I thought about his request, but I knew there was no chance of her answering me. It was like getting ready to ask for our first date. Except that back then, I only feared she hated me. Now I knew she did.
“OK. But I should text, not call. Because if you want Carolyn to cooperate, using me as the messenger may not be the way to go.”
“I disagree.” McKenna shook his head. “I know about the spat you guys are having, but think about it. If you’re right and she somehow reached out to Weimann last night, she could have thought it was the quickest way to get the stick back for her cronies. That’s one explanation. But equally, she could have done it to take the heat off you. Which shows she still cares about you. And will listen to you.”
I felt a brief flicker of hope, hearing his words. But it was soon snuffed out by other thoughts. Like how she cared more about worming her way into LeBrock’s affections—and his bed—than standing by her husband.
“Come on, Marc. Try. And if she doesn’t respond to you, we’ll take the next shot. But it’ll go a lot easier on her if we don’t have to.”
“All right. I will. How do you want me to handle it?”
“First, confirm she has the stick. Then, set up a drop. There’s a drive-through ATM in Pound Ridge. Tell her to approach it at three pm, today. Wait in line if other customers are there. Then put the stick on top of the machine, and drive away.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Ask if she made copies. If she did, we’ll need those, too. And the computer she copied them on.”
“Understood.”
“Thank you, Marc. I know this has been a rough ride, and I appreciate you sticking with the program.”
I nodded, then picked up my phone and starting keying in what I hoped would be a suitable message. But I didn’t tell McKenna my real motive for helping him. I wasn’t doing it out of patriotic duty. Or gratitude. Or to spare Carolyn from whatever alternative approach he’d been hinting at.
After everything she’d done, I just wanted to have a hand in bringing her down.
Saturday. Early afternoon.
THE ATM MCKENNA HAD PICKED FOR THE AMBUSH WAS A HUNDRED yards outside the original part of Pound Ridge.
There was only one entrance, flanked by a pair of huge stone eagles. Beyond that the lane forked, leading to two separate machines. An iron-and-glass roof covered a generous area, extending way out in all four directions. The pitch was exaggeratedly steep, and it came down very low at the sides. And bizarrely, that made it reminiscent of a bird feeder Carolyn had bought for our backyard when we first moved in together.
McKenna told me to park the car near the exit to a yard where someone had spread out all kinds of broken-down, rusty agricultural artifacts. I guessed they were for sale. In the town where I grew up, they’d have been called junk. Here, I bet they were called art. With price tags to match, no doubt. The white van had arrived before us, and was already sitting at the edge of the ATM forecourt.
“Where are the others?” I asked, after McKenna stopped me from switching off the engine.
“Patience. All will be revealed.”
“Did we have to get here so early?” I looked at my watch. It was only 2:07 pm. Still the better part of an hour to wait.
“We did. If you want to intercept your target, you have to be there first. That’s common sense. I just hope your wife uses common sense, too, Marc. I hope she shows up. And brings the memory stick. And that it’s the right one.”
“What if she doesn’t show up? What if something stops her? If she gets in an accident?”
“Let’s not borrow trouble. In the meantime, stay focused. You’re still her husband. If she’s not driving her own car, you’ve got the best chance of spotting her.”
I MUST HAVE CHANGED my mind four hundred times over the next forty minutes, endlessly cycling through increasingly crazy and desperate reasons for wanting Carolyn to appear on time, then hoping she wouldn’t come at all. All the contradictory mental flick-flacks were exhausting, so by the time I saw a car approaching the ATM—a white Camry—at just after quarter-till, I doubt there was any trace of emotion left in my voice.
“It’s not her.”
The Camry’s driver took her time at the machine, and was still there when a red Volvo pulled into the other lane.
“Not her.”
The Camry was replaced by a dark blue Chevy Volt.
“No.”
A silver Grand Cherokee nosed in behind the Volvo.
“Not her.”
The Volvo pulled away, the Cherokee moved up, and a black Chrysler 200 took the place of the Chevy.
“Not her.”
The Cherokee gave way to a blue Dodge minivan.
“No.”
The Chrysler swapped with a red Volvo.
“Not her.”
The minivan rolled forward, and was followed up by a Camry. In white.
“Wait a minute!”
McKenna winked at me.
The same six cars—driven, I now understood, by McKenna’s agents—kept up their slow-motion ballet for the next twelve minutes. They never appeared in the same order. And they never left either ATM lane vacant, even when a stray civilian got in on the act.
The effect was mesmerizing. Before long I was making little bets with myself. Which car would be next? Which direction would it approach from? Which lane would it take? The process was strangely addictive, so it was almost an anti-climax when, at three minutes to three, I finally caught sight of Carolyn’s car.
“There she is. A little early.”
“Silver BMW.” McKenna spoke calmly into a handheld radio. “License plate alpha mike golf, one two zero one. Incoming, from the south. Places, everyone. You know what to do.”
CAROLYN’S CAR WASN’T MOVING FAST, and when it signaled, turned, and pulled smoothly up to wait behind the minivan, you’d have thought she was just an ordinary shopper needing some cash before getting the last of her groceries.
The driver in the Dodge finished her withdrawal and moved forward, heading for the exit. It was a perfectly innocuous maneuver. But she hadn’t noticed the Chevy was also leaving, and was set to reach the point where the lanes merged again at exactly the same moment. The Chevy’s horn blared. Its driver hit the brakes. The Dodge swerved, and took half a second longer to stop.
I couldn’t tell if the cars had actually collided. They were too far away. But if they hadn’t, it would be a miracle.
I glanced across at McKenna, but as usual his expression gave nothing away.
For ten drawn-out seconds no one moved. The mismatched vehicles remained locked in a kind of David-and-Goliath standoff on the far side of the ATMs. Then the Chevy pulled back six feet, the driver giving himself room to trace an exaggerated semi-circle around the front of the minivan before straightening and heading out through the exit.
The Dodge driver showed a little more caution after that, and when she finally moved on, Carolyn was left with the whole ATM area to herself. Her car rolled forward and the driver’s door opened. I caught a glimpse of blond hair escaping from a baseball cap as her arm reached out and she placed a black nylon computer case at the foot of the nearer machine.
She’d been told to leave the bag on top of the ATM, but still. Carolyn was done for. The net would close around her any second …
But the net didn’t close. Carolyn just shut her door and drove back toward the street, slowly and calmly. No revving of her engine. No screeching of her tires. And no agents to surround her, and lead her away in handcuffs to face the fate she so richly deserved.
Outraged, I reached for the gearshift. But before I could move it out of Park, McKenna stretched across and turned off the ignition.
“Calm yourself. There’s no rush. Let’s see what she left us. If we’re not happy, then we’ll go after her.”
“How? She’s getting away. We don’t know where she’s going!”