Franklin, however, seems a little fidgety. “You and Caro matched Aztratech as company number one. Which does make sense. However,” he continues, “even though my possession of the files was all too short-lived, I—” He pauses, an odd look on his face. “I know which company was number two.”
“You do?” I say, my voice rising in delight. “You’re the best.” I scrape my chair around so I can sit down and still see over Franklin’s shoulder. “Now all we have to do is see if the e-mail with the citation ‘Numbers, Chapter Two, Verse whatever’ matches its stock price. Which, of course, it will. Let’s do it.”
Franklin still has the funny look on his face. “Well, there’s a problem,” he says slowly. “A biggie. The name of the first company in the file box was 4 Corners. I remember because it starts with a number. And Aztratech was number two, not number one.”
“What? You’re wrong,” I howl. “What are the chances Caro and I could look up the stock prices like that, and they would match? Aztratech has to be Company One, Chapter One. Has to be.”
Franklin’s chewing his thumb, which he never does unless he’s really concerned. He stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.
I crunch the last of my apple and sip some of the vile hospital coffee. Then a knock on Franklin’s door jolts both of us out of our reverie. I turn to see the world’s most pregnant nurse, watermelon-size belly straining the snaps on her white uniform jacket. She’s carrying a dozen or so metal-covered patient file charts, a pile so ungainly it threatens to topple at the slightest wrong move.
“Geller?” she says, moving the charts from one arm to the other. “Roger Geller?”
This means nothing to me, but Franklin says, “He’s moved—gone over to E. This is D.”
The nurse seems to understand. “Oh, sorry,” she says, shifting her files again. “I’m new. I thought this was corridor E.” She turns to leave, but with that one motion, her charts clatter to the floor.
The nurse puts her hands to her face in frustration, and stamps a white-shoed foot. “I just organized those,” she mutters. “Now I have to do it all again.”
She bends down to retrieve the files, and I get up to help her recover the silver folders now scattered across the floor of Franklin’s room.
“I can help you do it,” I offer. “Were they by room number?”
“No,” she says, stacking them back onto my chair. “Alphabetical.”
I stop in midmotion, one hand inches away from picking up a chart. I leave it on the floor, and turn to Franklin with a wide-eyed question.
“Brad’s files,” I begin. “They were in alphabetical order. But you put them like that, didn’t you?” I continue. “They didn’t arrive that way, did they?” I’m remembering now. “That’s where we went wrong. The company names really do match the chapter numbers somehow, but not alphabetically.”
Franklin runs a hand across his face, looking frustrated and despondent. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “My fault. If I hadn’t messed with the files, and Mack Briggs’s, too, we’d have them now. Back the way they were. Before I had the genius idea to take them home.”
That’s so Franklin. So hyperresponsible, he’s putting the blame on himself for being mugged.
“Look, Franklin,” I say earnestly. “You were assaulted and robbed, your car torched. That’s hardly the result of being overorganized.”
“Yeah,” he says, giving me a baleful look, “but—”
“As you so often say, no buts,” I say, pointing a semistern finger to stop him. “I agree the files are just in some other order, and if we knew what order, we’d know which e-mail corresponds with each company. We just have to figure that out. I wish we had—” I stop as something nags at me.
“Had what?” he says.
“I just remembered,” I answer, looking more at the wall than at Franklin, “how we can find out what order the files were in.”
“Really?” he says. “How?”
“And what I also comprehend, more than ever,” I continue, turning to look him straight in the eye, “is we both may still be in danger.” I don’t think I actually have goose bumps, but I know I’m feeling an unsettling chill.
“Well, yeah,” Franklin agrees, tucking the e-mails into the Bible’s pages. “Somebody thinks we know something.”
“Right. And now, I have to say, it seems like the same kind of thing that happened to you, and to Brad, and to Mack Briggs, they might be planning for me.” I pause a moment, give a deep sigh. “On the other hand, it seems so—”
Franklin nods. “I know. Melodramatic. But one thing more.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, shaking my head. “Josh Gelston.”
Franklin solemnly agrees. “Josh. If we’re in trouble, he’s in trouble.”
“But, listen, I think he’s the key to the whole thing.” I lean forward in my chair, eager to explain. “That’s what just hit me. Remember when I interviewed Josh? And he told me about the e-mail from Brad? He told me, back then, Brad had sent him a box of files.”
Franklin, wide-eyed, repeats my sentence. “Brad had sent him a box of files.” He nods. “I completely forgot.”
“Yup.” I lean back in my chair, again replaying my first meeting with Josh. I’m not wrong. Box of files just hadn’t meant anything at the time.
I sit up straight, energized. “And isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “Josh told me Brad had sent the files to his house in Vermont. Where, as we know, he’s spending this weekend.” I’m talking faster now, excited by my idea. “He told me where the house is,” I continue. “At the end of Jordan Beach Road. I can find it. So I’ll just drive up there and take a look. Josh wouldn’t have rearranged anything.”
I get up and start putting on my coat. “I’ll call you as soon as I know what order they’re in.” I toss the apple core and candy bag into the wastebasket, and hoist my tote bag onto my shoulder.
“But, Charlotte,” Franklin holds up a hand, stopping me. “What if Josh—”
“—is involved with multiple murders? And insider trading?” I interrupt, realizing I’ll be saying this out loud for the first time. “You know, Franko, I’ve gotten this far by trusting myself. Josh is on our side, I’m sure of it.”
Franklin scratches his jaw. “One more thought, then,” he says. “How about giving old Josh a call? Maybe let him know you’re coming?”
“No can do,” I say, trying to sound confident. “He told me there’s no phone service.” I pat Franklin carefully on the shoulder. “My cell phone may not work up there, but I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I turn and head for the door.
“Charlotte,” Franklin calls after me.
I turn back one last time. He’s frowning, and briefly touches his stitches. “Be careful,” he says.
I flutter a not-a-problem wave, but all the way down the hall, I’m wondering how this turned so darkly sinister. It’s J-school gospel that reporters are not supposed to be part of the story. But maybe Franklin and I have changed from observer to observed. And what if I’ve been changed from reporter—into target?
My supersize coffee barely fits into my window-mounted cup holder, and I quickly learn The Beverage You Are About to Drink Is Hot warning printed on the side is more than accurate. This stuff is the temperature of the sun. I’ll just wait a while before I take a sip from my logofied thermal mug.
Somebody’s getting into the SUV next to me in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, so I turn on the engine and wait for the driver to back out. I notice he just goes a few feet to the pay phone in the parking lot, so I pull out ahead of him and I’m on the road again.
Franklin seemed genuinely nervous about this foray north, but how could anyone know where I’m headed? Plus my excitement at seeing Josh again, and having a perfectly good excuse for doing it, has dulled some of my residual hesitation. Franklin always worries too much.
I wonder what Josh will say when I knock on the door. It’s probably colder up there than it is here, so I envision him in a bu
lky sweater, with a fire going and music in the background. Jazz, maybe. And did he say he had a dog?
The dog barks as I pull into the driveway, and Josh sees me through the window. Josh runs out to clasp me in his arms. The rough wool of his fisherman’s sweater tickles my cheek, and his aroma of wood smoke and citrusy soap makes me wobbly in the knees. Josh pushes me back to arm’s length and brushes my hair away from my face.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, eyes soft. “Pick a lane, lady.”
Pick a? A NASCAR-wannabe in a Dodge Charger has rolled down his passenger-side window and is yelling at me at sixty-five miles an hour. I give him an adorable smile and wave as if grateful. “Thanks so much,” I call out. That always drives them crazy.
The Charger guy shakes his fist and pulls away. I’m still smiling. No one can stop me, I’m going to Josh World.
“I knew you’d come,” Josh murmurs, picking up right where we left off. “Silly face,” he says, pulling my wool hat down over my forehead. “I’ve been waiting all night for you.”
Inside my head the romantic scene continues to unfold, and outside, the night grows darker as I head farther up Route 93 North through Vermont.
I hate driving at night. Every time a car heads in my direction, I’m blinded by the damn headlights.
I try to read the map to Jordan Beach Road without taking my eyes off the highway. Right in two exits. I look at the dashboard clock and add another layer of worry. This is taking a lot longer than I predicted. If Josh is sleeping when I arrive, our reunion scene is not going to be as Affair to Remember as I’d hoped.
Headlights behind me now. And they’re too close. I squint in the rearview and give a start of recognition. Looks like the same SUV that was parked beside me at the Dunkin’ Donuts. The one that pulled up to the pay phone as I was leaving. Could that be?
I shake my head, ashamed at my own paranoia. It’s just another random lead foot having a testosterone attack. Why do I keep attracting these guys? I think about my coffee, but it’s still too hot.
“Slow down or pass me, buddy!” I yell, though I know no one can hear me.
The car pulls up beside my window. I think I see the shadows of two men inside, hard to tell. Industrial-strength lights on each the side of the highway glare on the car’s rolled-up windows, blocking any good view. Plus, I have to try to keep my eyes on the road. Still, in my peripheral vision I can tell their SUV is staying exactly parallel to mine.
“Asshole!” I can’t even believe I’m yelling words like this. But these drivers are scaring me. What is with this car? I accelerate to get away from them. But they stay with me.
A new set of headlights glares in my rearview, blasting a vicious halogen swath though the dark. Two cars bugging me now, and no one else on the highway. Is this just my welcome to the New England highway system? Or—
I glance out my window. In the car beside me, the guy in the passenger seat holds up an index finger—then points it at me.
And then, suddenly, I know real fear. It’s instantly, shockingly, brutally, terrifyingly clear what certainly must have happened to Brad Foreman. And probably Mack Briggs. Anonymous cars, working together, manipulating their poor victim into crashing. After a couple of fast moves they speed into the night, leaving behind crumpled metal and a lone casualty. I have a nauseating flashback to that video of Brad’s ugly crash. No witnesses, no evidence. And when the police arrive, it seems just like a one-car accident.
I bite my lip and vow not to fall into their disgusting trap. Brad and Mack had no idea what was coming, but I do. I can beat this. Problem is I have no idea how long I have to plan my moves. These guys could accelerate into get-Charlie mode at any second.
I long for my cell phone, but it’s zipped, of course, in its damned leather pouch and buried in my tote bag a million miles away in the backseat. No way I can get it. No way I can call the police. Or anyone.
Another car pulls up beside me, this one on the passenger side.
I can feel my hands clenching on the steering wheel, so hard my shoulders hurt with the tension. The driver doesn’t even glance in my direction, but now he also stays parallel with my little Jeep. “Jerk!” Saying it out loud makes me feel a little better.
We’re all going about seventy miles an hour. That’s speeding, but that’s the least of my worries. In fact, for the first time in my life, I yearn for a speed trap, but no flashing red lights appear.
I go a little faster. The other cars do, too. I slow down. So do they. The one behind me seems to be pulling even closer now. The ones beside me don’t budge.
I pass a side road—and out of it, another car speeds onto the highway, accelerating in front of me.
I glance in all directions again. Their car windows must be tinted because I can’t see any faces, but there’s no escaping. The cars are pasted to my front, back and both sides, boxing me in and almost carrying me along the highway.
The night speeds by, the towering highway light posts almost a blur as our eerie convoy of vehicles, the only cars on the road, races north in unison. My exit is soon. Maybe my sinister escorts don’t plan to let me take it. So I might have until the next exit to come up with something. If I don’t, I realize with growing dread, it’s adios, Charlie.
A few minutes tick by, and I can’t decide whether it feels like forever or an instant. But me and my shadows have just passed a big green-and-white sign that says it’s a mile to Exit 17.
I can’t believe how determined I am. When this is over—cross fingers, cross toes, rabbit’s foot, wish on a star—I’ll probably freak out. But right now, I’m ice.
Do it. I flip open the console beside me. Keeping my eyes on the road, I feel around with my right hand for what I need.
“Please be in there,” I whisper. My fingers touch menus, pencils, change, mints—and then there it is. My hand curls around what I hope will be my ticket to freedom, and I place it squarely into my lap.
Never taking my eyes off the road, and driving one-handed now, I slow way down. The other cars do the same.
I make one tiny adjustment, then reach over and roll down my window. As the window hits bottom, I turn and face whomever’s in the passenger seat of the menacing SUV.
“Hey, asshole,” I yell out the window. I’m struggling to keep the car on a straight path, while the cold night air whips my hair and blows my voice back at me. I yell again, as loud as I can. “Hey, you incredible moron. Show your face if you’re such a big man.”
It probably doesn’t matter what I say, I’m just trying to get him to roll down his window. Still, it can’t hurt to be as unpleasant as possible.
It works. The window beside me motors down, and I get a glimpse of some snake-faced weasel, if that’s possible, staring at me in shock. Perfect.
“Take this, asshole,” I yell. And before he can respond, I shoot my disposable flash camera right in his face.
The guy winces, puts his hand over his eyes, as if he’s blinded by the flash. My goal exactly. Thug number two, the one who’s driving the car, starts to yell something about “what the hell.” Mr. Weasel is bellowing, too, something about his eyes hurting.
Just a few seconds more and we’ll know how this all ends.
Thug number one shifts position in the front seat and leans his head out the window toward me, his hair plastering to his head, his hands on the window frame. He’s screaming at me in an indistinguishable roar and he’s pushed himself out so close to me I can see his eyes narrow in anger.
Perfect. Here goes.
I reach into my handy cup holder and grab my huge untouched cup of coffee. With a single fast swoop, I throw one supersize steaming plastic container of superhot java right in the guy’s face. Part of the scalding brown liquid lands exactly on target, drenching his face and hands. The rest sprays and splatters over the windshield, leaving a viscous milky coating across the glass.
I hold my breath. It’s now or never.
It’s now. I hear a roar of pain and a shriek of brakes.
I see the car on my left swerve toward the center median, and what makes my heart leap with joy, I see the empty space that’s just opened up.
With a triumphant stomp on my accelerator, I swerve to the left, plowing my trusty Jeep in front of the SUV and through to the open road, devouring the pavement and leaving my pursuers behind. Even though I’m honking the horn nonstop, I know I hear metal on metal behind me. Serves you right, you creeps.
I give a quick glance in the rearview, just long enough to see the car entangled in the metal median rail, and what makes me even happier, I see the car that was behind me has crashed into him. I don’t see the third or fourth cars at all anymore, and figure they must have pulled over to help their partners in crime when they realized that this time, their little create-a-crash plan didn’t work. And then, finally, the best sight I’ve ever seen—the fast-approaching green sign that says Exit 17.
I make a hard turn to the right. And I am—outta here.
Chapter Twenty
T
he deep silence of the Vermont night surrounds me, and through the windshield I see scraps of clouds trail over the crescent moon. I finally pull up in front of Josh’s house and kill the engine. My hands tremble, and I have to put them back on the steering wheel to keep them still. Overwhelmed by my narrow escape, confused by the past and terrified by the future, my spirit collapses. I put my head on my hands and shake with silent tears. I’m relieved, I’m frightened, and I don’t know what to do. The sound of a cracking branch snaps my eyes open. Glancing at my doors to make sure the locks are down, I pray for whatever made the sound to go away. I slowly move one hand to the ignition and the other to the horn. I wait.
Another crackle. Footsteps. And then a voice.
“Charlie?” it says. “Is that you?”
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