‘Something like this, it’s… it’s unbelievable.’ She forced an ironic snort through her shaky voice and sniffles. ‘That’s why we moved upstate, because we thought it would be safer.’
‘I know… I know.’ Falling… the breath grunting out of him as his legs finally gave way, sinking to his knees as he clung to the telephone table with his other hand.
‘I started my calls at six, not long after the police left. Relatives, friends… and I called you, Lenny, not only because you’re a good old friend of mine and Alan’s, but because I wondered what you wanted done now with that envelope you sent — ifI can find where Alan put it?’
‘ Oh?’ Not daring to tell this mother of two — this widow— that it probably wasn’t there any longer and that her husband had very likely been killed because of it. Truelle looked towards the clock for the first time: 8.08 a.m.
She forced an awkward, tremulous chuckle. ‘I remember him smiling about it at the time, because you’d given instructions of what to do if anything happened to you… but not what to do if anything happened to him.’
‘Well, I… I hadn’t really thought about that.’ He swallowed hard, closed his eyes. City lights still spinning in his head, along with an image of Alan being shot and Maggie screaming and spilling tears over his prone body when she found him, her two children shaking and fearful in the background. ‘And I… I can’t really think clearly about it now.’ He took a fresh breath. ‘And you… you’ve got other things to worry about right now.’
‘I know.’ Sniffling, the tears close again.
‘There… there’s no urgency. I’ll give you a call in a few days time when I’ve thought about it and things have settled down more your end.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And again, Maggie, I’m sorry… so sorry. If there’s anything I can do over these coming days, anything…don’t hesitate to contact me.’
But Truelle found it difficult to stand up again after they signed off, still gripping to the table as if it was that last raft or the edge of a high building. Oh God… Oh God!
But why now? If they’d known of Alan’s whereabouts all along, then why not just after he’d first sent the envelope? Or maybe it was just a terrible coincidence. People got shot in upstate New York too. Or was it because of Ayliss visiting him yesterday and him then going AWOL. Nel-M fearing the worst and not able to catch up with him, so…
Truelle got up then, in fact leapt back a full two paces from the phone as if it had given him a high-voltage shock, staring back at it accusingly as he recalled the message that had come in the night before from Chris Tullington in Vancouver.
‘ Be careful where you call from with anything too juicy or incriminating. Your phones might well be bugged.’ McElroy too had warned him earlier, but he’d already had his lines checked and cleared! Office andhome.
He’d also spoken to Chris two weeks back when he’d first sent the envelopes. He racked his brain for what might have been said then, shaking his head after a moment; it hardly mattered now. If for whatever reason everything was going down now, Chris was in danger, and himself: if his line was bugged, they’d now know he was back at his apartment. Nel-M could be on his way already.
He shrank back another pace from the phone, then rushed over to the window, looking out. No Nel-M in sight, nothing else that looked out of place or worrying. He grabbed his keys, a handful of coins from a side-drawer, and leapt breakneck down the apartment building steps. He gave the street a furtive each-way scan, then ran round the corner, finally settling on a kiosk three blocks away, in case Nel-M meanwhile pulled up by his place.
His hand shook wildly as he anxiously fed in the coins and dialled Chris’s number.
‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like Chris’s wife Brenda.
‘Is… is Chris there?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ The tone subdued, grave. ‘I’m afraid something’s happened. Who is it calling?’
Truelle’s stomach plummeted. Something’s happened! ‘It’s, Len… uuuh, a friend. What’s happened?’
‘I’m a RCMP liaison officer, Jackie Melkin. And I’m sorry to have to report that there was a serious incident earlier this morning involving Mr Tullington, a homicide, and his wife’s not able to speak to anyone — because she was injured too in the incident. You say you’re a friend of the Tullingtons… Len, was it? Could I have your full name, please, sir? I have strict instructions to make a list of all callers.’
‘I… uuuh, it… it doesn’t matter.’ He hung up abruptly. Not sure where the conversation would head, or if he’d even be ableto talk any more. His writhing nerves had tightened around his chest and throat like a vice, so that he could hardly breathe — all that came out was a strangled, breathless gasp as he clenched his eyes shut and banged one fist repeatedly against the kiosk glass. No, no, no…. no…. no! But you had your lines cleared of bugs! You had them cleared!
He could no longer be sure of that until he’d made one more call; but he didn’t have time now. He had to get away. As far away as possible!
He made a quick stop at a deli for a take-out coffee to clear the dust from his throat and his head-throb from last night, sharpen his senses — though fear and adrenalin seemed to have already done half of that job for him. And running on that high-octane mix of fear, adrenalin, caffeine, and night-before Jim Beams and brandies, within seven minutes he had everything he needed from his apartment packed in a suitcase and was heading back down the stairs.
A final anxious scan of the road outside, having already checked every other minute while packing, then he scampered a block round the corner and hailed a cab to an internet cafe in Metairie where he’d make the rest of his travel arrangements.
Cuba! The remotest-placed friend he could think of — probably the onlyone of his old friends who hadn’t yet been shot. Not a million miles away, but with US travel restrictions a nightmare to get to: he’d be travelling half the day with stop-offs at Atlanta, Miami and Nassau to get there. Then a six hour drive from Havana.
The arrangements made, he suddenly thought of something he’d forgotten. He couldn’t leave it in his office, yet he couldn’t risk going back there, either. He checked his watch. 8.46 a.m. He called Cynthia’s cell-phone — he’d need to tell her he’d be away for a few days in any case — and instructed her where to find what he needed and the P.O. Box in Cuba to send it to.
‘DHL… immediately you get to the office. And don’t for God’s sake tell anyonewhere I’ve gone.’
Anyone? She told him about Nel-M’s visit the day before. ‘Big black guy, eyes like a dead frog’s. Seemed to be the day for people barging into your office.’
‘Him in particular don’t tell.’
But Cynthia knew that something was seriously wrong, probably from the breathless, rapid-staccato way he spat everything out, as if afraid a minute later it would be too late; and as the questions started to come, he cut her short.
‘I can’t tell you, Cynthia. I can’t.’ I might have set up an innocent man, and everyone who gets near to knowing about it ends up dead! The stale drink, caffeine and sour bile was like a bubbling quagmire surging up through his lungs. Hard to breathe! The throbbing in his head and body’s trembling was so heavy that it felt as if a limb might fall off at any second. ‘I just need to get away for a few days, that’s all. Just DHL that package straightaway and don’t tell anyonewhere I’ve gone — you’ll be okay. And Cynthia: be especially careful what you say on the office line. It might be bugged.’