The signs on the highway pointed them back to Boston. Twenty-four miles, the green marker said. Jane was doing eighty. More. Her door was open. Who had done such a thing? If nothing was taken, then why?
“Jane, listen, let me drive. You’re obviously-”
“No, Tuck, really.” Jane waved off her suggestion. “Driving gives me something else to think about. The police are coming, they’ll be there in a second. And it’ll be fine. I mean, whatever happened, it’s over? Right? And Neena will call me if they-I’m fine. Ish. Fine-ish. As fine as anyone could be.”
“Which is not that fine.”
Tuck had a point.
“No. Not that fine.”
The bare trees and spindled light posts flashed by, a surprising glint of sunlight melting the thin layer of snow into a damp sheen on the pavement. Jane tried the radio, briefly, news, jazz, oldies. It all seemed like noise. Her thoughts were jumbled enough. There was no appropriate sound track for fear.
Tuck propped both feet against the dashboard, wrapped her arms around her knees. “Listen, Jane?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you said back there you were only trying to get away from the truck. Not that you thought anyone was trying to scare you. Personally. But here’s the thing. First, the guy tailgates us within an inch of our lives. Yeah, okay, I could maybe buy that he’s a jerk and you blew him off with your fancy driving. But now there’s a breakin at your apartment? Again, sister. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
Jane swallowed, and tried to look like she wasn’t hiding something. She punched the radio again, stalling. There was nothing to hide, really. Or anything to tell. She’d gotten a threatening phone call. Tuck had probably gotten her share of calls like that, too. Jane had weaseled some probably confidential info about a murder victim from a DFS caseworker in a Celtics cap. Then someone in a Celtics cap had-
Was that something to tell?
Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely sure about Tuck. Yes, she was curious about the Brannigan’s mistake. If it was a mistake. Why would they send Tuck to the wrong mother? Jane could not resist a puzzle like that. And it wasn’t as if she could go to her regular job today, anyway.
But being in the car together didn’t mean she was required to tell Tuck everything. Or anything.
“Listen, Tuck. I’m as confused as you are. But now, I need to see my apartment. I need to know everything’s okay. Then I’ll be able to think.”
A perky voice on the radio was apologizing. “Sorry about that, folks, turns out the snow wasn’t as bad as we’d predicted. The winds over the ocean changed to the…”
Another mile marker. Twenty miles to Boston.
“See? Almost there,” Jane said. Maybe they should talk about something else. “You better call Carlyn Beerman.”
“You think your breakin’s a random thing?” Tuck slurped the last of her coffee, and shoved her jumbo cup into the holder beside her. “You hear about all these kids, breaking into homes for fun, or whatever. It’s February break. Maybe it’s some stupid prank.”
Tears welled in Jane’s eyes, briefly blurring the road ahead. Would she never get home? “Maybe. Neena said it didn’t look like anything was disturbed, or taken. But the cat. If she got out, poor thing, she has no idea where to go.”
“Don’t think about it.” Tuck patted Jane’s arm, reassuring. “Neena knows, they’ll probably call any minute, say they found her. We have to get you home.”
“Shit,” Jane said.
A black truck was behind them. No question. Right there, in the rearview. Jane’s stomach twisted, and sweat prickled the back of her neck.
“Shit, shit, shit. Is that-Look behind us, Tuck. A black truck.”
“Whoa.” Tuck clicked off her seat belt and twisted in the seat to look, knocking her empty paper cup onto Jane’s lap.
“Oh, sorry. Damn it.” Tuck fussed with a paper napkin.
“Just. Look. At the truck.” Jane’s shoulders clenched, her eyes narrowing in anger. This was too much. She was calling the police. She was calling everyone. And she was not letting this story go. If someone cared this much, she was on to something. Whoever it was. Whatever it was. She had to get home, and then she had to get to Alex. And then she had to talk to Jake. Life was too short.
“What?” Jane said. Tuck had made a funny sound, a gasp or something. “What?”
“We’re both losing it,” Tuck said. “There are two girls in the truck, a license plate on the front, it’s a Ford, it’s totally different. Let’s get you home, sister.”
Sixteen miles to Boston. The rolling hills of suburban Newton were in front of them. Soon they’d see the architecturally preposterous hotel built on the highway overpass, then the snaking off-ramps to Newton Corner and Cambridge and the Charles River parks. Almost home.
With a whoosh of speed, the black truck passed them, rattling the Audi’s windows. Just another random Boston driver, ignoring the speed limit. Unlike the truck that targeted them this morning. That one-Jane was no longer even trying to talk herself out of it-was not random. That guy was trying to scare her.
Why? That she did not know. But she was sure of who was driving. That was a slam dunk. Now she would prove it. Time to take control.
“Listen, Tuck,” Jane said. “Remember, before, I wanted you to do me a favor?”
“Oh, right. What?”
Jane grabbed her cell phone, handed it across the seat.
“Punch in ‘recent contacts.’ See it says DFS?”
“Yeah. Who’s DFS? You want me to call him?”
“Nope. Don’t call from my phone. I really want to leave it open in case Neena calls. Just get the number.”
Tuck thumbed in, following Jane’s instructions, then scrolled through the contacts. “Okay, got it.”
“Now, call from your phone. Okay? If they have caller ID it won’t matter. It’s a state office.”
Tuck was already tapping in numbers. “What state office? It’s ringing. Now what?’
“Ask for Finn Eberhardt,” Jane said. “I want to find out if he’s there. See what they say when you ask for him.”
“Finn Eberhardt? Who’s he?” Tuck had the cell phone pressed to her ear. “Oh, I get it. DFS. Family Services. Is it good if he’s there, or good if he’s not there? It’s still ringing.”
Jane imagined the voluptuous Vee, remembering her laissez-faire attitude toward her receptionist duties. “Yeah. I’m not surprised. Ask for him. If he answers, say oh, sorry, wrong number. I’ll tell you about it after.”
“Very myster-Oh, hello, may I speak to-”
She looked at Jane, grimacing, wriggled her fingers in a “give it to me again” gesture.
“Finn Eberhardt,” Jane mouthed the name.
“Finn Eberhardt?” Tuck said to the operator.
Twelve miles to Boston. The signs pointed them to Fenway Park, then the new tunnel to the lofty Prudential Center and Boston Public Library. An electronic billboard flashed lighted block letters: SNOW EMERGENCY CANCELED.
Tuck punched her phone onto speaker. Jane heard the crackly buzz, then a voice.
“This is Finn Eberhardt.”
Jane felt the warmth drain from her face. What? He was there? If Finn Eberhardt was at the Department of Family Services, in his office in Boston, he could not possibly have been in that Dodge truck on the Mass Pike. And could not have just been at her apartment. Could he? Had she been completely wrong? If so, who was in the truck?
Hang up! She pantomimed the action, as if Tuck held an old-fashioned receiver. Then she whispered, making sure Tuck would understand, “Hang up!”
Tuck clicked the button and stuffed her phone back into a pocket.
“What was that?” she said. “Finn-whoever answered. Is that good? Or bad?”
“I have to get home,” Jane said. That was first on the agenda.