“Well, not really. And only if you go through town. There’s a house in Tesuque three minutes from Route 84. If you take the highway, you can bypass all the traffic. At most it adds ten minutes to a commute like that.”
“But if I’m down off Rodeo Road somewhere, can’t I be on 25 South in minutes?” The map was as clear in my mind as the Pythagorean formula.
“What? Ragle Park? On a map, maybe, but you’d be stuck in traffic. And you won’t get the kind of privacy you said you wanted. You’d have to be halfway to Pecos—an extra half hour! Well, twenty minutes. But you know what I mean.”
“Do you just do that naturally?”
“What?”
“Compare various routes to get places.”
She laughed. “My mother got me started. She was impossible that way.”
I had found my long-lost twin. Separated at birth in some alternate universe.
“So’s my Pop.”
“You do it, too?”
“I look at a map once and it’s like it’s seared into my brain and if I don’t figure out every possible combination of routes from one place to another, I find that I can’t think about anything else.”
“Yup. Listen, let me show you Tesuque. You’ll see. Trust me. This place is so much better than anything I can show you south of the city.”
I never did see the houses south of town. The place in Tesuque was perfect. So perfect I wished that I really was going to live there. Five acres on a cul-de-sac, the only house at the end of a winding road. There was an electric gate at the bottom of the drive and a tall coyote fence on three sides. The back of the property had only a short wall, to keep casual strollers from stepping off the steep cliff. It had privacy.
The house itself reminded me of the Montauk house without the pool. Instead, there was a partly covered porch that surrounded the house with views of the whole valley. Four bedrooms. The master suite with its gas-fired kiva fireplace and mountain views for Skeli and me, another small suite for the Kid so he could have his own bathroom and keep it as germ-free and spotless as he needed, a third bedroom that could easily be converted into a nursery, and a guest room for my father and Estrella. I couldn’t believe that I was fantasizing about this house as though I might actually live in it. It was a ruse. An expensive, and I hoped convincing, blind alley for my pursuers.
“Twelve minutes to Whole Foods. Less if you shop at Albertsons,” she said.
“Let’s talk money, shall we?” I answered. We didn’t talk long. I was easy.
The overhead light in the master bedroom’s closet had two electrical outlets. I took out one of my cell phones and a charger and plugged it in. I was building my communications network.
The moment the seller’s lawyer deposited my check into an escrow account there would be the beginning of a digital trail. A trail that I hoped would lead my pursuers to the inescapable conclusion that Jason Stafford was preparing to abandon New York—and possibly the now extremely dangerous investigation—and relocate to the relative remoteness of New Mexico. I made sure Mrs. Montoya had my instructions about where to send documents and any mail that would arrive. She would contact the bank and the title company and get the appraiser out there—all of which would cause a flurry of paper and digital code to appear.
My more immediate concerns began with the fact that my current ground transportation was liable to be listed soon as a stolen vehicle, making me a target for any police officer. I left Mrs. Montoya at her office and ducked into the Western boutique across the square. In fifteen minutes I emerged, transformed by cowboy couture. Change your physical profile. Wear hats. Boots and stiff blue jeans changed my stance, my pace, and my walk. The hat and long shearling coat changed my profile. I added sunglasses and a scarf. The saleswoman called it a bandana. I stuffed my suit into my bulging backpack, left the brand-new but already torn and muddied camel’s hair overcoat in the changing room, and walked back to the garage, confident that I was virtually unrecognizable to any of my pursuers.
“You’re back already?” the young man at the garage greeted me, looking up from his graphic novel. Sexual Encounters of the Third Kind. On the front cover, there was a werewolf attacking what appeared to be a big-busted Klingon. They were both snarling.
“Is that for a book report?” I asked. “What do I owe you?”
“Two dollars.”
I peeled off two singles and a fifty. “This is for you. You will now forget you ever saw me. Agreed?”
He agreed.
I felt the slightest twinge of guilt as I switched license plates on the Jeep with a Toyota 4×4 from Texas, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I would now be driving a stolen vehicle with stolen plates, doubling up on my personal crime wave, but I would quadruple my chances of staying clear of the police for the next few hours. I planned on being far away by then.
It was time to “resurface” and leave another false trail. I drove out of the parking lot and headed south. Albuquerque was an hour away.
35
The drive gave me time to think—always a devil’s bargain. It was just over twenty-four hours since I had last seen the Kid or Skeli and I felt their absence like a cold stone in my chest. This wasn’t how I wanted our life to be. My family in hiding, me being pursued by grim-faced men. I reviewed the steps, the minuscule, irrevocable decisions that had led me, cumulatively, to this point. There was nothing I could have done differently. Unless I changed everything. Maybe an escape to a house in Santa Fe was exactly what I needed. I was a father, not a secret agent or a bounty hunter. Soon I was going to be a father again. The process may have already begun. I could rationalize that I was doing what I did to provide for my family. That it was all for them. But I would be lying. I did it because I enjoyed the stimulation. I liked solving puzzles and I liked feeling amped. I had worked for years on an adrenaline high, and my body still craved it. I swore that I was different, that I had changed, but the bottom line was that, when I took on a challenge, I let nothing stand in my way. And I was beginning to like catching bad guys.
I took the exit for the Albuquerque airport and booked myself into a room at the airport’s Hilton. I tipped the woman at the front desk, the concierge who helped me book my flight to JFK for the next morning, and the doorman just for being pleasant. I would be remembered. I declined the valet parking, making a point of saying that I would be going out soon to drop off my car at the rental lot. The truth was that I wanted to be able to leave quickly, and I did not want anyone looking too closely and possibly remembering that Jeep.
Once in the room, I worked quickly. I splashed water around in the bathroom, ran the shower, got a towel wet and left it on the floor. Returning to the bedroom, I took the cover off the bed and mussed up the sheets enough to make it look as though I had slept there. I took two of the bottles of Absolut Vodka from the minibar and poured them down the toilet. I left the two empties on the night table, making sure to leave as many fingerprints on as many surfaces as possible. I took one last look around. What was I forgetting? A tip for the maid! I took a page off the notepad by the phone and wrote Thank you and wrapped it around a twenty. She would remember me even if she never saw me.
Then I went back to the car and drove to Denver.
I had reservations on two different airlines from two different New Mexico airports to return to two different airports in New York the next afternoon. But if everything worked out, I would be back in town first thing in the morning.
Driving between cities out west is different than back east. My compulsion could lead me to plot half a dozen routes to go from New York to Boston, or Newark to Washington, all within an hour of each other in travel time. Albuquerque to Denver soothed me. Unless I was willing to add hundreds of miles to my trip, there was only one way to go. North on I-25, passing Santa Fe again, and taking the southernmost pass through the Rockies coming down onto the westernmost edge of the Great Plains. Five hundre
d miles. I made it in less than six hours.
I left the Jeep in a strip mall parking lot, blocking two spaces in front of a liquor store and a Chinese takeout shop. Directly overhead was a large sign that stated that any cars parked there for more than three hours would be towed at the owner’s expense. I hoped it was true. I had a beer and a burger in a dive bar nearby and had the bartender call me a cab to the airport.
Again I had to take a calculated risk. To get on a flight out of Denver, I needed to show ID and pay with plastic. I would be traceable again. Whoever it was leading the pursuit, they had no problem tracking me through the system. I could only hope that the other two reservations would cloud my real plan.
The business-class lounge had no showers, so I changed in a cubicle in the bathroom. Getting rid of the stiff jeans—which had already chafed my thighs raw—and the boots—which one should remember were designed to be worn while riding a horse, not walking the length of an airport concourse—improved my life significantly. The fact that my suit was creased and rumpled would only serve to make me look like every other business traveler getting off the red-eye flight in Newark. I had stopped at a kiosk on the concourse and traded my two-hundred-dollar, barely worn cowboy hat for a garish black, orange, and silver ball cap advertising the Denver Outlaws. I was assured that they were a local sports team, and since they didn’t play baseball, I felt my allegiance to the Yankees was not being challenged.
The little desks along the back wall had no access to electricity. Some of the more savvy and experienced travelers had already taken the few seats that were near outlets on the other side of the room. I noticed that they also had the foresight to bring three-way sockets. I took out my bag of cell phones and sat as far from the noisy bar as possible.
I dialed the number of one of the phones I had given my father. When he answered, I rattled off the telephone number of the phone I had hidden in the house in Santa Fe. Then I hung up and waited. A minute later, one of the other phones in my bag began to ring, the call automatically forwarded.
“Hello, son. How ya doing?”
“Staying one step ahead,” I said. “How’s everyone there? No surprises, right? No problems?”
“This place is lovely and no, no surprises. We got here this morning and we all feel very safe.”
“How was the boat ride?”
He ignored the question. “We were just starting to worry,” he said. “About you, I mean.”
“I’m good,” I said. “Tired. I’ve been going almost nonstop now for a day and a half. But, like I say, I’m good.”
“You’ve sounded better.”
The sound of his voice, quiet, strong, calm, was releasing waves of feeling. I wanted to be where he was.
“I got over my cold. How’s my boy?”
“I’m giving him swimming lessons.”
“You can’t do that, Pop. He’s not ready for the ocean.”
“In the kiddie pool. All right?”
“All right. How’s he doing?”
“Give me a break, will ya, it’s only his first day.”
“I mean, how’s he doing otherwise?”
“Brilliant. That’s what the little Aussie lifeguard says. ‘Brilliant!’ How’s your day? ‘Brilliant!’ How’s the food here? ‘Brilliant!’ How about that barracuda chomping on your leg? ‘Brilliant!’ It was cute the first time.”
“He’s eating?”
“Eating. Sleeping. Playing. He likes the water. He likes the sun. He likes the little lizards or whatever they are that run around here. He was pretending to be one this afternoon, lying on a rock and doing these funny half push-ups.”
“Don’t let him get too much sun. He’s got his mother’s coloring.” Pale skin and blond hair.
“Junior, there are two strong-minded women here making sure he’s covered with Number 45 or whatever, or wearing a hat or a shirt or both, or under the umbrella. Believe me, the Kid doesn’t need me weighing in on the subject.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’m being annoying. An idiot.”
“It is very touching to hear you talking like a concerned parent, but you’re right. It is annoying.”
I laughed. “Is he asleep?”
“Long time. It’s after midnight here.”
I was losing track of time zones. “Christ, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Me? No. We’re all still up. But he was so tired he had a hard time keeping his head out of his spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti?” I felt a pang of jealousy that someone else had gotten him to try something new.
“Estrella’s doing the cooking. She does a kind of Puerto Rican version. A little spicy. Like her.”
Our conversation was so normal, so lacking in the paranoia I had been running from the past few days. I could have remained there, listening to voices of loved ones, who were safe and together.
“Can I talk to Skeli?”
“Estrella just took her for a walk down to the beach. She was beginning to get that faraway look. Can we set up a callback?”
She wasn’t all right. My little fantasy of them all smiling and happy in the sun blew apart. I felt cold.
“I’m not boarding for another few hours, but in case I miss her, let’s set a schedule. Call that number every day sometime between noon and two your time. If I can’t answer, I’ll try and leave a message. I’ll call again when I can. Give her my love.”
I clicked off before my voice began to break.
36
Even in first class, the red-eye from Denver to Newark is a brutal flight. Three and a half hours is not enough time to get any deep sleep, and I arrived feeling a bit like a visitor from another dimension. Newark Airport at six in the morning had a two-dimensional feel to it. Nothing seemed real.
My plan at that point depended, again, upon luck and odds. I had bet that if anyone was tracking me through the computer, he would have seen my booking on a flight that would not even leave Albuquerque for another four hours and another out of Santa Fe for later in the morning. Plenty of time to stake out the airports there, or, even easier, simply wait for me to arrive at JFK or LaGuardia late that afternoon. Additionally, I was betting that having found one or both of those bookings, he would stop looking, and therefore miss my arrival in New Jersey ten hours earlier. I hesitated to assign numerical probabilities to my calculations, but I thought I was safe.
I wasn’t.
There were two of them. They were both sitting in the waiting area facing the gate as I came off the ramp. One was big, the other bigger. They weren’t cowboys, they were dressed in puffy black jackets, baseball caps, and jeans, and both wore heavy workboots. Neither one looked like he was built for speed. They might be hard to stop, though, once they got going. Force equals mass times acceleration.
The first guy was easy to read. He hadn’t expected to see me. The calf-length shearling coat, the Outlaws headgear, and the designer sunglasses didn’t faze him. He recognized me right away, but I was a surprise. I hoped that meant they weren’t there in force. Someone had merely sent two low-level thugs to check out the long shot on the flight from Denver. It’d paid off.
I thought since they were here inside the secured area of the airport, they wouldn’t be armed, not even with knives. And they wouldn’t try to take me there with a hundred witnesses coming through the gate behind me. I had a chance, I just didn’t know what it was yet.
The bigger man dropped his eyes to watch my feet as I approached. It was effective. He didn’t look like he was staring at me, but he could follow me easily. The other guy lacked any subtlety. His eyes flashed at me and I could tell he was holding himself back from rushing right at me.
I turned to the left and let a few more of the first-class passengers catch up with me so that we walked in a loose group toward baggage claim and the exits. I felt the two big thugs follow, hanging back ten feet or so.
There was nothing to stop them from taking me as soon as we got outside. For all I knew, they had help nearby. They could whisk me into the back of a car waiting out front and no one would ever hear from me again. The only thing that I had going for me was they were bound to underestimate my desperation. To them I was a white-collar pushover. I had the element of surprise, if I could find out how to use it.
The cleaning crews were out, pushing big yellow carts with mops and cleaning supplies, toilet paper and towels. The men’s room ahead and to my left had a yellow plastic A-frame sign in front. CLOSED FOR CLEANING. I broke away from the other passengers and headed right for it.
A short, slight man in the standard khaki uniform was about to start mopping the floor. He looked up in surprise. I didn’t give him a chance to tell me to leave. I took the mop from his hand and yelled at him, “Not now! Out! Come back in five. Beat it!”
He tried to take back his mop, but I held it away and kept yelling. I was more than a full head taller and considerably broader. And I was acting nuts. “Five goddamn minutes, that’s all I want. Now leave!”
“Okay, okay.” He put up his hands in mock surrender and walked quickly out the short hallway.
I grabbed the gallon container of liquid soap and squeezed about a quart of it onto the floor. I could hear the cleaning guy telling his story to someone right outside. The thugs would be coming as soon as the entry was clear of witnesses. I unscrewed the mop handle and stood against the wall and waited.
The smaller of the two came first. He was impatient, aggressive, and probably a bit arrogant. He was also dumb. He saw me moving out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. By the time his brain told him to raise his hands it was too late. I caught him square on the bridge of his nose, swinging the long mop handle like a stickball bat. It broke with a loud crack, sending a jagged fragment bouncing off the tiled wall and skittering across the floor. Or possibly the loud crack was the guy’s nose breaking. He hit the floor knees first, face second. His Mets cap rolled under the sinks.
Long Way Down Page 21
