about that part yet.

  “Ebling? Told you?” The Head is answering me, shaking his head. “Preposterous. Of course I wasn’t here. It’s Bexter board meeting night. I was at the school. Your Josh was there, didn’t you know? Ebling knew that. You can’t be two places at once, you know.”

  Josh is okay. I begin to breathe again.

  “Do you know where Penny is? Don’t those board meetings usually last until midnight or so?” The words tumble out. “Why are you home now?”

  “Senior prank,” the Head replies. “We all had to leave the building. Seems the seniors spread mashed-potato flakes across the floor of Main lobby. They hid and waited until Mr. Parker tried to mop them up. Your Penny was there, too. Watching with Annie Vilardi as the lobby turned to potato soup.”

  He takes a few steps toward his front door, then turns back to me.

  “You and Josh might want to have a little chat with her about it. After they finish helping with the cleanup. It’s pretty unpleasant.”

  I’m speechless. And on the verge of laughing. Until I think about the body in front of the fireplace. The one who might have been me.

  I hit the snooze button, curling up against my pillow, getting ready to savor the next eight sweetly stolen minutes before today’s chaos begins. Botox purrs and cuddles up closer. I smile and sigh with my eyes closed, going over the whole thing once
again, a long, confusing, frightening night ending with Ebling in jail and Penny in the doghouse. I think Josh grounded her for the next twenty-five years. Ebling’s sentence is probably going to be longer.

  I flip over, ousting a protesting Botox from her nest behind my knees, and mentally chew over the one journalistically annoying element in all this. I can’t do the Bexter extortion and murder story for Channel 3, since the same person can’t be a witness to a crime and the reporter on the same story. So Liz Whittemore, who showed up at the Head’s house as the emergency crews were all wrapping up, gets a big break. Courtesy of me.

  I’ll help her, of course. And I guess I’ll be interviewed today about it. Weird to be on the other end of the microphone. And weirder to watch it on TV.

  Eyes still closed, I reach out a hand to touch Josh. He’s not here. Probably in the bathroom. I have about four more minutes. I nestle in again, holding on to peace. I’ll go to the office, help Liz with the Bexter story.

  Then Franklin and I will figure out how to approach Loudon Fielder.

  “Sweets? You awake?”

  I feel Josh standing by the bed, his presence altering the darkness behind my closed eyelids.

  “Yes,” I say, because it’s true. And there’s only three minutes until the alarm rings. My eyes struggle to open and through my still-fuzzy vision, I see Josh holding a cup of what I hope is coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Caffeine and news. Makes it much easier to wake up after a rough night of almost getting murdered.

  I ease upright, scooting my rear against the pillows and reaching out to Josh. He hands me the ceramic mug, and kisses me on the top of my head. He sits on the edge of the bed, still holding the newspaper, as I take my first delicious sip.

  “Mmm,” I say. “This is perfect. A good day to be alive.”

  “Sweets?” Josh says. “You might want to look at the paper.”

  “The—?”

  He takes my mug and hands me the folded Boston Globe. I open to the front page.

  The story is on the left, one column, below the fold.

  Radio Mogul Dead.

  I look at Josh. My brain races to makes sense of it. “How—?”

  “Read it. Apparently the police…”

  But I’m not listening to him anymore. I’m reading. Fast as I can.

  The story is certainly surprising and definitely big news. But our story, even bigger, is safe. The Globe doesn’t have anything about car cloning, or air-bag theft, or valet parking, or the radio show. Even so, the paper’s last paragraph is a shocker.

  “A massive stroke when the cops went to question him,” I say to Franklin, waving the paper at him as I walk into our office. I called him this morning at the same moment he called me. Of course.

  “I called Zavala, of course,” I continue, taking off my coat and tossing it on my chair. “He told me No-Hat—whose name really is Doug Skith, astonishingly—ratted Fielder out in about thirty seconds. He gave up Taylor and Tyler, too. Now Zavala says the talk-show morons and No-Hat are battling it out with the district attorney to see who can turn state’s evidence faster.”

  “Police came to Fielder’s door? And he just confessed?” Franklin asks.

  “Well, no. He kept demanding a lawyer. Upset. Yelling at the cops,” I reply. “According to Zavala. He found out the rest from Skith and the Drive Time boys. Apparently Fielder was out of money. Radio station revenues tanking, fewer people using valet parking. So he decided to reorganize his resources. Took cars from one of his businesses, cloned them at another—”

  “The Beacon Trust owned the Newtonville garage, too?”

  “Yup. According to Zavala.” I nod. “He sold the air bags on the black market. Big bucks. And then sold the stolen cloned cars via the radio show. Even bigger bucks. Oh, and guess what? The stolen blue Mustang? The one No-Hat tried to sell me? No-Hat told them it was stolen from Randall Kindell’s rental lot. It was the car I saw on the lift.”

  “So Fielder’s implicated to the hilt.” Franklin’s multi-tasking, of course, sorting his mail as we talk. He tosses a manila envelope into the wastebasket and places another envelope in a growing stack on his desk. He picks up his letter opener.

  “Yup. Zavala told me it was No-Hat Doug Skith and his thug buddies who ruined the operation. Crashing the Mustang into Declan Ross, that’s one thing. But killing Borum? Carjackings? Fielder never authorized anything like that. Still, it was his setup. As they handcuffed him to take him to the police station, he collapsed.”

  I tap my pen on the Boston Globe, now spread out on my desk. “But all the paper has, thanks to my beloved Lieutenant Zavala, is Fielder questioned about some un-disclosed financial scheme, dies of a stroke, his wife mourns the tragedy.”

  And there’s the shocker. I read, for the millionth time, the last lines of the brief Boston Globe article.

  The radio mogul’s wife, Alice Hogarth Fielder, told a reporter she was bewildered by the developments. According to sources, she is now in seclusion.

  I don’t need the now-burned Bexter report to confirm that Harrison Ebling had also circled Alice Hogarth’s name. That means she was probably being blackmailed, too. Did she give up a baby? Did she ever tell her husband? Did she pay extortion money? Did he?

  Out of the corner of my ear I hear paper ripping. And then unfolding. And then I hear Franklin catch his breath.

  “What?” I say. Fleetingly, a selfishly unworthy thought flickers through my mind. Maybe the NewYork deal is off.

  “In a plain envelope,” he says, holding up a white piece of paper. It looks like a photocopy of a photo. “It’s a picture of Michael—”

  “Borum’s blue Mustang.” I finish the sentence. “David Chernin at the Mass Turnpike offices must have sent it to us.”

  “Not that it matters now.” Franklin folds the photo back into the envelope. “That car’s a crispy critter.”

  I think back about Michael Borum, an everyday guy who did an everyday thing. Tossed the keys to his car to a valet parker and expected it to be returned after dinner. But Michael Borum gave his car to the wrong valet at the wrong time. And got killed for it.

  “No, it’s still important,” I say. “Because this photo proves his car was not where it was supposed to be. Can you believe it? After all that, turns out Michael Borum is helping us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I push the black button that connects me, electronically, with Liz Whittemore. I’m surrounded by flashing monitors and muttering technicians in the bustle and squawk of ENG Receive. Liz is across town, outside on the snowy common in front of Main Hall, ready to front her first live shot about the Bexter murder and extortion. J.T.’s with her, shooting it all, since there’s no reason for him not to be part of it. Suddenly, someone flips on the portable light in front of her. Liz’s red Channel 3 parka pops against the white snow and the lofty evergreens. I lean closer to the silver microphone. “Congratulations, girl,” I tell her. “Just give me credit when you pick up your Emmy.”

  I see Liz put a gloved hand to her ear, holding in her earpiece as she listens to me. She smiles, though she can’t see me, and gives a thumbs-up to the camera.

  “Your story’s on next week, Charlie,” she says into her microphone. “It’ll blow this one out of the water.”

  Secretly, I hope she’s right. But that I don’t say.

  “Private School, Private Lives.” The too-sensational-for-my-taste black-and-red graphic suddenly appears in several monitors as the bright green numbers of the digital clocks tick toward the six o’clock news. The thumping drive of the electronic news theme fills the room.

  ENG Joanna nudges me out of the way and leans into the mic.

  “Fifteen seconds, Liz,” she says.

  Liz nods, her lips pressed together. She’s nervous. My own heart races in reporter empathy, remembering the feeling. Being the new kid. The pressure of a first big story. A career maker. Or breaker. The anchor has begun the introduction to the story, but there’s still time for m
e to give Liz one more bit of encouragement. I reach for the mic button. And then I see Liz change. Her head comes up, her eyes sparkle, she radiates confidence. She doesn’t need me.

  “Go for it,” I whisper.

  Even though I know the story much better than Liz does, it’s still a blockbuster.

  “Police say Harrison Ebling, now in custody, murdered two prominent and beloved faculty members at Brookline’s privileged and respected Bexter Academy because they discovered his blackmail-and-extortion scheme. Officials are charging he killed Dorothy Wirt with her own sleeping pills and carbon monoxide, attempting to make it look like an accident. They say he killed Alethia Espinosa by pushing her down a steep set of ice-covered stairs.”

  I know the rest. I barely listen as Liz voices over the mug shot of Ebling, BEX photos of Dorothy and Alethia, and exteriors of the Bexter campus, carefully selected so they don’t reveal the faces of any students. I know police found at least some of Ebling’s stash. Now safely protected evidence, the D.A.’s office confiscated the confidential files he copied and stole from The Services. Channel 3 lawyers, panicked by potential lawsuits and fearing expensive liability, absolutely refused to let Liz mention any of the victims’ names on television.

  The journalist in me is outraged. It’s the public’s right to know exactly what happened. The other part of me is relieved. It won’t help anyone to know about Alice Hogarth or Fiona Dulles or Randall Kindell. Their secret past can remain a secret.

  I smile, thinking about the rental-car king. After checking his entire fleet for recalls and missing air bags, he began spearheading a national campaign to clean up his industry. What’s more, police finally confirmed Annie’s car had indeed been stolen. And Kindell, grateful that I’d kept his secret, gave her an Ombra from his fleet to replace it. He also called Declan Ross’s insurance company, wiped the incident off his policy and got his money refunded.