Frantically, I lunged for him, as we bounced over the Belgian block, the force of the turn pitching him to the side. And then Dave slid, fell out of my grasp, and onto the pavement like some lifeless sack of grain, as I turned the corner of the driveway onto our street.
I slammed on the brakes and stared at him in horror. “David!”
I knew he was dead. The glassy eyes staring blankly up at me. And dead only because of what I’d done. Staring up at me, like some disturbing image I’d seen on a news clip, someone else’s husband, twisted, inert, two dark blotches on his chest.
Another shot pinged through the car from behind me, and I saw Agent Number One running toward me. I knew if I stayed even a moment longer, I’d be dead as well. I looked one last time at Dave.
My heart was crumbling.
I hit the gas, the Range Rover lunging forward. I sped away, tears flooding my eyes. I drove down my dark, sleeping street, anguish tearing at me. Disbelief. I told myself that this was only some horrifying, nightmarish dream and screamed at myself to wake up from it. Now. Wake up!
Please.
But as I sped through the darkened town, cutting down side streets and weaving through a parking lot only a resident would know to make certain I wasn’t being followed, not knowing where I was driving, only that I had to get away, as far away from this as I could; I knew with certainty it was no dream.
Oh, Dave …
And I saw clearly how it was all going to look once it became public. That I’d killed a government agent in a panic after being caught in a stranger’s hotel room, and now, having escaped the law enforcement agents who had come for me, I’d gotten my husband killed too. How, after an argument the night before, I’d betrayed him. I could just hear Pam on some news clip tomorrow reinforcing the whole thing. How down I had sounded. How desperate I’d been to meet her at the hotel.
And even if the police did somehow believe me about how the shootings there went down, how would the people who did this ever let me be, having witnessed what I had? How would I ever feel safe again, knowing they had to cover this up too?
They would never let me be free.
I drove.
I’m not sure for how long or how far. Until I felt far enough away that I was certain no one was following me. Every set of headlights that flashed in my mirror sent a shiver of dread rattling through me. Several times I was sure I’d been found. Several times I froze, rigid with fear, waiting for the inevitable siren or flashing light.
But it didn’t come.
I came to my senses on the Hutchinson River Parkway, heading north. A few miles up, I merged onto 684, just getting as far away as I could. Then Route 22 into Dutchess County. I finally stopped, from sheer exhaustion and the throes of grief taking over me. That time of night, I was practically the only car on the dark road. I pulled into a dark, closed-up gas station and cut my lights. It was going on 1:00 A.M. My heart had barely slowed a beat since the shooting.
I started to sob. Deep, shame-filled sobs, everything starting to come up all over again, my forehead slumped on the wheel. My body convulsing. Over and over, I pictured Dave’s empty face staring up at me. That final, befuddled look in his eye, how he didn’t understand. How could he? His final word to me simply a helpless plea. “Wendy!”
And I knew he was dead only because of me. Because of what I’d done. How I’d betrayed him.
I screamed to no one, “Why did I ever go up to that room?” And no one answered. Tears cascaded down my cheeks.
I reached across the seat for my bag, fumbling for something I could use to dry my eyes.
Instead I found Curtis’s phone.
An unstoppable urge came over me to hurl it as far away as I possibly could. Since I’d set eyes on him, it had only brought me hell. I opened the door, took the phone in my hand, and went to fling it into the darkness.
Then I stopped. Suddenly it occurred to me this might be the one thing that could help me.
There had to be something in it that would show what Curtis was into. Why he was being targeted. Who his killers were, and why they wanted him dead. What had Hruseff said? “This is for Gillian …”
It might well be my only chance to find out. I knew in the morning I’d be a hunted woman, sought for a connection to one murder and complicity in another. And that even I, if I looked at the situation through impartial eyes, would likely be convinced I was guilty. Until I knew why they wanted Curtis dead, I’d be a wanted woman. I’d never see my children again. I’d be running for the rest of my life.
I turned the phone on, the BlackBerry powering to life. I scrolled through his recent e-mails and texts, scanning for something from Hruseff or from someone named Gillian. I didn’t find either. What I did find out was Curtis’s last name—Kitchner. [email protected] being his e-mail account. I looked over his messages. From friends. His family. His Facebook account. I looked under his contacts for a Gillian. Nothing. I didn’t know where to begin.
I was about to put it aside when something made me look through his photos. Maybe it was simply the worry that once I put aside his phone I had no idea what my next move would be. I didn’t know in which direction to drive. Maybe I was just so desperate to find out anything I could about him and what he might have done.
I saw his life: with friends at bars, a team photo of what looked like a rugby match. Then some in rugged terrain—Curtis with some soldiers in combat gear. It looked like Iraq or Afghanistan to me. He and a woman I took to be his sister at a table with what I took to be his parents. They were all smiling and happy. They probably had no idea yet they had lost a son.
Then something caught my eye. A woman. The last picture he had taken. She was pretty and small, dark-featured, with full, dark hair pulled back. I noticed what appeared to be cuts and bruises on her face, and as I enlarged the shot, I saw that she was in a bed, wearing a green hospital gown. There was a date—five days ago. The only identification was simply an initial, L.
A shiver traveled down my spine.
The dark complexion. The oval shape of the face. Anyone might have easily made the mistake. Anyone who had been watching us … perhaps from the hotel bar.
I was staring at someone who looked a lot like me.
“Jamie, Taylor. Can you move forward, please?”
Lauritzia Velez got the kids’ attention as they waited for the elevator on the third floor of the Westchester Mall.
Not her kids, actually. The Bachmans’. Lauritzia had only taken care of them these past two years. Taylor was nine, and was texting her friend Cameron, all excited about running into Michael Goldberg at the Apple store in the mall, and Jamie, eleven, was already completely obsessed with the new PlayStation 3 game he had just bought with a birthday gift certificate.
“You know, when we get back home, that game is on the shelf until you finish your homework.”
“But it’s Peyton Manning,” Jamie muttered,