Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  “We don’t have to go to bed… I mean make love….” She tried to make it sound convincing.

  But everything about both of them disagreed with this.

  She disrobed. He watched. She let the clothes fall to the floor in a heap—not like Mari. As she unbuttoned his shirt, he was looking at her clothes piled on the carpet. He mocked, “What, you’re not going to hang those up?”

  But she had his shirt open now, and rather than answer, she hugged him warmly.

  He was gentle with her. He remembered every touch she enjoyed. They spent hours this way: touching, whispering, kissing.

  Then finally, as a pink blade of morning light crept over the horizon, they joined together blissfully, cradled in each other’s arms, holding on as if they might never let go.

  And they both hoped they never would.

  Later, they lay on the bed, Andy with his feet hanging off the end, Mari holding a pillow across her chest, both staring at the ceiling. She told him, “We belong here… together. I know we do,” without even a degree of reservation. “That proved it to me.” Then she trembled from toe to nose. “Ohhh, that was nice.”

  He sighed and continued to stroke her hair.

  “Can you imagine that… all the time?” She grinned and looked over at him. “What a thought!”

  “Not for a week,” he teased. “I need time to recover.”

  “How about fifteen minutes?”

  “What you need is a good eighteen-year-old.”

  “Oh no. What you need is what a bureaucrat calls good lip service.”

  They both laughed and Andy turned on the light and went into the bathroom. When he returned, Mari explained, “I’ll walk away, if you’ll walk away.”

  “From what?”

  “Our jobs.”

  He sat on the side of the bed and looked down into her speckled eye. “How?” he asked, entertaining the fantasy.

  “We write our resignations on Airport Inn stationery, and we retire to some exotic place together.”

  “How do we live?”

  She looked at him quizzically. “The trust is enormous, Andy. Believe me, the hardest thing we’d have to do is decide what time to eat our next meal. We could drive nice cars and travel often.”

  “Tempting.”

  She sat up, and he bent over and kissed her navel. She positioned a pillow behind her neck and head. “I think we should do it. You throw in the towel and so will I.”

  He was not about to ask, “Are you serious?” because he knew she was. Instead he asked, “Is this a standing invitation?”

  “Do I look like I’m standing?”

  “So this is a lying-down invitation?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And if I decline?”

  “Then you have to catch a plane, and you miss out on some wonderful lip service.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “That depends on how good the lip service is,” she joked.

  They both laughed, mostly from nervousness and to release a tension that was developing.

  He set his wristwatch to wake him in ninety minutes and switched off the light.

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  6:29 A.M.

  Detroit, Michigan

  He sat up in bed, startled, the alarm screeching at him. Mari rolled over and mumbled, “Turn that thing off!”

  He did, and before climbing out of bed he gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  Twenty minutes later they had both showered and dressed. Mari was brushing her hair endlessly.

  Andy said, “I have you booked on a flight to the Yucatan.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Mari. You’re going to the Yucatan for a two-week vacation.”

  “No. I’ll call the police or a private eye or something. They’ll supply protection. You know that. There’s no need for all of this.”

  “There is.”

  “No, Drew. You’re getting carried away. Soviet agents read our newspapers and bribe our technicians. They don’t hunt insignificant social workers like me. If they’re after you, you’re gone. There’s nothing I can supply them with.”

  “But do you actually believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re being naive. They do whatever they have to do. Two weeks, Mari. It’s not so much, given the alternatives.”

  “It’s paranoiac. Are you worried because I’m a woman?”

  Andy had half his lower lip pinched between his teeth in concentration. “No,” he told her. “Because you’re my woman.”

  She seemed touched by this, but still joked, “Who says?”

  Andy missed the humor. “My friend then.”

  And now Mari wished she had not joked. She asked, “Trade?”

  He said, “Try me.”

  “I’ll give you the two weeks, if you’ll give me two weeks after the assignment.”

  “After debriefing.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Deal.” He offered her his hand.

  But she pushed it aside and snuggled up to him and placed her lips onto his and kissed him hungrily. “We didn’t get much sleep,” she reminded him.

  “Doesn’t matter. What we got was better.”

  “What are my orders, Captain?”

  He told her about a woman he knew, Valerie Reed, who lived on an island off the east coast of Mexico and owned it outright. He gave Mari instructions on how to find the town of Sisal from the airport near Merida, and how to contact the woman once there.

  They went over the details three times, until Andy was certain she would not forget.

  “Fine. I’ve got it. Now stop with the business.”

  He hugged her, and whispered so softly that she could barely hear. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Mari. I “haven’t even touched another woman in the last two years. I’ve always regretted walking in, unannounced. I’m sorry for that.”

  Her crying acted as a release for all her pent-up guilt, and she held onto him tightly for several minutes, face pressed against his shirt. She choked out, “This is a crazy place to fall in love.”

  “No, not really,” he told her. Then, biting back an Andy Clayton grin, he said, “Diesel fumes have a way of doing that to me.”

  6:45 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “I told you. When the garbage disposal is working, you will get the check. This will be your third time out, and I am still without… No, it didn’t work… No, it didn’t. When it works… yes, that’s right, and not until. Goodbye, Mr. Scharf.” Stone rehearsed the conversation, trying to memorize his replies, perplexed by the need for even the simplest of things to go wrong. He would make the call tomorrow morning.

  His apartment was on the fifth floor of an old brick building that overlooked the Capitol. The city was awakening.

  Where are you, Josie? he questioned plaintively, still deeply saddened by his loss these many years later. She had been his love of loves, his wife, his best—his only real—friend. Melancholy swept though him, stabbing him. Oh, Josie.

  He always felt this way in the morning. Especially Sundays.

  Josephine Rutland Stone had stood to his left on June the fifteenth, nineteen hundred and twenty-three, a buxom, wide-grinning, yellow-haired woman, with big teeth and a surprisingly strong handshake. She had pep and vigor, and an inexhaustible well of goodwill and generosity.

  The traffic was slight. He called Marvin, his chauffeur, and arranged to be met in front of the cemetery, after church, at 10:15. He wanted to walk to church.

  He went to the sink and doused his face in warm water and tried the conversation with the repairman again.

  The kettle cried from the kitchen. He fixed himself a cup of coffee—real coffee—and returned to the bathroom.

  Whenever he brought images of Josie to mind, he most often saw her eyes before him. “The windows to her soul”—her “peepers,” as he had called them. And she had given birth to Mark David Stone on March the ninth, ni
neteen hundred and twenty-four—a wedding-night child, she had called him—the love of their lives, the center of all attention, the “most important person” in her life.

  He sipped on the coffee as his grandfather’s clock tolled proudly from the corner. Through his bedroom window, winter’s early morning darkness was broken by lights of all kinds: white headlights, red taillights, yellow office windows in the distance, and amber streetlamps. All glowing artificially. Amid all these lights, despite the early hour, people milled about.

  As a child, Terry Stone had watched an ant drag a twig twice its size toward the nest, while other ants passed it by, hurried and without a care for its struggle. Now, with a dozen thoughts on his mind, Stone remembered and felt like that ant.

  Josie. Why’d you do it? he asked her again, seeing all the people below and wishing one of them were her, wishing there existed even a possibility that one of them were her. But he knew better. He knew where Josie was; and after church he would leave a flower by her gravestone—if he could find a vendor. He blamed himself—this job—for her death. He always would.

  Too many memories, he thought, feeling a twinge of loneliness and a degree of failure with his life. I lost the two people who meant anything to me: first Mark, to the war; then Josie, by her own hand. And then, years later, Andy walked through my door. Andy, with his moods, his indifference, his guts: just like my Mark.

  And Friday night, they tried to abduct him.

  And I’m not even sure who they are….

  I’m not sure of anything.

  6:45 A.M.

  Ada, Ohio

  Liz Johnson opened her eyes. The opaque curtains held the Pine Ridge Motel room in a dark shadow. Dr. Alex Corbett’s left arm lay across her chest, his right trapped beneath the small of her back and under her buttocks where he had last held her. Before dawn, he had awakened aroused, and they had shared in each other again. She felt his warm breath against her skin, and as she moved, he sighed.

  Staring at his overworked face, at the dark semicircles of skin below each eye, she felt a tremendous amount of guilt for what she had done. Six months ago she had been given the assignment: Enroll second semester at MIT; locate Dr. Alex Corbett; lead him on. Then a month ago: Have him invite you to Ohio. And here she was. And they had made love last night for the first time.

  And though their lovemaking had been only fair, she had played her role well; and to him, their loving had been immense and ardent.

  And now… She slid away cautiously, slipping off the bed without disturbing him, in the same manner as a mother might sneak away from her sleeping child. The guilt found its way into her throat and choked her.

  Corbett’s hand caught her before she was fully off the bed. She tensed. He whispered softly, “…so many things I want to say, Liz.”

  She tucked her hands between her legs, leaned forward and squeezed her legs together tightly. In her nakedness she felt vulnerable. She wanted to tell him. There was still time to tell him.

  Corbett continued blissfully. “…how nice it was… this is… how I’ve dreamed about it.” He dragged a loving finger down the bumps of her spine, leaving behind a trail of standing hairs. “I thought the age difference—”

  “Shhh…” She didn’t want to hear about the years that separated them; she didn’t want to hear about her beauty; she didn’t want to hear about his love. Her chest heaved involuntarily and she choked on tears.

  He noticed. “What is it?”

  “Shhh…” She looked at the blank television screen. It was gray and dark.

  She stood. “I’ll be right back.” She crossed the room to the bathroom door. He admired the dimples above her buttocks and the long line of her back.

  She ran the water, blew her nose, urinated, and flushed the toilet. She reached into her toilet kit and withdrew the syringe and the small vial. A moment later she watched the fluid jump from the end of the needle: no bubbles. She cupped it in her hand. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Corbett saw only her nakedness. He didn’t see what she held in her right hand.

  He watched her, boyishly: her thighs rubbed together as she walked; her tits bounced.

  She stood next to the bed, bent over him, and kissed him. He closed his eyes and kissed her back.

  First, he smelled it. Then he suddenly felt something sharp prick his skin, and he sat up quickly.

  She lost hold…

  The syringe dangled from his arm. He looked at her, stunned, his face drained of color, his eyes curious and then begging to be told he was still asleep, still dreaming.

  He began to thrash.

  She thought, Stop! You’re going to knock the thing out of your arm and break it! Oh, shit. You’re going to screw the whole thing up! All her months of preparation came down to this one split second, and again she considered allowing him to escape.

  “You, Liz?” he questioned, his voice nothing but a wind.

  The question stunned her. Me? she thought. Yes, me.

  She smacked him hard across his temple with her open palm and propelled him to the mattress. The syringe bobbled in his vein. The drug took effect instantly.

  Corbett slept.

  She finished administering the full dosage, and then put the syringe away and dressed.

  Once clothed, she monitored his pulse for five minutes. Then, from her suitcase, she withdrew a small canister of gas and, after attaching the mask to his face, opened the valve.

  Anesthetized, his pulse leveled off a few minutes later. She returned the equipment to her suitcase and angrily banged it shut. She covered him with the bedding and stood shivering beside him. But the room was not cold.

  Then, a single knock.

  Two more knocks followed and, so, she opened the door.

  Borikowski entered, looking like a confident general: arms crossed, leather gloves, sharp strides. He dumped his coat on a chair, his attention already on Corbett.

  The room, still quite dark, made it difficult for her to see Borikowski’s face. He switched on the lights and she gasped. “Impossible,” she claimed, terror present in her voice.

  “Yes,” agreed Borikowski, knowing that his selection as the agent for Crown was based partly on the bone structure of his face and its resemblance to that of Alex Corbett’s. “And with your cosmetic talent, I will match him exactly.”

  She did not comment; she wondered at his dead eyes: You look so dull… so permanently sad.

  He thought, That’s why this operation is going so badly: I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t my specialty. I’m a teacher of tactics, and yes, I have killed people too; but I’m not a thief. I’m not an impressionist, an impersonator; I’m an actor. There is a substantial difference. I don’t like this. I’m nervous. I’ve never had to imitate an existing person before. Damn!

  He walked over and measured Corbett at the temples with his open hand, and this nearly made Liz Johnson sick to her stomach. The dead trading minds with the sleeping, she thought, seeing it all as evil. This man is evil. She said, “He’s a nice man.”

  Borikowski looked at her oddly but then said, “I read your reports. I’ve studied him carefully. I know he’s a nice man. This has to be done. He’ll be all right.”

  “No he won’t.”

  “Whatever you say.” He opened his suitcase and then twisted the latches and changed the combination so that the compartment would open. He removed most of the contents and walked into the bathroom.

  Liz Johnson followed. It was her job to make the metamorphosis complete.

  8:30 A.M.

  Ninety minutes later, Liz Johnson stepped back and said, “I am amazed. It is a very good likeness.” Her brow knitted disdainfully. She compared the face of the man on the bed with that of the man in front of her. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible. It’s uncanny.”

  “Do I sound like him?”

  She gasped. Her face became a paste gray and she reached out for support.

  He helped her to the
bed, where she sat down.”

  Please don’t do that again. Yes. Exactly.”

  “The tapes you sent—”

  “I understand. Please…”

  “Are there any problems with the—”

  “Stop it! Please!”

  “All right,” he said, more like Peter Trover, remembering she was an American sleeper. Peter Trover was American. “Are there any problems with the cosmetics?”

  She regained some color and appeared more calm. She folded her hands together on top of her lap. “Yes.” She looked him over. “The coloring under the eyes takes the light funny. We better try again. Also, your hair is too neat. He is kind of unkempt, you know.” She smiled a quick smile reserved for herself. “His eyes are less steady than yours. It’s not a perfect match. I would spot you. But people he has never met…”

  “Fine.” They went back into the bathroom.

  Then she hated herself, and she began to attempt to reason. I’m a cheap whore, she told herself. A cheap whore and they’ve used me.

  Borikowski waited. Then he asked, “You’re angry with yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will pass.”

  “I wonder.”

  “It will.”

  “And what if that’s what I’m afraid of?”

  He looked into the mirror.

  8:50 A.M.

  Twenty minutes later he stood in front of her again. This time he looked almost exactly like Corbett, down to the doctor’s tam, which he had “borrowed.”

  She said nothing.

  He removed Corbett’s wallet from the trousers by the bed and ransacked Corbett’s suitcase, searching it for any other identification. Nothing. The wallet—the all-important wallet—was all he had. Borikowski transferred a number of plastic credit cards from his own wallet to Corbett’s, removing those that were there and handing them to the woman. “You will dispose of these?”

  “Yes.”

  A buzzer went off on his watch; he silenced the alarm and removed the watch.

  She handed him a briefcase that in appearance was identical to Corbett’s buffed aluminum case. She opened a small box and handed him what looked like two digital watches. He strapped one to each wrist.

  She said, “The briefcase will open only once for you. Any attempt after that—”