Sunday, late afternoon
Buzz Riley looked one last time at the bed he and his wife, Eloise, had shared for more than thirty-six years. He’d never been gone from home for long since she died of ovarian cancer the year before. He missed her every single day, a steady ache. Was the ache less than it had been six months ago? He didn’t know. His three kids worried about him, and hovered. At first it was good, but soon it was driving him nuts. He figured out they’d made a schedule to see him, especially on the weekends, and that drove him nuts too. He tried to tell them he needed time alone, to reflect, to remember, to enjoy fishing in his new fifteen-foot Blue Fin Dory, but they wouldn’t pay any attention. One of his kids and some of his grandkids were always with him, the kids pressed against his back at the center console.
He fastened his ancient army duffel bag, checked to see that all the kitchen appliances were turned off, something Eloise had trained him to do, locked the front door, and carefully set the house alarm, He walked to his 2007 blue Chrysler Sebring, the first convertible he’d ever owned. They’d bought it from their mail carrier—only nine thousand miles on it—a year before Eloise died. She loved to ride around with him with the top down, laughing like a teenager some-times, until one day she stuck her head out the side and an insect hit her front teeth. Buzz grinned at the memory of her shriek. He could still see her scrubbing her fingers manically over her teeth, trying to find a Kleenex.
He tossed his duffel into the passenger seat and slid across the soft black leather, closed the door. He patted the dashboard, still looking good as new, since he kept his baby cleaned and polished inside and out. He loved this car, only wondered in that moment if the damned thing had taken some of Eloise’s place in his affections.
“Nah,” he said aloud, and turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened. The engine didn’t even turn over.
He centered the steering wheel and turned the key again.
There was a small grinding noise that didn’t sound good, but then the engine roared to life, hummed smooth, and happy. He gave it some gas, listened to the sweet music. “Ah, there you go, beautiful.”
Buzz backed out of his driveway slowly because the neighborhood was always hopping, kids playing in the street, riding bikes. Didn’t matter if it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening, if it was still light there was action.
He waved to a couple of teenage boys who looked like they were going to smoke dope the minute he was out of sight, and they waved back. He was a retired cop, seven years now, but still a cop, and they knew it. His fingers itched sometimes to grab the little yahoos by the scruffs of their necks and shake some sense into their buzzed teenage heads.
He took a last look at his house, wondered how long it would be until he was home again. He knew he had no choice but to leave, with those crazy loons from the bank out for his hide—that young girl, Lissy, especially. Mr. Maitland had told him Lissy was probably sprung by the guy driving the getaway car, and confided that Dillon Savich would be taking over the case. Buzz liked him. Mr. Maitland treated Buzz like he was still a cop, even thanked him for saving Savich’s life.
Buzz had been to the Caribbean only once, with Eloise, on a cruise they’d hated, what with all his fellow cruisers running like pigs to the trough and the threat of a hurricane, which, thankfully, hadn’t materialized.
He figured if he got bored on Aruba, he could always island-hop— after all, he was on leave with pay. Island-hopping, that might be good, but not if it meant being stuck on a rocking boat for seven days.
At least he’d get a break from his kids cluttering around him all the time, trying to feed him, siccing his grandkids on him. It had been a zoo with them since he’d nearly bought the big one in the bank robbery. Buzz hadn’t called any of them to tell them he was leaving. Nope, he’d sent a blanket e-mail, and hadn’t answered any phone calls. He’d send everybody postcards.
The Sebring wasn’t running right. He had noticed some sputtering earlier, and now it was skipping, running rough. Whatever it was, it was getting worse. Maybe he shouldn’t drive the car to the airport. He had time to leave it at Jimmy’s—yeah, that’s what he’d do. He pulled out his cell phone and called Jimmy at home, told him he was going to leave it, and called a taxi.
Buzz switched lanes and drove over to Pepper Street, down a couple of blocks, and pulled into his friend Jimmy Turly’s auto shop Honest Abe’s Repairs. Buzz once asked him if there really was an Abe, but Jimmy said his mom told him it had a good sound to it, trustworthy and all.
Buzz left his convertible at the tail of a row of other broken-down cars, left the keys on top of the front driver’s-side tire, and climbed into the taxi that had pulled up sooner than he expected. They made it to Reagan Airport in under an hour. His plane wasn’t late—a miracle—and he checked his bag and made it through security without having to strip to his shorts or empty his carry-on. He boarded his 737 to Aruba, a flat island, he’d heard, with lots of casinos and white beaches. He didn’t like to gamble, but he did like to lie in the sun. No one could ever tell he had a tan, he was already so dark, but he liked the idea of just lying in the sand and listening to the waves break. He could still feel the mad rush of adrenaline and the pounding fear when that maniac stuck his .38 into his ear, and the leap of joy and excitement when he could finally fight back. And he’d made it, with Dillon Savich’s help, even managed to shoot that woman who was leading the gang. In thirty years as a cop he’d never come that close to dying, and had never had to kill someone. The Washington Post had called him a hero, run his picture with Savich standing next to him, looking like one mean dude, despite his grin. At least he was alive, and although Eloise was gone, it felt wonderful.
He smiled. What an experience. It had changed something in him, he thought, made him feel more involved again in what people were doing around him, what they thought, how they felt. He liked it. He realized it felt vaguely familiar.
Buzz sat in a window seat, glad the seat next to him was still unoccupied, and looked out into the dying day when he noticed a closed utility door next to their gate slowly open. A young man, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, stuck out his head. To Buzz’s experienced eye, he looked furtive, like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be, wanting to do something he shouldn’t be doing. What was this all about? The young man looked straight up at the plane, and Buzz would swear the young guy looked straight at him, although Buzz doubted that was possible. He saw something change in the boy’s expression. He turned to speak to someone still inside, and suddenly Buzz clearly saw Lissy Smiley come out from behind him. He’d seen her up close the day of the robbery when Savich had pulled her ski mask off, stared at her for some time. No doubt in his mind it was her, even though he couldn’t see her crazy dark eyes from here.
He knew why the two of them were here. They’d come to kill him. But they were too late.
He wanted to wave his fist at them, yell and laugh at them that he was safe. Then Buzz wondered how they followed him here, remembered the trouble with his car. Had they rigged it to break down on the side of the road? Or to blow up? Had that taxi arriving early saved his life? He quickly turned his cell back on and dialed Dillon Savich, but there was no answer. He left a message.
Buzz watched the two young people fade back into the terminal, watched the utility door automatically close. He continued to ignore the flight attendant and dialed Mr. Maitland. He didn’t want to take a chance of Honest Abe’s blowing up, Jimmy along with it.
16
TITUSVILLE, VIRGINIA