The Exceptions

by David Cristofano

“Geez,” he said, loud enough I was certain he was alone, “can’t wait till someone unloads a clip into that stupid scag.”

  I tightened my fist around my steering wheel, decided not to remind him her life was the only thing guaranteeing his. “Where is she going?”

  “You know I wouldn’t know that yet.”

  “What can you tell me? And what is that friggin’ noise?”

  “I came down to the server room. I’m using a wall phone and the administrator ID and password, so no one knows who is logging in to the database, so no one could ever track this call to me. And I can’t tell you much. You know that.”

  “How about the vehicle transporting her? License plates? Anything?”

  “We’ve had this conversation before. Everything here is compartmentalized. I don’t have access to any of that data.”

  I stared at the gate, blanked out. “This is a bad time to become useless.”

  “What’s the big deal? The information will get updated a few days after she arrives at her new destination.” I could hear him tapping the keyboard, mumbling to himself. “Only thing that might be useful is the name of the marshal assigned to her. Sean Douglas.”

  I sat up. “What else? What does he look like? Experience level?”

  “No, this is just personnel data. I can tell you he’s thirty-three, birthday is October thirtieth, makes about fifty-three K a year. Lives in Towson, Maryland. Unmarried.”

  Randall blathered on with more subpar data, then mentioned something about the Red Sox and coming up short. Something about covering his losses. So the cycle would go for pathetic Randall. I was stuck on the grainy information I had about this marshal, my new foe. An unmarried guy making fiftysomething a year to protect people—certainly a better deal for protection than you might get from my family—could mean only one thing: I was dealing with a true believer.

  Yeah, well… so was he.

  I remained in that position for eight hours, the car on and ready. I idled through a quarter tank of gas, survived on one bottle of water and two packs of cigarettes, completed all the tasks I could with stuff from my glove compartment: flipped through my CDs, read through my user manual for the Audi, shaved my face with my near-dead electric razor—a decided benefit after looking in my rearview and realizing just how scary and intimidating I looked with a shadow.

  Dr. Bajkowski never showed. I kept hoping he or she was buried safely in a kidney or heart transplant.

  And over the course of that time, four different black Explorers left that parking garage, windows so dark you’d need X-ray vision to determine the cargo. They could have been simply taking the SUVs out to get serviced; or taking some politicians or federal judges home; or transporting some other witnesses, some other sad sacks who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Or: They could have been taking Melody right out from under me.

  More than once I doubted if I should follow any of those Explorers. But like Gardner, I was playing the long shot, and as I’m sure he would’ve counseled me, the only way to win big is to risk big.

  The depression set in around the time the evening rush hour came to a close. The flurry of activity around that parking garage as people left at the end of the workday kept my attention. But once the sun set, so did my expectations. I could see through the grate of the gate that the deck was mostly empty. I became increasingly convinced that Melody had left hours earlier in one of the other Explorers. All I had to show for my day was exhaustion and hunger and a cramp in my lower back that wouldn’t find relief until I returned to New York with my head in my hands.

  But just after six o’clock, a pair of black Explorers left the garage in tandem, and one of the license plates matched an SUV I’d just tailed hours earlier: J21263. I had two seconds to decide: Wait for the other vehicle to emerge later, since the other one did the leading last time and likely carried the cargo I was after, or follow this pair and hope and pray Melody rode inside. For all I knew, Melody might not be transported for days, might take a long time to regroup and get her ready to relo, but the fact that two Explorers were traveling together—the first time that had recurred since I arrived at the courthouse—coupled with the familiar license plate, I didn’t really need to engage in decision making; instinct had me put the car in gear.

  And so I followed them, knowing the chance I was taking was my last.

  We wound southward through the city of Baltimore in a manner suggesting they were following some playbook pattern to prevent tailing, weaving through a maze of exit ramps and roads that changed names; thankfully, I made a lot of green lights. Had my car not had the acceleration and handling it did, they might’ve shaken me.

  My anxiety dropped as we merged onto the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, then spiked again at the thought we might be headed for Washington, DC, that whatever rode in those SUVs was just being transported from one courthouse to another.

  But halfway down the parkway, we returned to Maryland Route 32 and started heading toward Annapolis. Route 32 ended onto I-97, which we followed to its end six miles later, and as the only choices at the end of the interstate were to go east to Annapolis or west to DC, the SUVs split, each going in opposite directions. I wasn’t sure if they were following some procedure for throwing off a tail or if it was just coincidence, but the event put a distinct amount of doubt in my head.

  The only choice to be made was the obvious one: I followed J21263.

  We exited onto U.S. Route 50 and started driving directly east, right for the Atlantic. Though around the time we reached Salisbury, Maryland, and merged onto U.S. Route 13 on our way down the Delmarva Peninsula, I started picking up a middle-of-nowhere vibe perfectly suited to someone on the run, slapped my hand on the steering wheel at my increasingly likely win; my horse was coming from behind on the final turn.

  This location, if not her final stop, should have been added to some future list back at Justice. The Delmarva Peninsula hangs off the mainland of the central Atlantic coast like a clump of hair that has broken free of a barrette, so widely separated by the Chesapeake Bay that it cascades down three states (Delaware, Maryland, Virginia). There is no simple way to get here; you have to go around or over things: to the top of Delaware and down, cross in the middle at Maryland’s Bay Bridge as I had, or up from the very bottom at Virginia’s Bay Bridge-Tunnel outside of Norfolk. That makes it perfect for hiding.

  On the other hand, it makes it hard to get out, too. If the feds wanted to choke-point any fleeing villains, they’d only have three points they needed to choke.

  Just past ten that night, the lone Explorer pulled into a Sheetz gas station not far past the Virginia state line. I waited until it stopped near the convenience store, then I pulled alongside an eighteen-wheeler at the other end. My un-Bovaroesque car, far more noticeable in a small-town environment, became progressively more troublesome to camouflage.

  That stop served as my only opportunity to replenish water, cigs, and something—anything—to eat. I slipped out, still wearing my ball cap, my head tipped down, and stood by the front of the eighteen-wheeler as though I were its pilot. The Explorer remained running and idle, and only after a minute did someone emerge: a single, bulked-up marshal who looked like he could’ve been my law-abiding and law-enforcing twin, right down to a baseball cap and heavy jacket and jeans. His walk, his sway as he surveyed his surroundings without so much as a twist of the neck, the way one hand always seemed semi-balled into a fist, his heavy footsteps, distinguished him from the other patrons. Assessing your adversary is not half the battle; it’s the entire thing. This guy was not Willie, not a toddler, not a hoodlum. Not someone I would take down with a single blow.

  I waited a moment, hoping the marshal was merely checking out the convenience store before letting his traveler enter for a bathroom break. I needed to duck in and out as well, arm myself with the necessary objects to satisfy thirst and hunger and a fierce addiction to nicotine.

  Through the glass, I watched the marshal tur
n a corner near the back of the store toward the restroom, where the length of his disappearance suggested he was using the facility rather than checking it out. He went through the store and grabbed several bottles of water and a few small packages of junk food, did so with a speed possible only by knowing their exact locations, as though the facility was more familiar to him than his own office. He rushed to the counter, paid, left.

  As I heard the door slam on the Explorer, now certain Melody (or whoever) was not going to surface, I made my quick play for the convenience store, giving myself no more than a thirty-second delay so I could catch them again. I hustled in, grabbed an armful of junk: pretzels, chips, a trio of energy bars, two bottles of water—and rushed back to the front, tossed my items on the counter. But here is where the weight of addiction becomes so heavy you have no choice but to curse it; my speed was only as fast as the clerk opening the cabinet behind him to get my smokes.

  The cashier, an older man dressed well enough to suggest he might be the owner, tossed four packs on the counter next to my pretzels, and just as I reached into my pocket for some cash, the marshal returned to the store. I tipped my head down so that my chin touched my jacket, pretended to count money. My twin walked to a specific spot with purpose, as though he’d left something behind. I held my money in my hand, faked peeling off bills while the fed surveyed a display; he was looking for a product, not a person. And as I slid two twenties across the counter, I could hear the marshal mumbling under his breath, complaining. All I understood was this: babysitter.

  I nodded when the cashier offered to put all my stuff in a bag, my chin still pressed to my chest, cap down over my forehead, partly covered my face as I pretended to adjust my glasses. And as my purchases were bagged, the marshal made his way up front, the man who could take me down on the spot, legally put a bullet in my head if he judged me to be any threat at all, stood right behind me in line no less than eighteen inches away.

  The cashier handed over my bag and change, thanked me; I did not respond, did not want my voice to be heard. I slowly turned around, and the marshal quickly slid up, nearly bumped into me he was in such a hurry to pay. And as I pretended to check the contents of my bag, I tilted my head to catch a glimpse of the lone product in the marshal’s hand.

  Hostess Orange CupCakes.

  I caught and held my breath like I was about to dive into a pool, and though I bolted from that store, my movements tight and swift, those seconds felt like slow motion. Walking back to my car, I looked over my shoulder at the blackened windows of the Explorer parked no more than a snowball’s throw away, knowing Melody was nearly in my grip.

  And as I turned the ignition of the Audi, I empathized with Randall, for there is an undeniable rush that comes from having played the long shot and knowing it’s about to pay off.

  I followed them another hour south on U.S. Route 13, rode through enough small towns to feed the Justice Department a decade’s worth of addresses for protected witnesses: Temperanceville, Accomac, Melfa—I couldn’t tell you where they began and ended, if they began and ended. We stopped again just before the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, pulled into a shabby-looking two-story motel that looked like its heyday came and went before I was born, that nothing had been updated since, not the paint, the sign, definitely not the parking lot. The building sat so close to the bay that you could see the water shining in the moonlight, smell the salt and rotting sea life, taste it in the air. The strip of beach at the edge of the property glowed like a bright beige stripe, three abandoned chairs stared out at the water at equidistant points.

  The Explorer drove onto the crumbling pavement in front of what might’ve been considered the lobby of the motel, pulled forward next to another SUV that had been waiting for them. This particular vehicle was another Explorer—that must have been some deal Justice had with Ford—but it’d been given more attention: trim running along the doors thick enough to be bars, weird-looking roll bar on top, enormous wheels. Everything the marshals did, every swap of vehicles, seemed planned, all part of some larger operation, some organized chaos developed to transport witnesses. I found it hard not to admire it.

  Melody was the pea in the Marshals Service’s shell game.

  I tucked my car at the edge of the building adjacent to where the Explorers rested, their engines still running. I reached under the passenger seat and pulled out a pair of binoculars, an item I’d purchased and chucked under there just after I bought the car, reserved for my pursuits of Melody, though never used.

  But that night they were required; between the darkness and distance, I’d never make out any usable details. I pulled the lenses apart, removed my glasses, and pressed the binoculars to my sockets.

  Two marshals surfaced, one from each SUV. They talked briefly—all business—then returned to their respective vehicles. The driver of the Explorer pulled his vehicle forward and parked in a space in a poorly lit area of the parking lot. A minute later, he turned the car off, got out, walked to the other SUV, and got in the passenger side.

  Then they drove away, leaving J21263 by its lonesome.

  And my greatest fear surfaced at what might remain under the shell: no pea.

  I stared at that Explorer for five minutes, convinced Melody was still in there. I never saw anyone move her. On the other hand, I never saw her in the thing either, had no idea exactly what I was following. And if it weren’t for the orange cupcakes, I might’ve doubted the entire journey.

  Then in the sixth minute: The driver’s side rear door opened and out stepped another marshal, one I hadn’t yet seen, a taller and thicker version of the previous marshal, who appeared to have stopped accompanying his partner to the gym a few years earlier, this one’s power being derived more from sheer size than muscle. The guy looked like management. The previous marshal had all the danger and potential of a butterfly knife; this one was simply a butter knife.

  He surveyed the area with casual interest, then walked around to the passenger side and opened the rear door.

  And Melody emerged.

  For those first seconds, I forgot a marshal stood beside her. Her hair ran down the back of her neck, stopped before her collar. She wore clothes that had probably suited her at the start of the day, but now at the end she appeared disheveled. She looked almost alive.

  From my distance it seemed either Melody was more petite than I remembered or that the marshal was enormous. It took me a second to assess them both, to determine what it would take to manipulate each of them should it ever come to physical means. While her protector looked around, Melody stared at the ground, and when he walked forward to the motel, she followed him like a child.

  As they disappeared out of view along the side of the building, I pulled my car around to the far end of the motel and observed them walking down from the other end. The marshal seemed relatively on guard, looking behind all the hidden crevices of the facility—between vending machines, under the staircases, behind the shrubbery—with the level of interest he might have if he were teaching tactical techniques to a class of new recruits; he possessed all the passion of someone completing a checklist. And the entire time Melody’s eyes were fixed on the Bay Bridge-Tunnel, watched the cars and trucks crossing over with the sustained amazement of a little kid’s first visit to a large city, her head twisted as far as possible before having to turn around and walk backwards.

  They moved down the sidewalk next to the doors of the rooms. Without knowing it, they shuffled closer and closer to my position, aimed directly at my grille. I turned off my car before they got any nearer, didn’t want my running engine to catch the marshal’s attention. A few steps farther, they paused in front of a set of rooms at the center of the motel, stood the distance of their rooms apart, each with a hand on the knob to their doors. I read the numbers on the doors of the rooms nearest me and counted up to determine their locations.

  Melody: 130.

  Marshal: 132.

  They remained that way for a too-casual amount of time.
I could see Melody’s face, her awkward smile as she made idle chat with him, a breeze making her bangs dance on her forehead as they spoke. She glanced inside a plastic grocery bag the marshal handed her, tipped her head at him like she was waiting for a hug that never came.

  Then she opened the door to her room, and two things occurred that really bothered me. First, the marshal did not go in before Melody to scope out the room. It struck me as a significant misjudgment, as though the guy were more aloof than I’d imagined, that at some point he had stopped caring about his job—or this witness. But what bothered me more: Just before Melody stepped inside, she lunged forward and kissed the marshal on the cheek. The whole event seemed weird: the way she looked at him, the hope in her expression like she might finally be safe, his nonbusiness reaction of holding her hand for a moment and returning her glance. I was surprised at how much that scene concerned me. I wanted the other marshal back; despite his clear physical preparedness and attention to the mission at hand, at least I knew who my adversary was. With this guy, I didn’t know what I was getting, with all his hand-holding, his stroking-of-the-fur approach to protection, as though he could seduce her to safety. It annoyed me that he wasn’t paying closer attention. If my family was thinking I might not be up to the task of offing Melody, they could have sent someone else to find and kill her.

  I needed the marshal to protect her as much as she did.

  They walked into their motel rooms and closed their doors at the same time. I watched and waited, and with each passing minute my adrenaline waned, my heartbeat and breathing slowed. I opened a new pack of cigarettes, lit one, took a victory hit.

  And this is how the race ended, my horse having pulled into first, crossed the line at the photo finish. There was only one thing left to do: Go to the winner’s circle and claim my wreath.

  In those down moments I tried to consider what I would do with Melody. My instinct was to explain what had led me there, what had brought me to her life at that moment. Talk about a long story. I didn’t even have a fraction of the time required to enlighten her properly.