“The problem for you is that the cops know where I am and why.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so; this doesn’t feel like a police operation. I think you’re the Lone Ranger here, Andy.” He laughs again. “Except you forgot your silver bullets.”
I look out the window and see that we’re in the countryside, a run-down area of trailer homes and poorly maintained farms. This is where I’m going to die. The fear is so palpable that I am in danger of throwing up.
“There’s a record of where I am. They’ll piece things together.”
He points to the limo driver. “He looks like you, doesn’t he, Andy? He’s going to fly back on your ticket. His fellow passengers won’t look closely enough; they’ll say it was you. So you obviously got killed when you got back home.”
The car pulls to a stop near what look like run-down warehouses, maybe farm storage buildings, I can’t tell. For the life of me, and I mean that literally, I can’t figure out what to do.
“Get out, Andy.”
The door locks pop up, allowing me to open the door. I get out, then notice that the driver is already out and is pointing his gun at me. Eliot gets out after me.
My back is to an open field, and I steal a glance at it to judge whether I’d have any chance making a break for it.
Eliot reads my mind. “Think you can make it, Andy? There’s a lot of open space.”
I can hear the driver chuckling as I consider it. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I’d rather we could talk this out.”
“Be serious,” he says, then points to the field. “Go on, I’ll give you a five-second head start.”
I look at the field again. “No,” I say, and then I take off running. I move in a ridiculous zigzag pattern, hoping to make them miss. Ray Charles couldn’t miss from this distance.
I’m running, cringing, and audibly moaning all at the same time, waiting for the burst of fire that will cut me down. All I hear behind me is Eliot laughing, as he must be slowly raising his gun.
A burst of gunfire crackles in the air, and I tense, bracing for the metal that will tear into my body. I don’t feel anything, and for one bizarre moment I try to figure out which is faster, the speed of sound or the speed of a bullet.
I keep running as fast as I can. If they missed once, they can miss again. But I don’t hear any more firing. I’m not yet confident; there is no reason to think they’ve let me off the hook. But as long as I’m alive, I’m going to do all I can to stay that way.
“Hey, asshole, get back here!”
The voice isn’t Eliot’s but it sounds familiar. I continue running but turn at an angle where I can quickly look back to where the car is.
There are now two cars there, two men standing, and two lying on the ground. One of the guys on the ground is dressed like Eliot. I can’t tell who the two guys standing are, but they called me “asshole,” so they must know me. If they wanted to kill me, they could have easily done so already, so I hesitantly walk back toward them.
As I get closer, I can see that the other man on the ground is the limo driver. The two standing are Gorilla and Driver, the men who work for Petrone who took Marcus and me to his house that night.
“You saved my life,” I say.
“No shit,” says Driver.
“Petrone sent you,” I say.
“No shit.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Driver shrugs. “We didn’t. We were after him.” He points to the very dead Eliot.
“How did Petrone know about him?” I ask. Getting information out of Driver is not the easiest thing in the world.
“Your pain-in-the-ass friend.”
I realize immediately whom he is talking about. “Vince.”
“No shit.”
Driver offers me a ride back, and we wait while Gorilla digs an enormous grave to put the two bodies in. He does so with a minimum of effort; Gorilla is one strong guy.
“You might want to avoid mentioning this to anyone,” says Driver. “Or he’ll be digging a hole for you.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“That’s a first.”
They drive me back to the city. Very little is said on the way, though Gorilla remembers, “Your fucking dog bit my leg.”
“I’ll speak to her about it as soon as I get back. I’m sure she’ll send you a note of apology.”
They drop me off on the outskirts of town, and I take a cab to the hotel. Laurie has been frantic with worry, but Marcus seems to have handled it well.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asks.
I tell them the whole story, though I come off somewhat more heroic in the telling than I did in real life. For instance, in my version I had thrown Eliot to the ground and was about to disarm him when Driver and Gorilla showed up.
She listens patiently, then asks, “You want to tell us the real story?”
“Not particularly.”
Marcus doesn’t seem mesmerized by my account. Midway through it he gazes out the window toward the Taco Bell that he insisted be near the hotel. “You guys hungry?” he asks.
• • • • •
ELIOT KENDALL’S disappearance is a major national story. It’s been two weeks now, and speculation runs rampant on where the heir to the Kendall fortune could be. I, of course, know exactly where he is, and that he is permanently sucking dirt. It bothers me that I am aware of two violent deaths and haven’t done my civic duty and gone to the police, but I’ll get over it.
Vince was unapologetic about informing Petrone of Eliot’s guilt. He wanted to make sure that Eliot got the punishment due him, and he had more confidence in Petrone’s ability to make that happen than he had in mine. In retrospect, he certainly was right.
I’ve had three conversations with Vince since coming home, and he’s probably mentioned that he saved my life a hundred and fifty times. The last twenty times I haven’t thanked him, but that hasn’t slowed him down any.
The incident in Cleveland has stayed with me. I was literally running for my life, and I fully expected to die. I know it’s a cliché to say that experiences like that put things in perspective, but they really do. The experience has changed me, and I’ve been trying to focus on that which is important, and that means focusing on those I love.
I’ve been spending as much time as I can with Laurie and Tara, and today we’re hiking in the rolling mountains in northwest New Jersey. Nothing too arduous; I haven’t changed that much. But the air is cold, and it feels good to be outside, especially with Laurie and Tara. There’s an inch of snow on the ground, and Tara loves to roll around in it.
About a half hour into the hike, Laurie says, “Doesn’t the fresh air feel wonderful?”
“You never talk about getting married,” I say.
“That answer wasn’t exactly on point,” she says.
“The fresh air feels wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Much better than stale air would feel, I’ll tell you that. So why don’t you ever talk about getting married?”
“It’s not something to talk about. It’s something to do or not do.”
“But you never mention it. That’s a little unusual, don’t you think?” I ask.
“Andy, are you asking me to marry you?”
Uh-oh. The direct approach. This is not my strong suit. The fact is, it’s not so much that I want to get married, but more that I want Laurie to want to. “Would you say yes if I did?”
She smiles slightly. “Okay, I’ll let you off the hook and answer your question without you having to ask it. No, I don’t want to marry you. Not now.”
I feel like somebody just hit me in the stomach with a seven-hundred-pound snowball. “Why?”