“Not a bad neighborhood,” the driver says with a whistle. “Check out the lawn frogs on that one.”
I don’t bother to look. I’m too busy trying to come up with other places to run. It’s harder than I would’ve thought. Thanks to the FBI’s original background check, my file is filled with my entire network. Family, friends. That’s how they check you out-they take your world. Which means if I’m looking for help, I have to step outside the maze. The thing is, if someone’s outside the maze, there’s usually a good reason for it.
“There it is,” I say, pointing to what I have to admit is a stunning New England-style colonial on the corner of Buckboard Place.
“Turn here?” the cab driver asks.
“No, keep going straight.” As we pass the house, I turn around and watch it through the back window. About two hundred yards away, I point to the empty driveway of a messy little rambler. Unkempt lawn, peeling shutters. Just like our old place. The black eye of the block. “Pull in here,” I say, studying the dusty front windows. No one’s home. These people work.
Without a word, we roll into the driveway, which runs perpendicular to the street. He pulls the cab in so that everything but the back window and the trunk are hidden by the house next door. It’s a great hiding spot-a room with a view.
Diagonally down the block, I keep my eyes on the old colonial. It’s got a spacious two-car garage. The driveway’s empty.
“So how long until he gets back?” the cabbie asks. “You’re running up some serious tab.”
“I told you, I’ll cover it. Besides,” I add, looking down at my watch, “he’ll be here soon-he doesn’t work full days anymore.”
Settling in for the wait, the cab driver reaches for the radio. “How about I turn on the news, so we can-”
“No!” I bark.
He raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you want, man,” he says. “Whatever you want.”
Within fifteen minutes, Henry Meyerowitz turns onto the block in his own personal midlife crisis-a 1963 jet black Porsche roadster convertible. I shake my head at the
personalized plates. I hate my mother’s family.
To be fair, though, he’s the only one who ever reached out to me. At the funeral, he told me I should give him a call-that he’d love to take me out to a nice dinner. When he heard I got a job at the White House, he reiterated the offer. Hoping for a family connection that might mean something, I took him up on it. I remember trekking out here the week after I started work-even used a AAA map to negotiate the side streets-but it wasn’t until I was weaving my way through the actual neighborhood that I realized they didn’t invite my dad. Just me. Just the White House.
Too bad for them it’s always been a package deal. I don’t care if they’re the other side of the family-they did the same thing with my mom. If they didn’t want my parents, they couldn’t have me. After sitting parked around the corner for close to an hour, I drove to a gas station pay phone and told him something had come up. I never contacted him again. Until now.
As Henry makes a left onto Buckboard Place, I reach for the taxi door handle. I’m about to open it when I notice the black sedan that follows him into his driveway. Two men get out of the car. Dark suits. Not as built as the Secret Service. Just like the guys in my building. Approaching my cousin, they open a folder and show him a photograph. I’m pretty far up the block, but I can read the body language from here.
I haven’t seen him, my cousin says with a shake of his head.
Do you mind if we come in anyway? the first agent asks, pointing toward the door.
Just in case he shows up, the second agent adds.
Henry Meyerowitz doesn’t have much of a choice. He shrugs. And waves them in.
The front door of the New England-style colonial is about to slam in my face.
“Let’s get out of here,” I tell the driver.
“Huh?”
“Just get out of here. Please.”
The FBI agents are following my cousin inside. Instinctively, the cabbie turns the ignition and the engine roars.
“Not yet!” I yell. It’s too late. The car coughs to life. The agent closest to the door stops. I don’t move. From the doorway, the agent turns around and looks our way. He’s squinting hard, but doesn’t see a thing. It’s okay, I tell myself. From this angle, I think we’re-
“There!” he shouts, pointing right at us. “He’s up there!”
“FBI!” the first agent yells, pulling out a badge.
“Get out of here!” I shout to the cab driver.
He doesn’t move.
“What’re you waiting for!?”
The sad look in his eyes says it all. He’s not risking his livelihood for a fare. “Sorry, kid.”
I look out the back window. Both agents are closing in. The decision’s easy. I’m not going to be a prisoner. Out here, I still have a chance. And if I give myself up, I’ll never find the truth.
I kick open the door and scramble out. Knowing that there’s only a few dollars left in my wallet, I tear off my presidential cufflinks, toss them in the cabbie’s window, and take off. Unsure of where to go, I dart farther up the driveway and around the side of the house. Behind me, the cab driver pulls backwards at a 45-degree angle-just enough to block the driveway and get in the agents’ way.
“Get this piece of crap out of here!” one of the agents yells as I tear into the backyard. I grab two posts of the wooden fence surrounding the yard and hoist myself over. Landing in the backyard of the abutting house, I hear the FBI climbing over the cab, their shoes thunking against its metal hood.
“He’s in the other backyard!” one of the agents shouts.
I dash out toward the front of the house and find myself on a neighboring block. Rushing across the street, I run up a driveway toward the backyard of a third house. In this yard, the fence at the rear of the property is too high to scale, but the ones at the sides are shorter. I go over one into the backyard on the right. From there I hurdle the back fence and exit out onto another new block. From the quick look I got as they ran toward the cab, both agents appeared to be in their early forties. I’m twenty-nine. That should be all it takes.
“Give it up, Garrick!” one of them shouts, only a backyard behind.
That’s when I remember I’m a lawyer.
House by house, he’s closing in. I feel it at each fence. His voice keeps getting louder. When I started running, he was at least a minute behind. Now it’s less than thirty seconds. But as I land in the backyard of a beige Tudor-style home, I look up just in time to see my best way out: an enormous blue-and-white Metro bus blows past the driveway trailing a smokescreen of black exhaust. As it passes, its brakes scream. It’s stopping! I sprint down the driveway. Sure enough, as I turn onto the street, it’s waiting at the corner.
“Hold it!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
On board, an old woman carrying a mesh bag of groceries is teetering down the stairs.
I’m running full speed; it’s almost within reach. She reaches the sidewalk and waves goodbye to the bus driver. My hand brushes against the bus’s back right tire as I lunge for the door.
“FBI!” the agent shouts behind me. “Don’t let him in!”
I reach out my hand… almost there… If I make it in, I’m as good as-
The door slams before I get there. That’s the end. I missed it… I can’t believe I missed it. The bus lurches forward, kicking a cloud of black smoke in my face. I turn around and spot the FBI agent less than fifty feet up the block. I’m too out of breath… I can’t… But there’s no choice. I dash across the street and up the driveway of the nearest house. Within seconds, I’m in the backyard. Unlike the others, this yard is enclosed by a black wrought iron gate. At six feet, it’s too high to climb. I look for another way out. The agent’s already in the driveway. Nowhere to go but up.