by Larry Crane
In his mind’s eye, he often saw himself as if he was being recorded: on a parade field, reaching to take the battle flag of his own infantry brigade; kneeling on a sled behind Pete and Oliver as it whooshed down a snowy hill. And these pictures fused with pictures that had never been recorded, but which lived in his mind’s eye just as vividly: a slow, graceful windup on the pitcher’s mound, and the vapor trail of the ball on its way to the plate as if on a track, spinning and glancing down off a slanted pane of glass, across the outside edge of the plate for a strike.
He made the trip to the bridge using the Palisades Parkway approach on the west side of the Hudson. Now he verified that the bridge was semi-guarded—if you wanted to call it guarded at all—by a single toll taker in a little booth on the west side. He zoomed in to record the smiling man as he reached to take bills from the driver fifty yards ahead. At night, Lou thought, the traffic would be much lighter.
Next, Lou timed the trip down around Anthony’s Nose and into Peekskill. He went on to the Tappan Zee Bridge, a much more tortuous route, especially for a semi-trailer truck.
He drove up by Camp Smith atop Anthony’s Nose, and studied the map of the military reservation. There, they would make their getaway into the woods. It would be a hell of a climb, up the face of the rock at the end of the bridge, to get into the reservation. He reconnoitered around the area east of Camp Smith to find a likely linkup point.
It was not the best place for a rendezvous. Ideally, a well-defined feature they could easily locate while stumbling through the area in the dark would be best; a place prominent enough to describe to someone like Copeland, who had never been in the area before. Lou settled on a point north of the bridge and Anthony’s Nose, on a winding, backwoods road that intersected Route 9D about three kilometers north of the bridge near St. James Chapel.
They would wait, hidden in the vicinity of Curry’s Pond for a visual linkup on foot. They weren’t going to just stand around on some road. He recorded the scene with his video camera.
Lou sketched out the main concept in his mind, reconnoitered on the ground. Now he started thinking about alternatives. Anyone who had ever had anything to do with combat operations knew you had to provide for the unexpected. There wasn’t a single operation in his memory that went off without a hitch. There was always some aspect of the plan that would prove inadequate.
The troops would have to improvise or go to the alternate plan. Having a backup plan was distinctly preferable to winging it. If he got waylaid, who was in command? Where was the standby linkup point? How about people who got hurt? As the enormity of the planning effort descended on him, Lou felt the horrible feeling of helplessness that comes from not having a fraction of the time needed to bring off a plan.
They needed to rehearse, to actually go over the plan on similar terrain, like a football team walking through the plays to make sure every man knew exactly what he was to do at all times. How could they absorb in a couple of hours what he’d learned over an entire career in the Army? Like the essentials of patrolling; or how to form up to infiltrate out of the area once the demo was blown; or the elements of avoiding detection at night. They should have lampblack on their faces and hands. They should tape all equipment to prevent noise. It was hopeless. The only chance they had was if they caught the police off guard. The whole plan rested on the authorities reacting slowly enough to allow them to get out.
Lou traced the western approach to the bridge. Trucks weren’t allowed on the Palisades Parkway. He’d have to go down Route 6, Route 293, and Mine Torne Road. Mine Torne Road twisted beside steep outcrops on one side and a plunging chasm on the other. It was a lonely two-lane with an occasional house appearing around a bend. Old bungalows they were, with pilings supporting the back porches and a dog yelping somewhere down the gorge. The gorge was a good secondary escape route. In the ravine, they were less likely to make navigational mistakes in the panic of a hot escape. It would be dark down there, and noiseless.
On the horizon ahead, as he came around a sweeping curve, Lou saw a massive, black crag that dominated the surrounding terrain. It was an ideal secondary rendezvous, an unmistakable landmark. He pulled onto a gravel road on the far side of the crag and flicked on the inside light. The map clearly showed Mine Torne Road snaking through the hills, with Popolopen Creek rushing at the bottom of the gorge. He was in the drive leading to Borrow Pit. Above him, its shadow looming over the car, was the Torne.
He slid out of the car and turned to face the mountain. Trees grew halfway up, then stopped. Its peak was solid rock—jagged, black. Standing there, suddenly, he felt chilly. He committed this image to memory, alongside the parade ground flag ceremony, the kids on a sled, and the thunk of a baseball in a catcher’s mitt. As he panned the camera to capture the full sweep of the crag, its iciness seeped through to his chest. The possibility of death invaded him, heavy and absolute. He knew that he needed to go far beyond what he comprehended now; far beyond what he could imagine about this mission and these people. He needed something to call on when all other options had been exhausted.
Route 17W climbed steadily out of the valley in which the Thruway curved. The hills beyond the Hudson River were smoother than the rock-strewn slopes around the bridge. They opened up into broad pastures and wood lots. He pressed the accelerator, squeezed the wheel, and held his speed to a steady eighty-five mph.
On the west side of Monticello, Lou slowed to a crawl to catch the dirt road that he knew rambled north, just a mile or more beyond the abandoned Shell station. After two minutes on the dusty rut, he saw the dirty, white clapboard farmhouse on the hill and the rickety barn looming up behind it. Four half-breed dogs yipped at the door as he swung his feet out of the car and took the two long steps needed to meet Tom Holt halfway across the barnyard. Private Thomas Holt, radioman.
“Lou, you old, foot soldier,” Holt said. “Haven’t seen you in twenty years.”
“Good to see you again, Tom. Let me have a look at you.” But Tom Holt had him in a bear hug, and he wasn’t about to let go.
“One thing has changed, Lou. I finally landed a good woman. Dory! Come out and meet Lou Christopher.”
A tall, thin woman moved, as if on skates, across the yard and clasped him in a hard, firm embrace. Tears brimmed and drenched her hollow cheeks.
“Lieutenant Christopher. I’ve heard the story as many times as I can get Tom to repeat it. I thought I’d never get the chance to thank you for saving Tom for me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lou had to talk to himself on the way back home to keep from yielding to his leaden eyelids. It was fully night when he pulled into the driveway, but all the lights in the front of the house were off. He stumbled through the back door into the dark kitchen. He hadn’t eaten all day. He flicked on the overhead light.
He lifted the lid and peered into the larger of two pans on the range. It was goulash. He had to break through a thin layer of crust when he jabbed it with a fork. The other pan contained white rice in cold, hard clumps. He rattled around in the refrigerator, amid the bowls and bottles on every shelf, finally settling on a can of peaches. He turned the heat on under the coffee pot.
Sagging with fatigue, he slid into the breakfast nook bench and stared out at the lights on the neighbor’s house across the way. He glanced up at the clock above the fridge—ten o’clock. He heard the bedroom door at the end of the hall open and saw the finger of light on the floor. Then he heard Maggie’s slippers in the hallway.
She shuffled into the kitchen and went directly to the coffee pot, clattered the pans into the sink with short, annoyed jabs, and then pulled them out again.
“I guess you really meant all day,” she said. “I finally had to eat.”
“Yeah, I really got tied up.”
“I’ll warm the goulash.”
“No, never mind that. This’ll do fine.”
He leaned back on the bench. He couldn’t find the words to bring her into this mess. Maybe she would never have to k
now about any of it.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me about it?” she said, sharp and angry.
“It was boring.”
“Is Patricia Buck going to be around during these next couple of days up at Arden House? Not that I give a flying...”
“Patricia Buck is too busy with her Bliss reelection activities to give a fig about the company anymore, Mag. No one can ever get hold of her.”
“You’re going to miss Halloween. The grandchildren are going to be crushed,” Mag said, clutching the collar of her robe around her throat.
“Halloween! Oh, Christ, it’s tomorrow night. Sunday. Tomorrow.”
What could that mean? Increased police patrols? Kids out on the streets? But maybe more people would be staying close to home for the tricks and treats. The bridge wouldn’t have much traffic. It looked to be about an even break.
“They’ll get along without me. They don’t need the old fart to take them around anymore.”
“They’ll be disappointed.”
“Not if we don’t make a big deal out of it, Mag.”
“You have to admit that taking off for a couple of days, completely out of the blue, would tend to test anyone’s limits of trust; but that’s the way you want it, so that’s the way it’s going to be. I don’t like it but I don’t feel like pushing. We’re probably going to crash on this one. Just don’t give me that ‘no big deal stuff,’ okay?”
He rose from the table, went to the coffee pot on the range, and filled his cup. Now he felt the tightness in his shoulders and neck from the full day of driving and reconnoitering. He told himself to stay cool, not to blow up. She was entitled to some explanation.
“Want a cup?” he asked, looking back at her.
She wrapped her robe more securely around her body and shook her head. “It’s too late for coffee.”
He took the pint of milk from the refrigerator, splashed some into his cup, and followed that with a level teaspoon of sugar. He slid back down onto the bench at the table.
“Mag, I know I’ve been acting uptight. You’re just going to have to bear with me for a little while. I’m involved in Buck’s little training project. It’s a pain in the ass, but it will make everything after it better. It’s all going to be back to normal soon, you’ll see.”
He got up, moved around to Mag’s side of the nook, and slid in beside her. He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek and lightly on the ear. He brought his hand up to her neck and under her hair, lightly rubbing the back of her head.
“Don’t fall apart on me,” she said softly, looking into his face.
“We’re going to be fine.” he said, pulling her close.
“I hate this,” she said. “I’m your wife, not your girl.”
“Do you remember how we were back in the beginning?”
“I can’t do this, Lou. I’m in knots. I can’t fake it.”
“You wore whipped cream,” he said, sliding his hand into her robe.
“No, Lou. I’ve made up Oliver’s old bed for you tonight. I bought my plane ticket.”
He moved his hand to the sash of Maggie’s robe. He fiddled with it for a second before he pulled and the knot came loose. She wore a short, white nightie that contrasted sensationally with the bronze of her thigh.
“Good night, Lou,” she said, pushing him out of the nook, and pulling away from his grasp. “I love you; but you’re breaking my heart, and I hate you for that.”
Mag clutched the robe tightly around herself, padded down the long hallway, and lightly shut the door.
A sharp ache scrabbled up through his throat to the tip of his nose. He pressed his fist hard against his lips, beating back a rush of emotion. Something inside clutched that spot just above his navel, reminding him of who was in charge, and of what he had to do.
* * *
In the morning, he confronted the matter of clothes. What kind of clothes do you wear when you blow napalm on the Bear Mountain Bridge? He had to wear a suit and tie for the sake of the charade, but he packed his dungarees and bang-around coat in his suitcase. He stuffed his old combat boots in the bag as well.
He opened the top drawer of his bureau, the sock drawer, and dropped the videotape of his reconnaissance into it.
Maggie didn’t emerge from the bedroom, but he felt her eyes on his back as he got into the car.
Out on Route 17, he rented a new Plymouth from Avis and switched from the suit into the dungarees and jungle boots. He drove back past the ugly PSE&G generating plant and the Meadows, up Route 4—devoid now of Sunday traffic—and right into the middle of town. The small, treed square in the center of the business district was deserted.
All up and down Grosvenor, the main street of town, Lou didn’t see a soul. The only activity was in front of Harvey’s Stationers, when someone entered to buy a Sunday Times and left a minute later. It was only then that he realized the banks weren’t open on Sunday. His wallet had only two, dog-eared twenties in it.
Ordinarily, Mag would never have let him leave the house without enough money. And what happened to his vow never to leave the house without at least three hundred bucks in his pocket? That resolution, born in the dark days when it seemed nothing good would ever happen again, had helped him recover his swagger. But the day he started getting calls from Westover, it simply evaporated.
He drove to the corner of Montrose and Gilbert, to the covered kiosk beside the Second National Bank, fired up the ATM with his credit card, tapped the keys, waited, and then snatched the two hundred in new and old bills that dangled from the slot like a tongue. Gargoyles were making faces at him again.
What about the wallet? Should he keep it on him? If he was caught—or killed—they’d find out quickly enough who he was anyway. He shoved the wallet back into his hip pocket. He hadn’t thought about giving a false name when he rented the car. Oh hell, that wouldn’t have worked anyhow. His name is on the license. If he left the wallet somewhere and couldn’t get back to it for several days, they’d be able to trace it to him. Christ!
He had to get out of town. He sure as hell didn’t want any neighbors or friends telling Mag they’d just seen him downtown. But he had to get some supplies. They’d need some way to disguise their faces so the toll guard couldn’t identify them. They needed tape to wrap around the weapons to keep them quiet while they were moving through the woods. He drove up Franklin Turnpike to Ramsey where he managed to find masking tape for sale. It wasn’t the best color, but it was better than nothing.
At the local Rite-Aid, he also purchased a couple of pairs of nylon stockings. At least he and the girl would have their faces covered when they confronted the guard. It was important, the concealment of his identity. The worst thing that could happen was being revealed. It was worse, even, than death, because he couldn’t face Mag with this. Not until he told her about it himself.
He had to call Copeland with the exact location of the rendezvous point. Also there was the girl to pick up. It was eleven o’clock. He was supposed to be ready to brief them all in two hours. It was going to have to come right off the top of his head. There was a phone booth tucked away beside an Exxon station right in the middle of town. He dialed the number on the piece of paper Copeland had given him.
The phone rang four times. With each ring, Lou prayed it would keep ringing. That would take him right out of it. He visualized himself calling Mag to tell her he was on his way home. But halfway through the fifth ring, he heard the phone at the other end come off the hook.
Lou could hear the sound of heavy traffic in the background. Copeland was probably grinning like an ape at Stanfield. They’d snagged him. And now he’d have to sound cool.
“It sounds like you got the Bruckner Expressway running through your living room,” Lou said.
“This isn’t exactly my living room, wise guy. Let’s have it, quick.”
“You got a map?”
“I got a topo of the area around the bridge. That good enough?”
“Okay. When?”
“Make it midnight, Monday.”
“You plan to beat around in the bush for a night and a day?”
“I don’t want to attempt any pickup right away. We’re going to be plenty occupied just getting the hell out of there.”
“You’re the boss. It’ll be a delivery truck, a U-Haul.”
“I’ll flash a light at you. You stop. I’ll ask you ‘where are you, Joe DiMaggio?’ and you’ll answer: ‘at the Bowery.’”
