The Escape Artist

by Brad Meltzer

  “Mrs. Konnikova, this’ll sound awkward and I’m not sure if you remember me, but my name is Nola Brown. When I was little, you were one of our Girl Scout moms. I’m the one—” She was about to say, who got the top of her ear cut off at the campfire.

  “Nola Brown!? Whose dad loved those thin mints?” Lydia sang, the life now back in her voice.

  “That’s me,” Nola said, remembering the fight Royall raised when, after he ate a dozen boxes of cookies, he found out how much each box cost. Naturally, he refused to pay, screaming at all involved, until one of the moms paid for the thin mints herself, just to shut him up.

  “How you getting along, sweetie? Where you getting along? My gosh, how long’s it been?” The good news was, from the sound of it, Mrs. Konnikova hadn’t heard that Nola was supposedly dead.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late, ma’am,” Nola said, ignoring the question. “I’m just wondering if you can help me with something. I recently ran into Jim Zigarowski…”

  “Ziggy? How’s he doing? Where’s he doing?”

  “It was at a work event, ma’am,” Nola said, now wondering if Mrs. Konnikova uttered anything other than questions. “I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. To my surprise, he remembered me right away. So as we were catching up, I asked him how his daughter Maggie was doing and, well…”

  “Oh dear, you didn’t know she passed, did you?”

  “I didn’t, ma’am. I felt horrible, of course—but later that night, when I tried to find out what happened, the records for the Ekron Eagle—”

  “They weren’t online back then, were they?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to say, ma’am.”

  “Oh dear, so you still don’t know? No one told you?”

  “I don’t mean to pry. I just didn’t know who else to call.”

  Mrs. Konnikova let out a long aching sigh. “You have to understand, this was back when Ziggy and Charmaine were still married. It was toward the end, of course, when the fighting got heated. In fact, now that I’m saying it, this was the real height of it all, screaming and yelling about—” She cut herself off.

  Nola made a mental note, knowing all too well why middle-aged couples scream at each other, especially before a divorce. Grabbing the notepad from the motel nightstand, she wrote the word Affair? She then crossed out the question mark. No shock, considering the last hoochie Zig was dating, who Nola found when she ran his phone records.

  “What I’m really getting at,” Mrs. Konnikova added, “is this wasn’t a good night for the Zigarowski family. From what I understood, the shouting got so bad that, well… Twelve-year-old girls don’t like their parents screaming at full blast. So without telling anyone, young Maggie opened her bedroom window and snuck out.”

  “Did Mr. Zigarowski know she ran away?”

  “Not for hours. They had tucked her in—thought she was asleep—but at midnight, when they saw her bed empty…any parent would be panicked.”

  Nola cleared her throat, staring at the notepad, tempted to draw her old bedroom. She decided against it.

  “Anyway, when they realized Maggie was gone, all it did was take the fight to DEFCON 1. Maggie had run away before—during another night of arguing. She was such a good hider, it took Ziggy and Charmaine hours to find her. One time, she was nearly a mile away, hiding on some swing set in a neighbor’s backyard. So you can imagine the scene on this night: They’re both running through the house, calling Maggie’s name. Charmaine’s blaming Ziggy for yelling so loud; Ziggy’s blaming Charmaine for the same. Then Ziggy…hoping to find her, he grabs his car keys, storming outside. He couldn’t have any idea, y’understand?” Mrs. Konnikova added, her voice slowing down, filling with dread.

  “He was just worried about his daughter—determined to track her down. So in a bolt of anger, Ziggy races out to the driveway and gets in his car.” Mrs. Konnikova’s voice cracks as she says the words. “But what he couldn’t possibly know is that, on this night, young Maggie’s hiding spot was underneath the car. She’d crawled under there for some quiet, and apparently, had been out there so long, she fell asleep…”

  “No,” Nola whispered, not even realizing she said it out loud.

  “Ziggy couldn’t have known. He couldn’t have. He was upset, in a mad panic, just a frantic father trying to find his missing daughter. So he gets into the car, throws it in reverse, and as he peels out of the driveway—”

  Nola’s mouth gaped open, her pen hovering inches from the paper. “Oh, God.”

  “It was worse than you can imagine. According to Sheriff Vaccaro, Maggie was— She was— They declared her dead on the scene. I remember getting the call that night. We all went over the next morning with candles and flowers, everyone in the troop putting plush unicorns outside the house since Maggie always loved unicorns.”

  For a full thirty seconds, Nola just sat there, mouth still sagging open, replaying every conversation she’d had with Zig over the past two days, every thought she had about him, rewriting and recoloring it with this new information.

  “I haven’t seen him for years now,” Mrs. Konnikova finally said. “How’s he holding up?”

  This entire time, Nola thought he looked sad. Definitely lonely. But now… “He’s stronger than people think.”

  “My gosh, I remember him as so handsome. Like a young Paul Newman with those eyes—”

  “He still blames himself, though,” Nola blurted.

  “Can you fault him? In one terrible night, his whole life disappeared. No wife, no daughter—he lost his parents years ago. The man went from everything to nothing. No one looking out for him. No one, like they were erased. I mean, can you imagine?”

  Nola held the phone tight, not saying a word.

  “Plus, even if you can move forward after burying a child, which, let’s be honest, is impossible,” Mrs. Konnikova added, “but even if you could, everyone knew Ziggy still blamed himself for all of it…for Maggie being under that car…for the fight that sent her there…even for his wife sleeping around on him.”

  “His wife?” Nola asked, eyeing the word Affair on her notepad. “I thought Zig was the one who had the affair?”

  “Ziggy? Nooo, that was Charmaine—she was sneaking off with an old high-school flame. Some big-shot finance guy in Philadelphia. Unfinished business and all that. Jacquie Segal said she just heard they’re finally getting married. But Ziggy? This planet doesn’t make people as stubborn and stupidly loyal as that anymore. No, even back then, when it came to his marriage, the only thing Zig did was kick himself for not seeing it coming. As a mortician here, he would get so absorbed in everyone else’s losses, but there he was, completely missing his own. And then, in one foul day, his life as he knew it was gone,” Konnikova said. “Truth is, I’m just happy to hear he’s still standing. To live through what he lived through… Oh, gosh, if I’m being honest, I worried he might’ve put a gun to his own head, y’know?”

  Nola glanced down at the faded old marks on her wrist—and the wound in her shoulder, which Zig spent the better part of the evening stitching and sealing. “I’m glad to report, his life is finally calming down.”

  “You think you’ll see him again?”

  Nola looked at the door. “Unclear.”

  “Well, if you do, do me a favor—give him a big fat hug from all of us here. I remember that last night before he moved away. There was a going-away party, all of us hiding in the Back 40 Bar, waiting to yell surprise. His old troop even baked a Samoa cookie cake—his favorite. Of course, Ziggy never came—again, not that I blame him. These days, I just wish he could give himself some forgiveness. He’s been through enough to earn that.”

  Twenty minutes from now, Zig would return to the motel room with three burgers for the two of them, plus some fries and onion rings. “Everything okay?” he’d ask.

  Nola would nod, barely looking up. “Just hungry.”

  70

  Zig couldn’t sleep.

  No surprise. Even on a good night, in a
good room, on a good bed, Zig could never sleep in a hotel. He’d stare at the ceiling, his thoughts wandering to what other celebrations and sins other ghosts had consummated there.

  Tonight, though, Zig wasn’t staring at the ceiling. He was eyeing Nola, who was dead asleep in the twin bed on his right. She slept on her side, her weight on her shoulder, despite the aching pain she had to be feeling. Her face was calm, however—and Zig realized it was the only time he’d ever seen her with a placid expression. When Nola was awake, her brain was working; only in sleep did she look untroubled. It made her look younger, like a child.

  At 1 a.m., Zig was still awake, watching the steady rise and fall of Nola’s breathing, just like he used to when Maggie was little—and now he couldn’t help but wonder if Nola was right. Clearly, this wasn’t just about a decade-old campfire. So was he really here just because he missed his dead daughter? Was he really that simplistic—that as long as Nola was around, it made him feel like a father again?

  If he were in his own house, lost in his own head like this, Zig would be in his backyard, studying his beehive, his ritual beer in his hand. Then he’d go on Facebook, checking on his ex-wife. Rituals were good things to have in life—everyone needs something they can count on—especially when you feel like no one understands.

  Just a few feet away, Nola’s chest rose and fell again with another steady breath.

  Some nights, Zig couldn’t bear not seeing his daughter’s face; other nights, there was no pain greater than actually seeing it.

  A few feet away, perched on the nightstand, were the remnant wrappers from the burgers they had for dinner—and the new prepaid phone Zig bought at CVS. If he wanted, he could use it to go online, or at least get onto Facebook. Even without signing in, he could see his ex’s profile photo and marital status.

  If someone was watching online, they couldn’t trace him. With a quick look, maybe Zig would at least get some sleep.

  No, he told himself. Don’t be so—

  Zig grabbed the modern-looking flip phone. With a flip, it was open and on. All he had to do was put his ex’s name into Google. Her Facebook page was the third thing that came up.

  Zig glanced over at Nola. Her chest rose and fell.

  Snapping the phone shut, Zig slid it back across the nightstand. There you go. That’s the right choice. He told himself it had nothing to do with Nola. He was just tired of being so damn predictable.

  Ten minutes from now, when he finally fell asleep, Zig would have an old dream that he hadn’t had for decades, a dream where he was driving his first car—an old Mercury Capri that smelled like wet fur—with his grandfather sitting in the backseat, telling dirty jokes.

  In just a few hours, he’d wake up feeling lighter than he’d felt in years, ready to take on anything.

  The feeling wouldn’t last long.

  71

  Homestead, Florida

  Ten years ago

  This was Nola when she was sixteen.

  It was supposed to be a good night—or at least an easy night. It’d been a while now since the letters, making Nola think that Royall had forgotten, or at least moved on.

  She was waiting by the front door as Dooch rubbed against the tufted leather ottoman like it was a conjugal visit. Months ago, Royall got pulled over by the police. He thought this was it—they’d finally tracked him down—his trunk was filled with printing supplies—they’d arrest him on the spot. But as the cop came to his window, the officer explained he’d simply been caught going forty in a school zone.

  Right there, Royall said a thank-you to God and decided to make a change. He would go back to sales, use his skills to build a business he could actually be proud of. He even had the product: One of Mr. Wesley’s clients was a wholesaler of snacks and granola bars. Sell them in bulk to office breakrooms and big businesses. “If you’re ambitious, there’s real money.”

  Royall saw it as his second chance. In his very last act making fake IDs, he got the new ottoman by trading a social security card and a set of phone and electric bills to the owner of a furniture store in Tampa. Royall thought it made the living room look fancy. Sophisticated. When potential clients came over, they needed to see that.

  But as Nola was keenly aware, it had been weeks since they’d seen any clients.

  Tonight, though, was different. Royall had nabbed the biggest fish of all—the supply sergeant for nearby Homestead Air Base had made an introduction to her superior. Royall had gone to the base to close the deal and, more important, collect the check. A big one. According to Royall, if things went right, maybe his biggest. Something to do with the Southern Command, covering every military base in Central America, South America, and the Caribbean, he’d told Nola last night. “Y’know how many granola bars they go through? This is change-your-life money,” he’d added as Nola took those words and imagined what they looked like. A brand-new life.

  “Maybe we move closer to the base, get our own pool!” Royall had said.

  So tonight, as Royall’s car pulled into the driveway, Nola was standing by the front door eagerly awaiting his arrival. She didn’t care about Royall or whatever dumb military deal he was chasing. God knows, she didn’t even care about the money. Sure, Royall had made a good living selling IDs over the years, but Nola never saw any of the cash. She was just excited for the Chinese food that Royall would be bringing home tonight…and the dry cleaning that always came with it.

  That’s how it always was when Royall got paid. For weeks, the dry cleaning would build up—too expensive to retrieve—but when Royall delivered on a big order of IDs and driver’s licenses, and Mr. Wesley gave him his cash, Royall would return home with a big smile on his face, Chinese food in one hand and a fresh stack of plastic-covered dress shirts slung over his shoulder. All hail the conquering hero! On nights like that, Royall wasn’t a better person—but he might let his viciousness go for a few hours. And on a night like this? His biggest deal ever? Nola wouldn’t be surprised if he had bought the whole Chinese restaurant.

  “Dinner’s here!” Nola teasingly whispered to Dooch as Royall kicked at the front door. Of course he was kicking. His hands were full with food and dry cleaning. Finally, Royall could get rid of Mr. Wesley and build a proper business.

  “Coming!” Nola called out. Dooch raised his tail at attention.

  Smiling hopefully, Nola undid the locks. But as the door swung open, there was Royall. Empty-handed.

  A jolt of fear ran through her as she stepped out of the way.

  Trudging, his shoulders sagging, Royall didn’t even look at her. It seemed he wasn’t even angry. He was…nothing. It was like someone had hollowed him out.

  No cash. No deal. No Chinese food. And certainly, no changing your life.

  As Royall reached the couch, he took off his blazer and let it fall to the floor. Then he collapsed into the cushions, his torso hunched like the letter C. Dooch leapt up next to him. For a moment, the way his body jerked as he breathed in, Nola thought Royall was about to cry. But he didn’t.

  Throughout her years with him, especially during his early days in sales, Nola had seen Royall make deals, close deals, and lose deals. But she’d never seen him…she searched for the word. Defeated.

  “I can make dinner,” Nola finally said. By now, she’d made peace with the fact that he took her in all those years ago so he’d have someone to cook and clean for him. Then, for a reason she couldn’t explain, she decided to join him on the couch. She didn’t get close. She just sat there on the other side of him, so Royall was between her and Dooch. The three of them sat there for a while, Nola searching for something else to say.

  Finally, he spoke. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Go make dinner.”

  72

  Dover, Delaware

  Today

  First, he’d need to hide her.

  Zig knew where. It was barely 5 a.m., the sky still an inkwell. They’d left the motel hours ago, Nola lying down in the backseat as they weaved toward Dover’s downtown histor
ic district, not far from the courthouse. At this hour, the quaint narrow streets were empty. Even Tiffanee’s bakery wasn’t open yet.

  “You sure there’s no alarm?” Nola asked as they reached their destination.

  “No alarm,” Zig insisted, sneaking through the side yard of a grand 1918 white clapboard home. With its laid-back front porch and antique carriage lights, it was the kind of house you see in a movie, a romantic comedy where the characters live in a place that you know they couldn’t afford in the real world, but you don’t care because you’d love to live there yourself.

  Nola stared at the house, cocking her head to the side. But in the past few hours, Zig had become better at reading her. She didn’t like this place.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be quick,” Zig said as he reached the old garage in back. It had vintage swinging wood doors.

  “This? This is what we came for?” Nola asked.

  Now Zig was the silent one, grabbing the padlock on the garage doors and pulling out a key.

  Nola glanced back at the house, giving it one of her good, long stares. Every window was dark. There’s no way she knew what she was walking into.

  “No one lives here, do they?”

  Zig turned. “How’d you—?” He shook his head, knowing better than to ask. With a twist of the key, the padlock popped and Zig tugged open the garage doors, revealing the back of a shiny black car that at first looked like a station wagon, but as the moonlight hit it…

  “A hearse?” Nola asked.

  “How’d you know no one lives here?”

  “The place smells like death.” Turning back toward the beautiful old house, she added, “It’s a funeral home, isn’t it?”

  “One of Delaware’s oldest. There’s a sign on the other side of the house. When they’re busy, I pirate here.”

  “Pirate?”

  “Sorry… When you… When there’s a big disaster—like a traffic accident with multiple deaths—a local funeral home will get so overwhelmed, they can’t handle all the bodies. So they’ll call in a ‘pirate,’” Zig explained, using the nickname for roving embalmers. When Zig first started in the industry, it’s how he got experience, floating from funeral home to funeral home, community to community. “The joke is, when you pirate around, you’re kinda like Death himself.”