Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  In the first one, left the day I flew out, he tells me that he knows I’m traveling but he has had a break in Mark’s case and to call him as soon as I can. The second message is from later that same day; he’s surprised he hasn’t heard back from me yet and wants to be sure I got his last message. He’s positive he knows what happened to Mark. The third message is where his tone changes. He’s concerned about me not calling back and says he’s prayed for me, and my family, that I was not on the plane that crashed. The fourth is the same, and the fifth is an apology. He’s learned my fate and is sorry he wasn’t able to tell me sooner so that I’d have closure and he wishes I’d be able to see justice run it’s course. He sounds devastated.

  I think about all the people in my life, the people that I trust who could help us now. Maybe calling my kids was a mistake. Why get their hopes up when I’m not out of danger? They shouldn’t have to repeatedly agonize over my fate. Maybe I shouldn’t call Sarah yet, or my father. If we are in danger and I am unable to make it home, the kids will need some combination of them for their upbringing. Maybe leaving them out of this is the safest bet. What we need is someone objective, in a position of authority that we can trust.

  Drew hands me my order and I greedily devour it, savoring every bite in seconds. I must look like a wild animal. I’m vaguely aware that Drew is laughing but I don’t care. After I take a sip of coffee I gaze at his empty wrapper and know he’s done exactly the same thing.

  “We are disgusting,” he says, chuckling. “I can honestly say I have never seen a woman eat like that. It was actually kind of hot, Elyse.”

  “If I didn’t think I’d get sick, I’d eat another one right now,” I admit, trying to ignore the sting of his last words. Glad he thought that was hot. On cue he pulls out another sandwich. His dazzling smile lights up his face; he is clearly proud of himself. “We need new names. They clearly didn’t work,” I tell him and sigh, but not before taking the food. I must look like a kid on Christmas, because this small bonus makes me incredibly happy!

  “I didn’t know when we’d be able to stop again so I got a few extra…and you’ll always be Elyse to me,” he winks. And just like that, he’s back, as if the awkward morning never happened. “You couldn’t get ahold of the nanny?” he asks, pulling my thoughts from him.

  “While you were ordering I listened to a few of my voicemails. There were a number of them from the Sargent I’ve been working with on Mark’s homicide. I want to call him and ask for help,” I tell Drew.

  “What did his messages say?” He sounds guarded.

  “That he had information for me,” I begin, “but then when I didn’t call back he progressively gets more concerned. In the last one he learned about the crash and sounds really upset.”

  “You trust him?” Drew questions with an unreadable expression and almost accusatory tone, which throws me.

  Do I trust him?

  The first time I met him I was so relieved that someone, anyone, not only believed me but came to the same conclusion about Mark’s death. He came when the kids were at school and had brought the autopsy report and details from the former investigator’s file with him. I never got into the details of Mark’s death with the kids and didn’t want them subjected to anything that would bring up negative emotions since we’d all gotten to an ok spot emotionally. We sat in Mark’s study and he walked me through the file, pointing out details from the scene that didn’t match what you’d expect from a suicide; like the position of the gunshot wound and where the bullet entered and exited. Then there was the residue from the gunpowder; not enough on his hand he claimed for the shot to have been made by him. Either someone forced the trigger to be pulled while in Mark’s hand, or the trigger was pulled by someone else altogether. Things I never would have known to be suspicious of unless he had shown me. I was merely going on instinct.

  He interviewed me, asking me all kinds of questions. Did Mark have any enemies at work, from road rage, an affair on my end or possibly a mistress for him, he’d asked. My response was no to all four. Mark had been at the firm for years and was close to getting Principal. He was the most cautious driver I knew; in fact it often caused rage in me, which was why I opted to drive when we went out together. The last was comical. It took Mark years to approach me. He worked like a dog and traveled constantly, but he devoted any and all free time he had to the kids and me. He was the perfect husband and father.

  The investigator asked me to go through the weeks leading up to Mark’s death, which was easy to remember, as it was right after our ninth wedding anniversary. He asked about our personal life; were we happily married, how often did we fight. He asked me to explain in detail what I knew of Mark’s line of work, about his family, about my family.

  Nothing I said to him was any different from what I had shared with authorities before although the direction was wrong. Before, they were asking about a motive he would have had for taking his own life, not for reasons someone would have wanted to take his. When I told him about the delivery of the necklace and box it seemed to be the final puzzle piece in terms of confirming it was homicide. At the end of the interview, the Sargent asked if he could take a look around Mark’s office and left shortly thereafter. He visited twice more but our interactions after that were via phone.

  “Breanne,” Drew calls to me again, “do you trust him?”

  “I don’t know. Besides you I don’t know who to trust but we’ve got to talk to someone.”

  Drew fidgets, gathering our empty wrappers and napkins. Clearly, he’s uneasy with this, though I don’t know exactly why.

  “OK,” he agrees to my surprise.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, suddenly unsure.

  “Like you said, we need help and we’ve got to tell someone.”

  Drew pulls onto the street and then veers right onto the highway onramp. I pick up my phone, select his number from my list of contacts and take a deep breath. As usual, he picks up my call after the first ring.

  “Hello?” a voice answers.

  “Hi, it’s Breanne.” I reply, exchanging an anxious glance with Drew. “Hello?” I ask when I get no response.

  “Breanne?” he asks skeptically. “Breanne Sullivan?”

  “Yes,” I sigh. “It’s me.”

  “But. I thought. Do you know what’s happened? Where are you?” he drills me.

  “I know. That’s why I’ve called you. I didn’t know who else to call and I think we’re in danger,” I explain.

  “We? Who else is with you?” he asks.

  “Drew Scott. He was sitting next to me on the plane. He saved my life.”

  “Where are you? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes, we’re pretty banged up and I have no idea where we are. We walked east for a few days and just got to a town. I think we are somewhere in Ohio.” For a moment there is silence and I wonder if I’ve lost the call.

  “Why do you think you’re in danger?” he asks.

  I take another deep breath and explain our situation. How the plane went down and the passengers died after using the oxygen masks, that the pilot and a few others were shot when they tried to flee and that there was some kind of drilling that took place in the back of the plane before the plane was set on fire. I tell him that the gunmen called someone and mentioned they were working with someone in law enforcement to cover things up. I also tell him about the used car dealership and how the owner warned us that at least two men were looking for us and they didn’t appear to be law enforcement.

  “Does anyone else besides Carl and me know that you’re alive?” he asks.

  “No one!” I exclaim. “Look, they’ve confirmed that we’re dead, which we aren’t, although some people are trying really hard to change that. I was hoping you could help, give us some insight into the situation and help us figure out what to do.”

  “I’m glad you felt you could rely on me. I think you’re right; you are in danger. I want you to figure out where you are and call me back,” he instructs. “Depending
on where you are I may have friends who can help.”

  “Wait! We’re passing a sign. We are 236 miles from Pittsburgh.”

  “Good, I have contacts there. Let me make a few calls. Keep your phone on. And Breanne, don’t call anyone. Not your family or his. Whoever took down that plane must have an incredible amount of resources. I wouldn’t underestimate what they are capable of,” he warns.

  “Wait! I forgot. I left a voicemail for my family on my home line.”

  “I’ll send someone to your house. We’ll take care of the message,” he says.

  “OK.”

  “Call me when you get close and be careful to stay under the radar.”

  “We will, and thank you,” I say, and end the call.

  On the drive to Pittsburgh we listen to a news station on the radio, attempting to get as much details about America’s understanding of what happened. All the information is the same as we read in the paper a short time ago. To hear the details read aloud, though, gives it a different spin and draws on my very raw emotions. When the interviews of family members begin I have to turn it off. I can’t listen to this; what if they spoke to my family?

  I quickly flip through some stations trying to find a decent radio station. Unfortunately, there isn’t much. Of the stations that do come in the options are heavy metal and a station playing “Love Shack.” Wanting something uplifting, I select the latter. But all too soon the song is over and replaced by Heartland’s ‘I Loved Her First’.

  I release a heavy sigh, close my eyes and let the plush leather envelop me. I want to curl up into a ball and have this nightmare be over. If only Drew hadn’t been put off by how I acted in the barn I would nuzzle up under his arm and rest my head on his chest. Somehow I know he wouldn’t mind if I did, but it’s too tempting to be that close to him knowing he doesn’t want me. I don’t even know what way I want him. I’m clearly in need of affection. His actions over the last few days tell me he’d comfort me if I needed it. But his words and actions from earlier tell me it’s not what he wants. Not that it matters, but I find myself wishing my life wasn’t so complicated.

  I listen to the lyrics of the song and immediately I think about my dad. My poor dad. He lost so much when my mother passed away and now he thinks he’s lost me. He knows I have him listed as my children’s guardian should anything happen to me. My poor, poor father. I wonder how he must have felt raising a pre-teen daughter on his own after my mother passed away. It seems strange to think that we’ve never discussed any of it, considering the parallels in my own life.

  I remember the day my parents told me my mom was sick. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in shock. I couldn’t imagine how the strongest woman in the world, the woman who was my everything, could be anything but full of life. Watching her slowly deteriorate was painful and depressing to put it mildly. As a child, all I could think about was how this would affect me. When I became a mother I thought of how I wished she was there, but also grew to understand her vulnerability and pain, knowing she wouldn’t be there to watch me grow up. It still seems so incredibly unfair. But until this moment I never really stopped to consider how losing her and having to raise me as a single father would have felt for him.

  My parents were madly in love. Mark and I were happy and we loved each other, but I’ve yet to see a passion and connection that rivaled what my parents had. They were also equally in love with me. My mother was vibrant, smart and witty. She was an amazing mother; my role model in every way. And my father was a laid back, hard working, fun loving man; a great father. But when he lost her his light went out. He became a recluse and dedicated all of his time to work and raising me. He was present physically, but emotionally he was closed off. I know it was hard for him to lose her, but after she died he never really spoke about her much. When I did he’d change the subject. I was so angry; I needed to talk about her. I was hurting too. It was almost like I lost both of them.

  When Mark died my father’s reaction was the same. He was physically there for me but emotionally he offered little. Even two years later he shies away from conversation about Mark. Maybe some people can’t recover from that even if it means helping someone else.

  I wish he had opened up to me. Maybe I should have opened up to him. Maybe I should have encouraged him to find happiness. God, if I’m lonely he must be lonely. He has now lived more time without my mother than with her. I wonder if he’s ever thought about being with anyone else. Could I ever be with anyone else? Physically, I know I’m in need. But emotionally that’s different. It’s ridiculous really, but the idea of moving on emotionally feels like cheating.

  A squeeze of my hand calls me back to the present. “Hey, are you alright?” asks Drew.

  Concentrating on his hand rather than my thoughts, I squeeze his hand back. “Yeah. How about you? You haven’t said much.”

  “Just thinking,” he replies.

  “Want to share?” I ask, raising my gaze.

  Drew gives a quiet chuckle and a half smile briefly flashes across his face. Looking deep in thought he traces small circles on my knuckles, evoking a sense of déjà vu. I can’t believe we only met a few days ago.

  “Oh, come on,” I urge. “We have a few more hours. What’s on your mind?”

  I pull my legs up onto the seat and get comfortable. His lips press into a hard line and he shakes his head. “Maybe another time,” he says.

  I’m about to protest when my phone rings. I answer immediately.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi Breanne. I have everything set up with my contacts in Pittsburgh. I’ll text you an address after we get off the phone,” he explains. “When you get to the address call me and I’ll give you directions to get to your destination.”

  “Oh?” I question.

  “The place you’re going has no address. It’s a safe house of sorts. It will look abandoned but the place is used regularly and very secure.”

  “Oh, ok.”

  “You should also know that I’m on my way. A friend of mine is a pilot and agreed to fly me on his personal plane. I’ll be there around the same time as you are,” he says.

  “You didn’t have to do that. I don’t want you to get mixed up with more than you already are,” I tell him.

  “I’m concerned. I will personally see to it that this situation is set right. I’ll see you soon,” he says and disconnects.

  “What was that about?” Drew interrogates once I’m off the phone.

  “He’s flying in to meet us; he’s concerned,” I respond. Drew’s grip on the steering wheel tightens and he clenches his jaw as I repeat verbatim what was said. For the life of me I can’t figure this man out.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he replies dryly.

  Moments later I receive the address via text and put it into my phone’s GPS. For the rest of the drive we ride in silence, but our hands remain tightly linked together.

  Just shy of two hours later we arrive at our destination after getting further instructions. I know he gave me a heads up but it’s not exactly what I pictured or would call a safe house. I imagined meeting in some quaint house discussing our options. We passed by several houses just like that as we entered the development. Our destination, however, was not one of them. Instead, we continued on into the development, which was still under construction. Some properties were finished, some started and there were a few where grass grew uncontrollably and ground was yet to be broken. Making our way through this neighborhood with houses of different sizes it’s unclear if this development had just popped up or if it was started years ago and abandoned.

  Per our instructions we make our way to the last house in the development – or rather an estate that has a “for sale” sign out front. The house, which could rival any from MTV Cribs, is large and beautiful, but in an unassuming way. Despite the size it does have a “safe” appeal. The Georgian Colonial has a white exterior with black shutters and sits on a picturesque lot – well, it would have b
een picturesque had the partially constructed wall barrier at the back of the lot been finished and the lawn been mowed. In it’s incomplete state I could understand why even the finished houses weren’t occupied.