Brainstorm (7 page)

When Harley got back to the office the next day, she was
livid. “You told Carrie to hire me? You really want me to leave you and go work
for her? Seriously? How could you do that?”

“The question is, Harley, how could I
not
do it? Asking you to stay here is
selfish. The way things are going, I won’t even be able to pay you before long.
You’re a talented techie – Carrie would be thrilled to have you full time.”

“She made that clear. But after everything you’ve done
for me – and how I
lied
to you – I
can’t leave you here all alone.”

“Two heads are usually better than one,” I said, “but not
in this case. We each have our own ass to cover and it would be too distracting
to try and watch each other’s as well. Besides, I think you’re safer living
away from me, and way better off financially working for Carrie. It’s a
no-brainer. Now call her and tell her you accept.”

“What about Jack? What about the lie I told about Carl?”

“If the police need to talk to you, I’ll tell them where
you are. Jack said he was going to speak to some people and explain that you
lied because you were afraid for your life. Harley, women get off of
murder
charges for that reason.”

“Maybe I
should
go,” she said with tears rolling down her face. “But I feel so guilty leaving
you.”

“Don’t. Take Nelly. I’ll get your car out of the garage
and drive it to Carrie’s. Then, on the strength of your new salary, you can
take it straight to a dealership and trade it in on a new car. Get vanity
plates that Carl wouldn’t recognize in a million years. Keep your new location
off the Internet and you’ve eliminated the only ways he could find you.”

“But my stuff is still at the house,” she said.

“Like what? Is there really anything there you can’t
replace? Remember, you’ll actually be making some money now – get new clothes!
I’m sure you can find some of that radical hippie shit you love so much in
Oswego. Treat yourself! You’re free!”

She laughed and gave me a hug, then called Carrie and
accepted the new job. She took what she wanted from her desk (the pancake
makeup went into the trash), packed a few of the outfits I’d loaned her, and
all of Carrie’s files (with my blessing). I walked her to the door and watched
as she drove out of the parking lot for the last time.

Feeling lonely already, I called a cab and went to the
hospital to get her car out of hock. Then a quick trip through a drive-thru
netted me a cheeseburger and a diet soda for lunch. I was close to an hour
behind Harley, as I headed north to Oswego on I-690W, a healthy forty-five
minute drive from Syracuse. It was a beautiful spring day and even though there
was a chill in the air, I lowered the windows a little. After driving all
winter with them rolled up, it was always a thrill to hear the sound of the
tires on the wet, spring pavement. It sounded loud and messy – like freedom,
and it lifted my spirits.

About fifteen minutes into the trip I noticed a truck
behind me; one I’d seen back at the fast food place. Not nervous, but cautious,
I got off at the next exit and drove half a mile to the offices of a radio
station where I often had meetings. The truck exited too, but as I pulled into
the parking lot, it caught up to me and passed by. I watched until it was out
of sight.
Great
, I chided myself.
Paranoid much?

I pulled back onto the road and headed again toward the
highway that would take me toward Oswego. Within five minutes, the truck
reappeared in my rear view mirror. Now I knew that whoever it was, was
following me, and it had to be Carl. I’d never seen him, but since I was
driving Harley’s car, it made sense that he would think she was behind the
wheel. It’s illegal to use a cell phone while driving in New York, but I dialed
Jack’s number. It went to voice mail and I left a message saying I was being
followed, and that I was going to turn around and head back to Syracuse to
avoid leading Carl to Harley, if that was who was driving the truck.

I took the next exit and circled around to pick up the
highway again, but headed in the opposite direction, toward home. The truck did
the same. My throat tightened and my heart raced as the truck sped up and
closed the gap between us. Was he going to drive right into me? Would he try to
run me off the road? That’s what always happened on TV. It was my only
reference since I’d never been in a situation like this.

The truck backed off, then sped up, coming close enough
that I couldn’t see its headlights in my mirror, then it backed off again. It
swerved into the passing lane and pulled up even with me, then slowed down and
pulled in behind me again, this time ramming into my bumper. The steering wheel
jerked in my hands as I felt the truck push me along the road.
 
I swerved into the passing lane to try and
break contact, but he changed lanes too, and rammed into me again. I called
Jack a second time and pleaded with him to pick up, but there was no answer.

Ahead, a line of cars appeared, and I sped up and pulled
into the right lane, wedging myself between a sedan and a delivery van. The truck
continued to follow me, but did not attempt to close in on me again; most
likely he was waiting for the chance to make another move.

Once off the highway, I drove on busier roads to the
police station and pulled into the driveway, which was full of officers and
canine units. The truck drove on by. I tried to catch a glimpse of the driver
so I could give Jack some kind of a description, but the windows were tinted,
something that had escaped my attention before. I hopped out of the car and
went to an officer, to tell him about the truck. He said he could look for it,
but without a description of the driver or the license plate number, there was
no way to prove that any gray truck he found was the right one; not even if it
had tinted windows.

As I was getting back into Harley’s car, Jack pulled into
the parking lot. I called to him and he walked over to where I was. I explained
what had happened, and how I suspected it was Carl who had been driving the
truck.

“Call Harley and ask what he drives,” he said.

It took me a minute to get her on the line. “A gray
truck,” she said, “why?”

“With tinted windows?”

“Yes. What’s this about?”

“Do you know his license number?”

“No, I don’t! Why do you want to know?”

I told her how he had followed me as I was bringing her
car to her. “Oh, God,” she said, “he’s going to find me!”

“No, he isn’t,” I tried to assure her, “I turned around
before he could possibly know where I was going. We have to figure out how to
switch vehicles so you can get a new one right away. I’ll call you back.”

“Let me guess,” said Jack. “Carl has a gray truck with
tinted windows.”

I nodded my head. “What are we going to do?”

“Tell me where he lives,” he said. “I’ll go there and
park nearby. Once I’m sure he’s home, I’ll call you and you can head to
Harley’s. If he gets in the truck, I’ll find a reason to pull him over.”

I smiled, and the look in my eyes must have given him a
hint of what I was feeling. “Don’t kiss me in front of the guys,” he warned.
“I’m working your investigation. I could get taken off the case.”

I waited there until Jack called and said that Carl had
parked his truck near his house and had gone inside. I headed off toward Oswego
once again and called ahead so that Harley would know when to expect me. An
hour later, I followed her to a dealership where she turned her car in on a
used 4-wheel drive vehicle that she would need for snowy Oswego winters. Then
off to the DMV, where she turned in her old plates and had temporaries put on.
I gave her a hug and called Jack to tell him he could leave. I was on my way
back to Syracuse in Nelly, and Harley now had a vehicle that Carl would not
recognize. I felt like we had accomplished something big.

Instead of heading back to the office, I drove to the
hospital to check on Tony. The stern day nurse allowed me into his room for
“one minute and not one second more”.
 
Matt St. John was there, speaking with Tony and writing in his notebook,
while Rose smoothed blankets and adjusted the pillows behind her brother’s
head. When she saw me, she waved me in. Tony was one big mass of tape,
bandages, and plaster. His left leg was in traction, his head was bandaged, and
both arms were in casts. He was conscious, but looked just awful. I went to the
opposite side of the bed and gently touched his hand. “How are you?”

He shrugged. “I’ll live, but the Soul of Syracuse is a
goner. I’ve had that plane for a long time.”

“Listen,” I said, “I’m just glad
you’re
not a goner, although I have to tell you, you had me
wondering if you were going to pull through. I’ve been so worried about you. Do
you remember anything about what happened? Did the plane make funny noises? Or
did any warning lights come on? You know the plane so well – do you have any
idea what could have caused it to fall?”

“Falling” was a term Tony used when talking about planes
dropping out of the air, or making emergency landings, and he’d made a few of
those. Eight years ago January, during his first week of air traffic reporting,
water had somehow gotten into the gas tanks that he used to fuel the plane.
While he was in the air, the water in the gas line froze and stopped fuel from
getting to the engine. Tony had “fallen” out of the sky, but had managed to
guide his plane to a stone quarry, where he’d landed safely. On another
occasion, his landing gear failed and he’d flown in circles, dumping fuel,
flying lower and lower, until he was able to land on the plane’s belly in a
grassy area. He was a fearless flier and a fearless faller.

“This time it was out of my control,” he said. “Those
other times I’ve managed to bring the plane in safely with only minor repairs
necessary. But this was different.”

“How?” asked Officer St. John. “How was it different?”

“I couldn’t control the plane…because I couldn’t control
myself.
I felt like I was falling asleep
or about to faint. The doctor said there was something in my blood consistent
with sleeping pills. But you know me, Audrey – I never take as much as an
aspirin.” I nodded. That was true. Tony not only worked out in the gym every
day, but he ate healthily and didn’t believe in medication of any kind; a point
he and I good naturedly debated on occasion.

“Did you leave the table at any time during breakfast?”
asked Officer St. John.

Tony thought for a minute. “I went to the restroom,” he
said, “but I don’t know when. I’m sorry, things are a little fuzzy for me right
now.”

“That’s okay,” he said, as he put his notebook back in
his pocket. “I’ll check back every so often to see if you remember any more.
Take care, Tony,” then he nodded to me, and left.

“I’m going to go too,” I said, “before that nurse outside
chases me away.” I headed toward the elevator feeling terrible, and praying
that Jack was wrong; that what had happened to Tony – and Ferdy – had nothing
to do with me.

Later, Jack called and wanted to have dinner. I was
famished and agreed immediately, and suggested we meet at Krabby Kirk’s,
thinking that I might persuade him to come up to my apartment with me
afterwards. I could feel infatuation for him growing into something more and
wanted some alone time with him to see how receptive he would be to getting a
little closer; my office wasn’t going to cut it.

It was a warm evening, so we sat on the back patio while we
ate. I found myself staring at him and made a concerted effort not to; I didn’t
want to come off as the one of us who was the most interested. My grandmother
used to say that in every relationship, one person loves the other more. The
person who loves the most, she’d say, is the person who gets hurt the worst.
And, of course, being the person I was, with anxiety always lurking, ready to
strike, that kind of hurt could do a lot of damage. It could mean years and
years more therapy. More medication.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.

“I guess not. I thought I was, but…”

“You’re okay though?”

“I’m fine. You want to have coffee upstairs?”

He smiled. “You mean upstairs, as in
upstairs
?”

I nodded. “A long as we’re here, I’d like to check the
place.”

Jack left the money for the meal and a generous tip under
the edge of his plate, and we climbed the second set of stairs that led
directly to my apartment. “What’s that I smell?” he asked, after we closed the
door behind us. “I remember it from the night you called me over.”

“Frankincense. Incense. Does it bother you?”

“Ah, incense,” he laughed. “Usually when I come into
contact with that, someone’s trying to cover up the smell of pot.”

“My previous therapist used it in our sessions to relax
me.”

“Previous – so you don’t see that therapist anymore? I’m
not prying, just wondering. You don’t have to answer. I always sound like I’m
in interrogation mode. Sorry.”

“No, I don’t see her now; she’s in Rochester. In fact, I
had just left our last session when Danny Stearns ran into me.”
Why did you bring that up
? I chastised
myself. I didn’t need Jack to start talking about the bank robbery.
And don’t mention you’re seeing a
psychiatrist now– one step higher on the mental food chain!

“Speaking of Stearns,” he said, “Rochester has pulled out
all the stops to find him. They want to bring him to trial.”

“I’m sure they do,” I said, furious at myself for having
mentioned his name.

“Your ID alone won’t put him behind bars, but it will be
an important part of their circumstantial case against him.”

“Circumstantial because they don’t have the money? Or his
prints on anything at the bank? Or what?”