No Way Back: A Novel (30 page)

“Could have been anyone, then.” Bruce chuckled amiably. “The list of suspects would be endless.” He picked up the evidence baggie. “How do I know this is actually from where you say? Anything can be altered. You’ve already snuck into a federal crime scene. You more than anyone have a reason to want to see her cleared.”

“The lab report’s in there. And here’s a series of photographs I took out on that street. You can see how things match up—the electrical box here . . . It’s a frame-up, Brucie. What’s behind it, I don’t know. Only that it is.”

Bruce leafed quickly through the report. When he looked back up, his lips twisted and his face resembled that of a person who had just taken a swallow of bad milk. “What exactly do you want me to do with this, Joe?”

“Someone needs to see it. Someone who won’t just feed it into the shredder. Trust me, I wish I had someone else to bring it to.”

“I’m a year away from retirement. You don’t just drop this on someone’s desk and go, ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but you know that case that’s been the lead-in on every fucking newscast in the country? Well, the government’s actually orchestrating this elaborate murder-cover-up scheme. And, oh, where’d I get this from? Some ex-detective pal of mine who was booted off the Nassau County force ten years ago . . . It’s like Fukushima, Joe. It’s radioactive. At the end of the day, the only seat that’s gonna be empty at the bureau is gonna be mine!”

“The people who want her dead, Bruce, are the same people who are in charge of bringing her in. We both know that’s never going to happen.”

The FBI man stared at Joe awhile, then stood up and put the evidence envelope under his arm. “And I thought you had tickets to a Rangers game or something . . .”

“You know how much I appreciate this, buddy.”

“If you get an invitation to that early-retirement party, you’ll know it didn’t go over so well.”

“I’ll bring the club soda and lime.”

“Always the life of the party.” Bruce swallowed the rest of his drink and headed out of the bar.

CHAPTER SIXTY

T
he trip out west took three days.

We took Lauritzia’s Toyota, which Harold had rented for her back in Connecticut. The first night we made it all the way to Columbus, Ohio. We got a room at an Embassy Suites along the highway and basically just crashed.

The second night we got all the way to Kansas City.

That’s where the reality of what we were actually doing hit me—and began to fill me with fear. And the nervousness that I was getting into something that was way, way over my head and that I had no idea how to control. That Robert Lasser was not the tragic victim of bloodshed he had no hand in, like Harold, Lauritzia, and me. But of bloodshed that he was a part of. Harold’s warning kept ringing in my head:
These men are hardened killers. You don’t have a clue what they have to hide.

And now Lauritzia was on my shoulders too. We didn’t talk much on the way out. If we had, we probably would have come to our senses and turned the car around. We shared much of the driving. When we did talk, I asked about her life back in Mexico, her brother and sisters. I admired a necklace she was wearing—a butterfly with a tiny diamond chip on a thin gold chain.

It made her smile with affection. “Miss Roxanne gave it to me. Before my trial. She said it stood for second chances. That we all could have them, no matter how lost it might seem.”

I asked her what a second chance would look like for her, and she said being with her father again. Going back home.

“Maybe you should let me wear it sometime.” I looked over and smiled. A sign told us that Missouri was a hundred miles ahead. “I could use one too.”

We spent the second night at a motel outside Kansas City. It was the last day of October. There was a chill in the air. The star-rich midwestern sky stretched above.

I left Lauritzia sleeping and went outside, my blood racing with trepidation, cars on the highway whooshing by.

I felt about as alone as I have ever felt. I missed Dave so much. His strength. His humor. How he always had the skill of making something very complex seem simple.
I could use that about now!
I stood there with my back against a car, huddled in my fleece and a blanket, and I realized so painfully that I would never see him again. That whatever I was doing here, whatever I was trying to prove, it would not bring him back. That no matter how tightly I squeezed my fist, I would never wrap it around his hand again. My eyes filled up with tears. And once it started, I couldn’t stop it.
Second chances,
I was thinking. I wanted my son and daughter back too. I hadn’t even been able to be with them at their own father’s funeral. I needed to feel them by me. I hadn’t been able to grieve.

Everything I loved had been taken from me too.

I took out my iPhone. I knew everyone would be watching for it, waiting for a call. Just turning it on was dangerous; there was probably some built-in GPS they could use to find me there.

Suddenly I didn’t fucking care. I just needed to feel close to my kids. To my old life. Just for one second. To turn everything back and have it be like it was before.

I thought about where they were. Maybe up at David’s father’s place in Madison, Connecticut. It was Halloween. Neil had always loved it. But no one would be partying now. I pictured their clapboard house near the Sound and the smoky, pipe-tobacco smell in the den. I didn’t care about the danger. I began to text:

N
EIL
, A
MY
,

I
KNOW
YOU
BOTH
JUDGE
ME
HARSHLY
,
AND
THAT
YOU
THINK
I
DID
THINGS
THAT
ARE
UNFORGIVABLE
. A
ND
IF
I
KNEW
ONLY
WHAT
PEOPLE
ARE
ALLEGING
,
AND
NOT
THE
TRUTH
, I
GUESS
I
MIGHT
TOO
.

I
CAN
’
T
TELL
U
WHERE
I
AM
. O
NLY
THAT
YOU
WILL
SEE
IN
THE
END
THAT
I
DIDN
’
T
DO
THE
THINGS
THEY
SAY
. I
DIDN
’
T
SHOOT
THAT
AGENT
TO
COVER
UP
THAT
I
WAS
THERE
. I
T
HAPPENED
IN
SELF
-
DEFENSE
.

A
ND
I
DAMN
WELL
DIDN
’
T
KILL
YOUR
DAD
.

T
HOUGH
I
DID
BETRAY
HIM
,
OR
CAME
CLOSE
TO
,
WHICH
IS
SOMETHING
NO
WORDS
CAN
DESCRIBE
HOW
MUCH
I
REGRET
. I
MISS
HIM
SO
MUCH
. I
MISS
YOU
ALL
. W
HEN
I
WISH
I
COULD
TURN
BACK
THE
CLOCK
,
IT
’
S
ONLY
OUR
FAMILY
THAT
I
LONG
FOR
. Y
OU
, A
MY
-
KINS
,
AND
YOU
, N
EIL
,
MY
HANDSOME
YOUNG
MAN
. B
UT
I
CAN
’
T
TURN
IT
BACK
. W
HATEVER
HAPPENS
,
LIFE
WILL
NEVER
BE
THE
SAME
. A
ND
THAT
BREAKS
MY
HEART
. I’
M
CRYING
NOW
.

A
ND
I’
M
SCARED
.

M
Y
BEAUTIFUL
KIDS
, I
BEG
,
BEG
,
BEG
YOU
TO
SOMEHOW
HOLD
BACK
YOUR
SCORN
UNTIL
YOU
KNOW
THE
TRUTH
. A
ND
TO
REMEMBER
THAT
I
LOVE
YOU
BOTH
AS
DEEPLY
AS
IF
YOU
CAME
FROM
MY
OWN
WOMB
. I
ALWAYS
HAVE
. A
ND
I
ALWAYS
WILL
.

M
Y
DEEPEST
,
DEEPEST
LOVE
,

W
ENDY

I looked up at the sky and thought how if I just pressed Send, it would take a second until they read this. Until they felt what was in my heart. I placed my finger on the key . . .

I stopped. I knew I couldn’t press it. The police would be on us in minutes. At the very least they would know where we were.

It wasn’t just for me; I had Lauritzia now.

I read what I’d written one more time, and it made me smile.
I love you, babies . . .

Then I pressed Delete and shut down my phone.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

T
he next day we crossed into Colorado.

We got off I-70 in Denver and headed south toward Albuquerque on I-25. In an hour or so we passed by Colorado Springs, signs for the Air Force Academy and Pikes Peak. In another hour, Pueblo.

Forty minutes later we exited the highway on Route 160.

It was a two-lane road, and we climbed through the front range of the snowcapped Rockies. At eight thousand feet we entered the vast San Luis Valley, an endless, barren plain of sand and tundra that stretched out on both sides along the black outline of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

I saw a sign for Gillian, 30 miles.

My adrenaline started to rise.

I could see a huge white expanse tucked into the foothills of the 14,000-foot mountains, and we passed a turnoff for something called the Great Sand Dunes National Park. It turned out to be sand—30,000 square miles of dunes, the highest in the United States, some rising 750 feet. Blown there over thousands of years by the winds whipping across the valley floor. The sight of the Sahara-like dunes against the dark mountains was both beautiful and foreboding in the melting afternoon light, but it wasn’t why we were there.

GILLIAN. 10 MILES

There was nothing for a long time, not even a building in the vast, barren wasteland. Then we began to see auto parts warehouses and fast-food outlets. The Rio Grande railroad yards. Signs for a college.

We passed a rundown main street of old brick bank buildings and dingy 1960s storefronts—a once-thriving western town decades had passed by.

“Let’s find a motel,” I said. “We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.”

Something called the Inn of the Rio Grande appeared on the right, with a large, white stucco façade. It looked clean, and we were exhausted. I turned in to the driveway, pulling to a stop in a vacant parking space.

I just looked at Lauritzia. She nodded back. There wasn’t much to say.

We were here.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

T
he man with the pockmarked face drove past the white stucco motel.

He’d been following the blue Toyota for three days now. He continued on, turning into a Conoco station a hundred yards down. He was exhausted, but patience had rewarded him again.

In a few days, he could sleep for a month if he wanted.

Once they got off I-70 in Denver and headed south, he knew where they were heading. He’d known that all along.

He also knew why they were there.

The man pulled up to a vacant pump and began to fill his car. Then he went inside to pee. It felt like he hadn’t relieved himself in a year. Tonight he would think of how the next days would go. How he would get it done. He had removed some cash from his leather satchel under the seat across from him, wrapping a newspaper around his gun.

Outside, he watched as the sun slid over the mountains into the horizon. He took out his phone. He removed a piece of paper from his jeans and punched in the number on it, and spoke in his best English when an operator answered.

“Homeland Security Tip Line.”

“Senior Agent Alton Dokes, please.”