The Passenger (27 page)

The following morning, I returned to the library and checked the balance on my Western Union card. Ryan had deposited one thousand dollars. That might last me a few months in my current condition, but it was by no means a long-term solution. I logged in to my e-mail and saw that he had written back.

November 23, 2015

To: Jo

From: Ryan

I'll send more, if you call.

He left a number and three different time frames over the course of the week in which I could make contact. I wrote back.

November 24, 2015

To: Ryan

From: Jo

If this is a trap, I won't spare you. I won't spare anyone.

I remained in the library for a few more hours researching other matters. First I looked up the property records in Saranac Lake for the address of Reginald Lee's cabin. The previous owner was named Jedediah Lee. It was obviously family property, deeded to the son fifteen years ago. I ran a search on Reginald's name, but it was fairly common, so it was impossible to determine his current residence. I had to hope that he was content wherever he was and not planning a private getaway any time soon.

The library had central heat, so I was reluctant to leave. Beyond the more than ample supply of reading material, I couldn't resist the lure of the computer, the way it connected me to a world I was no longer part of. It seemed that the further away I moved from civilization, the more I was drawn to this false sense of community. I had resisted many things over the last several years. I didn't look back much, with the exception of my correspondence with Ryan. But it was the holiday season, and I was lonelier than I'd ever thought possible.

I typed the name “Edie Oliver” into a search engine. The first link was her profile page on a social media website that became popular right around the time I began running. The photo she used to identify herself was that of a little girl who mostly resembled her, with a little bit of
him
thrown in. Her privacy settings were weak, so I got a glimpse of the milestones in the last decade of her life. Married. Birth of daughter. Divorce. A few pictures of her. She looked the same as I remembered her, maybe a bit plumper with a few more wrinkles, and she'd grown out her bangs. I wanted to write, to say hello, but I remembered the way she'd looked at me the last time I saw her and I felt the betrayal all over again.

I read some of the comments people had left on her page.

After her divorce announcement, some guy I thought I remembered from math class wrote:
Call me!
A few female names that rang a bell wrote things like
congratulations
;
hang in there
;
love you, baby
. I wondered if those words of encouragement brought her any real comfort. I imagined that she was a reluctant participant in this world, signing on because it was all part of the social fabric. That's how I think I would have been, if I'd stayed.

I scrolled down the posts on her page until one struck my curiosity. Someone named Laura Cartwright, no photo, had left a message:

Please contact me. I'm writing a book about Melinda Lyons. Looking for interview subjects.

I clicked on Laura Cartwright's profile page. That name. I knew that name, but I couldn't place it. Her personal details were spare and cryptic. She worked for
Self
. Her birthday was on April 1. She “liked” nothing. Her online existence, as far as I could tell, had begun only six weeks ago. Her life seemed to revolve entirely around the case of Melinda Lyons.

I created a profile for myself under the name of Jane Doe. It was just a name, after all. She wasn't supposed to be real. I began to compose a message to Laura Cartwright, offering my anonymous assistance with her investigation and inquiring whether she'd uncovered any new clues about the case.

As I was about to click the Send button, I thought better of it. She could also be a trap. Everywhere I turned, I saw potential land mines. I had to weigh all of my options before I proceeded.

The library was about to close. I checked my e-mail one more time and saw that I had a new message from Ryan.

November 24, 2015

To: Jo

From: Ryan

Why would it be a trap? How would I benefit if you came home?

Something about his phrasing hurt my feelings. I guess I'd always believed that he wanted me to come home.

I returned to Reginald's cabin and opened a can of soup. That night we had our first snow of the season. When I woke up the next morning the world was blanketed in white. Icicles dangled from the trees and awnings like chandeliers. The world looked pure and peaceful and as perfect as I'd seen it in a long time.

I threw caution to the wind and built a fire in his wood-burning stove. Within an hour, the cabin was toasty. I took off my hat and my sweater. I made a cup of tea and let myself be hypnotized by the burning embers of the fire. How wonderful it would be if I could stay all winter.

The snow kept coming down, I wasn't sure for how long. I had failed to check the weather report when I was at the library. Reggie probably had a radio around somewhere. Based on his supplies, he was a practical man.

I had already made a cursory search of the house. There was no obvious door to the cellar, but I eventually determined that the humming sound generated a small vibration on the floor. I knew there had to be a cellar somewhere. I started at the front of the house and worked my way back, crawling along the floor looking for some kind of door. I found nothing, but I could feel the quiet vibration under my feet. I started at the front of the house again. The second time around, I moved the coffee table out of the way and lifted up an old threadbare rug. Then I saw the cellar door. I lifted it from a notch in the wood and saw a stepladder leading down to a cement foundation. I fetched a flashlight from the pantry and shone it into the cellar. The humming sound came in full volume.

I had nothing better to do, so I decided to explore. I kicked away a mass of cobwebs as I went down the ladder. There were five oil drums against the wall. I tapped on one, which resonated like a gong. I knocked on the rest—all empty. A giant metal cabinet stood right below the kitchen; at the other end of the room, right below Reggie's bed, was a thick latched door. From what I could tell, the humming sound emanated from there.

I approached the door, my mind getting creative about what I might find inside. Maybe this was just where Reggie kept extra meat or beverages, frozen perishables. Plenty of people keep refrigerators in their basement. Only, from the outside, this looked like a walk-in model, which seemed suspect considering the modest condition of the rest of the house. I felt a cold chill wash over me, which couldn't be explained by the temperature of the cellar. I thought about climbing back up the stairs and taking off. But this life doesn't offer much. Sometimes fear and dread are superior to tedium.

I opened the door. The refrigerator lit up, a light brighter than anything I'd seen for days. Inside were over a dozen bags of fertilizer. The bags had warning signs on them.
Contains Ammonium Nitrate. Combustible.
I counted the bags. Fifteen. They gave off a faint smell, but the fifty-degree refrigeration kept that in check. I closed the door, strolled over to the metal cabinet, and tried the handle. Locked.

I went upstairs and rifled through my bags until I found two paper clips at the bottom of my purse. I lifted up the metal spine of one, making a hook, and opened up the other into a straight line. Frank liked locks, so I'd learned how to pick them. I returned to the basement and stuck the hook edge into the bottom of the lock, keeping pressure on the left side. I used the other paper clip and stabbed at the tumblers until the lock gave way and I heard that satisfying click. Queasy adrenaline surged through me as I opened the door.

Inside were handguns, rifles, and semiautomatic weapons
.
On the bottom shelf were boxes of ammunition. There was enough artillery in that basement to wipe out a small town. Once I saw the guns, the purpose of the fertilizer clicked into place. Reggie wasn't the affable man I had hoped. I think Reggie was planning to blow some shit up. A man like that wasn't likely to leave his bunker for too long a stretch.

I climbed back up the ladder, gathered my belongings, and tried to restore the cabin to the exact manner in which I'd found it. I rushed to my car and drove for three hours from Saranac Lake to Burlington, Vermont. There was no direct route, so I had to pull over a number of times and consult my map. Once I made it to Burlington, I purchased two disposable cell phones at a drugstore and took a stroll along Main Street until I found a pay phone. I dialed the Saranac Lake police department and asked to speak with a detective.

“This is Detective Webb.”

“I have an anonymous tip,” I said.

“Okay. What have you got?”

“I have information on an individual who I think is planning to blow something up.”

“Is that so?” Detective Webb said.

“His name is Reginald Lee, and he lives or has property at 333 Church Street off of Lake.”

“May I ask to whom I'm speaking?” he said.

“Like I said, this is an anonymous tip.”

“I see. Do you know what he's planning on exploding?”

“I don't know. Whatever fifteen or so bags of fertilizer could detonate.”

“May I ask your relationship to this person?” Detective Webb asked.

“I don't know him,” I said. “But if you go to his house and then lift up the rug in his living room, you'll find the hatch door to the cellar. You'll find all of the evidence you need in there.”

“May I ask how you're connected to this man?”

“I'm not.”

“You must know him somehow, ma'am.”

“Are you planning on doing anything about this?”

“Unfortunately, under the circumstances, I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because you could be anyone with an ax to grind. I need a warrant to search a man's home. Without probable cause and a legitimate complaint from a real human being, not an anonymous source, there's nothing I can do.”

“But you have to do something. He's not keeping that fertilizer to garden in spring. He has a whole walk-in refrigerator where he's storing it. Also, he's got an arsenal down there. At least twenty weapons.”

“That's a Second Amendment right, ma'am.”

“Tell me you're going to do something.”

“If you want to come in to the station, ma'am, and make an official statement, then we might look into the matter. I see you're calling from Burlington, Vermont—”

I disconnected the call.

Roaming the street in a daze, my brain worked like a web of intersecting roadways. I'd take a turn, follow one direction a ways, hit a dead end, hit reverse, try a different offshoot, and hit another dead end.

If it were something else—human remains, perhaps—I might have let it slide. I've let many things slide in my lifetime. But it seemed to me that Reggie was planning on taking out a lot of people all at once, and I wasn't sure I could live with that on my conscience.

I checked my watch. I had about an hour until my prearranged phone call with Ryan. I stopped into a bar to fortify myself. I drank two whiskeys and left. I returned to my car, picked up one of the cell phones, and dialed.

“Hello?” he said.

Just that one word, loaded with all of the anticipation that I felt, sent me back ten years. I thought I'd hear his voice and feel all the rage of a decade at once. Instead, I felt heartsick and nostalgic. I missed him more than I hated him.

“Hello,” I said, trying to sound professional, as if feelings weren't part of my current repertoire.

“Is that really you?” he said.

“Who else would it be?” I said.

“I've missed you,” he said.

“Is that so?”

“How have you been?” he asked.

I hung up. Waited five minutes and called from the other phone.

“What happened?” he said.

“I really hope you're not tracing this call,” I said.

“Why would I do that?” he said.

“Why do you do anything?” I said. “Because somebody tells you to.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“Yes. I'm alone. I'm in a hotel room in Everett on business.”

“Do you have a mistress?”

“Why?”

“Just curious what kind of marriage you have.”

“If I had a mistress, I'd want to tell her things.”

“That's a no?” I said.

“I don't have a mistress.”

I hung up, waited five minutes, and dialed again from the other phone.

“I wish you'd stop doing that,” he said when he answered.

“I can't take the risk of a long, drawn-out reminiscence. What have you got to tell me?”

“Your mother is sick.”

“She's always been sick.”

“Dying sick,” he said.

“I see. What is she dying of?”

“Lung cancer.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know.”

I always believed I would see her again, that my last words to her would be replaced with new last words. It never occurred to me that my mother would leave this world before I had a chance to forgive her. I must have been silent for a while.

“Are you still there?” Ryan asked.

“Yes.”

“I think you should get out of the country,” he said.

“What makes you think I'm still in this country?”

“I can help you with a passport, if you need it.”

“Good to know,” I said. There was no point in providing any details of my life.

“I just put another thousand dollars on your card. I'll send more when I can.”

“You're a man of your word,” I said.