by Kira Peikoff
“Then, yesterday, with Sam’s breakthrough, you unwittingly tipped them off. In the beginning, I had given Dopp records of our earliest conversations, when we discovered we were both only children. After you told Banks about your ‘sister,’ Dopp went and found that conversation, and caught you in the lie. So now he’s closing in. See, he’s under all this pressure from the state to justify the crackdown with some major fallout, like a shutdown or an arrest, before the lawmakers cut our budget for next year. So he’s freaking out that we’ll lose our jobs unless we make a big move. And you’re the only lead we have.”
Arianna swallowed, trying to comprehend that her relative safety was a sham—perpetrated by the man she thought she trusted and loved. No tears came; only blankness.
“Why are you telling me now?”
Trent’s wretched gaze met hers. “Because the warrant finally came through.”
She closed her eyes.
“By the time you get home,” said his hollow voice, “your phone will be tapped, and Dopp will be waiting outside your building in an unmarked car with a radio interceptor. It can pick up any sound near your phone, even when you’re not using it. From now on, they’re going to monitor you and follow you until they get what they want, and I don’t know how much more I can do about it.”
Shocked silence. She gawked at him as a sliver of her consciousness marveled at how fast the situation had deteriorated.
“So what you’re telling me is that right here, with you, is the last time I’m going to have total privacy?”
“Yes.”
“And what if they don’t catch me? Are they going to give up?”
“I don’t know. Not soon.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m going to be under government surveillance indefinitely?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know about Sam?”
“No. Nothing about him or the lab or the group. We just need to keep it that way for one more week.”
“We?” She turned her chair toward the door. “I have to get out of here.”
“Arianna, wait.” He looked desperate as he ran up to her side. “What about us?”
“What about us, Trent? Is that even your real name?”
“Yes … please…”
“Please what? Our entire relationship was based on a lie!”
“I’m sorry. I’ve done everything I could. I love you.…”
“Just open the door. I need to get out of here!”
He obeyed and she zoomed past him into the hallway.
“When can I call you?” he yelled.
“Don’t,” she snapped over her shoulder. “I can’t lie as well as you.”
She propelled herself forward, bumping over the uneven carpeted floor to the elevator. The doors opened and she whisked inside.
“Arianna, wait,” he called, running after her. There was a kind of madness in his eyes, that of a man who has gambled everything and lost. “I’ll do anything!” he cried. “When am I going to see you again?”
She kept her eyes on the lobby button, jabbing it hard. An undeniable part of her yearned to answer him, to pretend that she was still safe, and he a writer, and that they were two lovers, in love with life and each other, with time at last on their side.
The doors closed before she looked up again.
NINETEEN
At 1 P.M. the following day, Trent was still in bed, with his head buried under the pillow and the comforter tangled around his legs. His body slept long past its needs, as if gripped by an innate survival tactic to protect his mind from pain.
Just to his left, sunlight streamed through the window’s maroon drapes and illuminated the dusty wooden floor. For such brightness, Trent’s pillow was too weak a fortress. Light glared against his eyelids. He opened them, squinted, felt his stomach clench a second before his mind recognized why. And then he moaned. He shut his eyes to retreat again into sleep, but the harder he tried, the further away it seemed, like a sailor chasing the horizon.
He threw the pillow off his head, sat up, and grabbed his cell phone from the dresser. Two missed calls. His breath caught in his throat; could they be from her? He flipped open the plastic lifeline and saw that both were from his mother, ten and fifteen minutes ago. Frigid disappointment rushed in. He sighed and listened to the single voice mail: “Trent, where are you? Your father and I have been waiting here for twenty minutes. We’re starting to get worried.”
He moaned again, remembering it was Sunday—brunch with his parents. He had never canceled before, let alone stood them up. But his remorse was halfhearted. He wished he could communicate directly somehow with Arianna. A phone call was out of the question, and a text message was risky, since Dopp could intercept any message that passed through her phone. The phone company would quickly retrieve any text message and then bounce it to a special electronic transmitter in Dopp’s car. Anything Trent wrote to her now would be read. But he worried that their prolonged—and obvious—lack of contact could be dangerous. And he desperately hoped that once her outrage subsided, she would come around to understanding why he had lied.
Trent typed her a careful message: Missing you. I know you’re not feeling well, but try to call when you can.
He sent it and waited, phone in hand. A suspenseful minute passed before two notes rang out, not from his phone, but from his door.
He grimaced, inferring what must have happened. There was no putting off two worried parents, especially when both made a habit of fearing big-city crime. He slid out of bed, pulled sweatpants on over his boxers, and went to the door to look through the peephole. His parents were standing there, wearing their fancy church attire and looking concerned. He opened the door with gritted teeth.
“I’m really sorry,” he said immediately. “I just woke up.”
His mother’s brows knotted in surprise, revealing that this was the one possibility she had not considered.
His father checked his watch. “It’s one eighteen,” he snapped. “We waited for forty minutes. And just because you decided to sleep late?”
Trent took a deep breath, unprepared to deal with their anger.
“Walter, wait a second,” Mrs. Rowe said, stepping inside and pulling her husband with her. “Trent, your eyes are all swollen. I knew something was wrong.”
He reached up and touched his lids; they felt puffy. He nodded. “Yeah, actually, I’ve been kind of stressed.”
Mr. Rowe’s irritation evaporated. “What’s going on?”
“You can talk to us, honey,” Mrs. Rowe said, touching his arm.
Trent felt torn. They looked so sympathetic, but at the same time, he knew he could not elaborate.
“Is this about that case?” Mr. Rowe asked.
He nodded. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Are you sure?” his mother prodded. “We might be able to help.”
“No, I don’t think you could.”
“But—”
“Mom, please. Just leave it alone.”
“You can do this, honey. We have so much faith in you.”
“I hope so,” he mumbled.
“You will!” she declared. “And then we’ll celebrate all your hard work, and—”
“Becky,” Mr. Rowe interrupted. “Just let him be.”
“I’m sorry. I just see so much greatness in your future, and I know God does, too.”
“Thanks,” Trent said, feeling as if his hypocrisy was as obvious as his mother’s pride. They all sat on the couch.
“What did Father Paul say this morning?” he asked to distract them. “In his sermon?”
“He talked about forgiveness,” Mr. Rowe said, “because the whole congregation has been bad-mouthing one of the clerics who was found stealing from the donation box. But Father Paul said we have to forgive, and that God will take care of sinners for us.”
Trent’s heart gave a lurch. “Yeah, what about that? Aren’t we supposed to just turn the other cheek when people sin?”
Mrs. Rowe eyed him. “Are you talking about her?”
“No, I mean criminals in general. Or whoever is doing something immoral.”
“Well, you should forgive them in your heart,” Mrs. Rowe replied. “Just like Jesus would.”
“But the law still has to have its way,” Mr. Rowe added. “Otherwise, we’d have anarchy.”
“Fine,” Trent said. “So let’s say, hypothetically, we’re talking about a case like mine; what if it turned out the suspect was stealing EUEs? Could you guys forgive in your hearts?”
He looked back and forth at them. His mother fumbled with her gold cross necklace, while his father studied his knees. Both seemed to be waiting for the other to answer. Finally she spoke.
“I think if there was anything I couldn’t forgive, it would be murdering babies.”
His father put an appreciative hand on her arm. “I didn’t want to say it, but same here. That’s about as low as you can go.”
“Put it this way,” Mrs. Rowe said. “If I ever could, it would take a long, long time. Are you worried that you can’t?”
Trent could only nod.
“Well, don’t,” she said, waving off the subject as if it were a nasty mosquito. “I think God has to understand if we have a hard time forgiving certain things.”
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“You look so pale, sweetie. Come let me give you a hug.”
She put her arms around him, and he inhaled her trademark gardenia perfume. If ever there was a scent associated with safety, it was her fragrance. Countless times she had comforted him as a child, whether it was after he had fallen off his bike, been teased, or stayed home sick from school. And always, her sweet scent was a reminder that everything would be okay.
Trent had never doubted his parents’ love until this moment. With her arms tight around his back, he pondered whether it was unconditional—and realized that they had just unwittingly told him the answer. His throat tightened; he breathed in gardenia, yearning for that simple antidote to his troubles, but the scent only heightened his sadness.
The truth was bound to come out; he could not always live a lie.
And then? It was all too clear: their hard line against criminals, their faith in God and their loyalty to the Church.
So he let his mother hold him, wondering if it was for the last time.
* * *
Arianna looked at each of the four faces in her living room—they were wrinkled and smooth, male and female, old and young, and yet each wore the same expression of total shock.
Sam opened his mouth first.
Arianna put a finger to her lips. “Don’t yell.”
He closed his mouth and shook his head furiously. Next to him on the black leather sofa, Megan held her knees to her chest, the fear stark on her face. Dr. Ericson and Emily sat in two straight-backed kitchen chairs that they had dragged into the living room for this emergency meeting, or rather, revelation. Emily was gaping. Dr. Ericson, usually the paragon of composure, was biting his knuckle. Arianna sat back in her wheelchair, letting all of them digest the news of Trent’s identity.
She herself had spent a full day alone after his disclosure, painfully rehashing her memories to find all his lies, tricks and setups. The extent of his subterfuge was striking, and yet she understood why she had been sucked in: She had been operating under a false assumption—that he was a writer. Once she believed that opening line—and why wouldn’t she?—her fall had been scripted. As foolish as she felt, she could hardly berate herself. Only the most cynical of people would ascribe ulterior motivations to such an appealing stranger.
Conflicting thoughts plagued her: Yes, he had repeatedly lied, but yes, he had helped her. How to deal with him at this point was a question she seemed unable to answer. When she had returned from his apartment yesterday, passing a suspiciously drab car parked along her building’s sidewalk, she put her phone on silent and did not touch it all day or night. Dopp’s presence in her apartment, invisible yet relentless, made her feel as though the hair on her neck was standing permanently on end. Could he hear when she flushed the toilet? When she sneezed? When she cried?
This morning, she knew she had to inform the group. Aware that any private use of her phone was impossible, she slipped out of her apartment to her neighbor’s, across the hall. She was an elderly woman, with a bad back and a blind eye, who always had kind words and a prodigious supply of baked treats. Arianna could picture her as none other than a beloved grandmother. So she knew that when she knocked on the door and asked to use the phone—hers had broken, she explained—the woman would accommodate her. Ten minutes later, everyone was notified to come over (without ringing the doorbell), and Arianna was holding a Tupperware bowl of chocolate-chip cookies. Back at her own place, she stashed her phone under her pillow, turned on the television in her bedroom, and closed the door.
And now, an hour later, all was told. But despite everyone’s dumbfounded horror, it still did not feel real. Arianna looked around her living room at her wooden bookshelves, flat-screen television, glass table, leather couch, and white fur area rug. Only two days prior, the table had held a bottle of champagne, and she and Sam had clinked glasses, toasting “to life and to progress.” It seemed impossible that today this same room could be the backdrop to whispered fears and worried looks.
Megan finally spoke first, her voice low. “Ar, it’s not safe for you here anymore.”
“What do you mean here?”
“I mean, in this apartment, in your clinic, anywhere they can get to you. They’re not going to stop pursuing you until they get what they want. Isn’t that what Trent told you?”
Arianna nodded. “He said it didn’t look like they were going to stop anytime soon.”
“She’s right,” Sam said. “You can’t stay here. It’s only a matter of time before they find some reason to arrest you on a technicality, and then that’s it, once they have you, they’ll never let go.” He gestured wildly, the veins in his forehead bulging. “To hell with freedom! This is post-liberal America, the renaissance of the Dark Ages!”
“Shhh, Sam,” Arianna whispered. “You’re getting too excited.”
“You should be this excited!” he whispered back loudly.
She nodded at Sam and Megan on the couch, while speaking to the Ericsons, whom she could always count on to balance Sam’s outbursts. “They might have a point. But I would hate to leave home. What do you think?”
She braced for their response.
Dr. Ericson removed his knuckle from his clenched jaw. “I think they’re absolutely right.”
Her heart plummeted. “You do?”
“If you want any hope of recovering in peace, you’ve got to get out of here. And I think we do, too.” He turned to look at his wife.
Emily nodded sadly. “Once they manage to pin you down, they’ll turn to us. But I hate to abandon our patients.…”
“We won’t be,” Dr Ericson said. “The DEP will find a reason to shut the clinic down anyway. I’ve been thinking that our days there are numbered, ever since that inspector started showing up every day. I just didn’t realize how seriously they had it in for you.”
“Apparently there’s a lot at stake for them,” Arianna explained morosely. “They’re in danger of losing state funding unless they pull off some major disciplinary action, and I’m their only lead.”
“Then the three of us should seriously consider making a run for it.” Dr. Ericson looked grave, graver than she had ever seen. “I don’t know how else to avoid the inevitable.”
“What about me?” Sam piped up. “I’m not exactly beyond liability.”
“But they don’t know about you,” Arianna pointed out.
“No. But what the hell am I going to do here? I want to be able to see the results of my work!”
“Okay, Sam, keep it down,” Arianna whispered. She looked at Megan wistfully. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Just because I’d stay behind doesn’t mean I wouldn’t
see you, right?” Megan said. “Anyway where are you planning on going?”
Arianna sucked in a deep breath, forcing herself to abandon emotion for pragmatism. “I don’t know. We have a lot of logistics to figure out now. First of all, if we’re really going to leave, the soonest we can go is after the transfer on Friday night.”
“We could leave straight from the clinic,” Dr. Ericson suggested. “But where to?”
The group looked at one another in silent bewilderment.
“It would have to be somewhere nearby,” Emily said. “At least, accessible by car. So we don’t leave a paper trail.”
Arianna nodded, yearning for the days of relative anonymity, when one could board public transportation with nothing but a ticket; it was becoming hard to remember that she used to get around without showing her U.S. identification card, a magnetic log of her subway, bus, train, and plane trips.
“Do we know anyone trustworthy who has a vacation home that they would let us use for a while?” she asked.
Megan held up a finger with sudden eagerness. “My friend has a cabin in the Catskills. Belleayre Mountain. It’s about three hours north of the city. She used to go skiing there, but after she had knee surgery a few years ago, she stopped going.”
“How rural is it?” Dr. Ericson asked.
“Very. I don’t think that many people live there. It’s mostly a resort town.”
Arianna shook her head. “Then we would stick out too easily, especially once they started to look for us. Which brings up another major problem. How are we going to get Dopp off my trail long enough for me to have the transfer and then flee?”
“Good question,” Sam noted.
“What if you could just do the transfer here?” Megan asked the doctors. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about Dopp following her anywhere.”
“I wish,” Dr. Ericson replied. “But we need so much equipment: the heart and blood pressure monitors, the IV drip machine, the bag drainage stand. Not to mention the sterile environment of the clinic.”
