“What did Sharon say?”
He looks at me offended, takes a moment. “She already said yes. She’s gonna settle the house and meet us later. What do you say, baby? You, me, and Sharon… like it was in the beginning. We’ll be set up for life and protected. But… well, there’s one thing.”
“What?” I don’t blink.
“It’s gonna be hard. Eddie’s got my address book, and if he thinks I’m still alive, he’ll go after Mom—you know, everyone. People will have to think we’re dead. The cops will have to give us complete new identities and move us somewhere in the country where no one will find us. They’re gonna have to fake our death certificates.” He is rambling and takes a deep breath. “It means we can never contact our families again.”
“What? Never?” An immediate sense of grief and sadness burns through my heart at the thought of never seeing my family again. This is cruel. I don’t want Eddie after my family because of me. I’m scared and can’t keep my anguish in anymore; I bury my head in his lap.
“I know. I know, babe. This is the hardest thing in the world to ask you. But I need you. Like I needed you to come back from Oregon. I never meant for this to happen. I only wanted to start over again. But this can be our fresh start anyway. We still can have it, baby. But… but if you don’t… I told them I wouldn’t do it if either of you said no. It’ll be dangerous without protection. But I’d rather be killed on the street than be alone… without you. I love you, Dawn!”
In my mind’s eye, glimpses of my life with John materialize and crash down hard like a terrible storm into broken pieces of concrete and rubble. All that’s left standing in my imagination is John and I, clinging onto each other in the center of an open, barren field. And like a nightmare that I know is mine, he is all that there is for me. Through swollen, burning eyes I look up at him. “Yes, John. I’ll come with you.”
He holds my face in his hands and whispers, “I love you,” as we rock to and fro on the edge of the bathtub. Wiping my tears and his, he kisses my forehead. “Come on. Let’s get some rest.” Sharon doesn’t look our way as we walk out of the bathroom together. She remains stonelike on the sill of the giant corner window, facing the busy lights from the construction site across the street.
We have a fitful sleep in spite of the Valium Sharon hands out to help us rest. After Sharon and I go to bed, John stays in the bathroom smoking the small amount of pot I snuck in for him. The fan buzzes loudly, and I can smell the pungent skunklike odor drift up from the cracks. I’m nervous John will make the police angry.
Finally he crawls under the covers between us, something he has only done when he, Sharon, and I were in Vegas together, and puts an arm over both of us. As I cuddle into him, I notice Sharon has her back toward him on the other side. This is how she always sleeps, but I think it’s cold, considering the emotional decision we’ve all just made to go undercover together.
At least that’s what John told me.
The next morning John is immediately summoned to the adjoining room with Big Tom, Lange, Sousa, and Tomlinson. Everything will be business for him from now on.
Sharon and I pick at our meals and play mindless games of Yahtzee and Scrabble, which we brought from the house, while John meets with the police and higher-ups. Mostly, though, Sharon takes to her usual seat at the window, staring intently at the comings and goings of the busy strangers below.
I say very little and think about the last time I saw my family and if I will be able to tell them good-bye before we leave. Maybe after a while we can come out of hiding and contact them again. I flip through channels, falling in and out of sleep on the California king as the heavy dose of Valium still pumps in my veins.
John returns periodically, an armed gunman glued to his side. Guzzling giant swigs from the Scotch bottle, he plants agitated kisses on our cheeks.
There’s a commotion in the afternoon on the first day. John and Detective Lange rush into the room and need the keys to the Glendale house in a hurry. “People have access to fake official uniforms—police, security—you know, they might try to get into the house,” Lange explains. He sends someone to pick up all of the family’s important papers—for our safety. Sharon doesn’t argue and hands over the keys, and I take this to mean that everything is going as planned. A real, suffocating panic from the impending danger threatens to steal the breath from my lungs and render me immobile, but the detectives are experts at keeping us calm.
After a long first day of interrogation, John returns. Visibly pale and exhausted. He kicks the door behind him and flips them the bird after the lock turns in the small suite for the night. “Fucking assholes. Sons a bitches. Let’s fucking eat.” We order lobster and cherries jubilee and again are served by the shotgun armed guards at our door. Sharon takes her cue and passes out the Valium like an evening mint and we escape, thankfully, into a deadened sleep.
Very early Wednesday morning we are given an alert. John and a handful of detectives rush in and unceremoniously pack our things. Big Tom approaches, explaining calmly, while John bounces off the walls, jumpy like a rubber band, continually wiping his hands on his jeans. “Our intelligence understands there are several contracts out on your lives; it’s been leaked that John is negotiating for the Witness Protection Program. Our sources are pretty sure he’s been located here. We are going to have to move you. We’ll do it separately and right away. We would appreciate it if you would allow these officers to assist you in your relocation. It’s important that we hurry!”
Instantly we switch to autopilot. The plainclothesman separates us, assigning two guards to each of us. Detectives armed with walkie-talkies and handguns in shoulder straps escort us out one by one in different directions. From the room to the elevator to the lobby, there are groups of cops stationed to check and double-check our status on their radios. The elaborate glass elevator descends; a large, heavy, calloused hand weighs itself on my head, and a matching booming voice orders me to keep low. Every action is like a sharp, swift stroke of a perfectly timed blade. When we hit the street in the harsh light of an overcast day, there is but a minute to notice the onlookers or to be noticed by them.
“Stay down,” the officer in charge repeats, holding my head down for the climb into a waiting car. With their hands inside their shoulder holsters, two men on either side lean over me in the backseat, peering up at the hovering skyscrapers of Los Angeles.
What are they doing? Are they protecting me from snipers? I wonder, strangely numb and removed. This is like scenes from Hawaii Five-O. This can’t be real. I worry about Sharon and John. What’s going on in their minds? Are they getting shot at?
A few blocks away the Biltmore Hotel, a 1920s classy brick building with ornate columns and marble carvings, spreads out over large green parks and taller contemporary skyscrapers. The black undercover car I’m in pulls into a back service entrance, where we meet yet another pair of cops waiting to escort us from the loading dock to the kitchen service elevator.
The eleventh floor of the Biltmore Hotel hosts the presidential suite. Royally decorated, it is used for just that—presidents. I think of the Kennedys and magazine images I remember of the White House in the 1960s. John and Sharon are already settling into the master bedroom when I am ushered in. These are to be our quarters. The kitchen, dining room, smaller bedrooms, and huge sunken living room are arranged for the police and the “important people” John is preparing to meet.