Don't Look Behind You (5 page)

“Uncle Max will be mad if you do,” Bram piped up nervously. His face was white, and his lower lip was trembling. “He told us we couldn't call anybody, even Lorelei.”

“I couldn't care less how mad he gets,” Mom said. “Jim's disappeared, and we have no way of knowing what's happened to him. It's Max's responsibility to see that we're protected, and if Jim is in trouble, then Max needs to deal with that.”

She called Max first on his cell and then at his home, and finally ended up leaving a message on his voicemail. Then we settled ourselves in for an evening of tedious waiting. The drab, gray afternoon skies slid into twilight and then into darkness without the grace of a sunset. Lights went on in the windows of the wing across from ours, but the night was too damp for people to be out on the patio, and an eerie quiet replaced the usual bustle of social activity in the party area under our windows. Mom didn't want to open our door to room service, so we dined on cheese and crackers and Bram's stash of candy bars, while outside our balcony door the rain kept oozing down in a halfhearted drizzle, streaking the glass with slivers that looked like tears.

When Max arrived at last it was three in the morning. Although none of us was in bed, Bram was asleep on the sofa and Mom and I were dozing in chairs in the living room. One glimpse of Max's grim face dispelled all my drowsiness. It was clear that he hadn't come with reassuring news.

“Have you talked to Jim?” Mom asked him.

Max shook his head. “We can't afford to wait to hear from him either. Get packed as fast as you can so we can get out of here. In another ten minutes this place will be swarming with cops, with the media perched on their shoulders like a bunch of vultures. I don't want you people interrogated by the city police, who don't know your situation and may leak your identities.”

So we stole away in the night like escaping criminals. With Mom steering my sleepwalking brother by the shoulders, we took the service elevator down to the kitchen, where we groped our way through a maze of counters and stove tops. The darkness was broken at erratic intervals by the nervous flicker of dials on microwave ovens, and we left the building by a door that led to a service ramp.

Max's car was parked behind the garbage bins at the back of the hotel. The odor of rancid meat and spoiling produce contrasted strangely with the damp, clean smell of the night as we loaded our bags in the trunk and got into the car. Once we were out on the freeway, Max turned in his seat.

“You said he was dressed as a maid. Did you see his face?”

“He was wearing a wig, so his hair was covered,” I told him. “I think, though, it must have been dark, because he had dark eyebrows. And his eyes were so black they looked like they didn't have irises.”

“I know who that is,” Max said. “His name's Mike Vamp. I should have guessed that he'd be the one they'd send for you.”

CHAPTER 6

The sky in the east was just beginning to
turn pink when we completed the sixty-mile drive to Williamsburg and Max pulled into a parking space in front of a motel on the edge of town. He got out of the car and unlocked the door of one of the units, and the rest of us followed him inside. The room was dimly lit, and it took me a moment to take in the fact that there was a man stretched out on one of the two double beds. Then he sat up, and I saw that it was my father.

“Dad!” I cried, and hurled myself into his arms. He hugged me back so hard I thought my ribs would crack. Then he stood up and held out his arms to Mom.

“Oh, George!” she exclaimed. “Thank heaven, you're really all right! I've been so frightened for you!”

“That goes both ways,” said Dad, holding her close and reaching out his other arm for Bram.

Max closed the door and carefully relocked it. “The big reunion can wait for later,” he said. “There are things I haven't told you yet, Liz.”

Mom turned in Dad's arms. “What sort of things?”

“Come sit down, honey,” Dad said gently, drawing her down beside him on one of the beds. “There's something important we're going to have to discuss.”

“Loftin's case is being appealed,” Max told us. “That means that in less than a week he'll be out on bail. It also means that if the judge decides there was a mistrial, George will have to testify all over again. He's still in serious danger, and so are the rest of you.”

“But we can't keep living in hotels forever!” I exclaimed, horrified by the thought of returning to the Mayflower.

“Of course you can't,” agreed Max. “That was an emergency measure, and it served its purpose, but now you need more permanent protection. Have any of you heard of the Federal Witness Security Program?”

The color left Mom's face. “Oh, Max, no way! You're not about to get us involved in that!”

“The program's run by the U.S. Marshals Service,” Max continued, ignoring her outburst as though he had not heard her. “It's supposed to be highly successful. Over fourteen thousand people have been relocated and helped to start their lives over in a safe environment.”

“Helped to start their lives over!” Mom repeated incredulously. “George and I are happy with the life we have! We love our home, we have friends and careers, our children are happy in their schools—how can you suggest we begin life over at this point?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked in bewilderment. I couldn't recall ever seeing Mom so upset.

“The Witness Security Program is just what the name implies,” Dad explained. “It's designed to provide protection for people whose lives are in danger because they've blown the whistle on federal criminals. The program relocates those witnesses and their families. They're secretly moved to a different part of the country and given new identities so nobody can trace them.”

“I don't want to move!” cried Bram. “Then I can't play with Chris!”

“And what about Steve?” I exclaimed. “I won't leave Steve!”

“I know this is tough,” Dad said. “I'd give the world if I hadn't gotten us into it, but the fact of it is, we
are
in it, and there's no pulling out. You know about the letters that I've been getting. After what happened today, we have to take them seriously.”

“The person who wrote those letters could be bluffing,” I said. There was no way I was going to agree to leave Norwood! “That man who tried to shove his way into our hotel room might only have been planning to scare us. There's no way we can be sure he intended to hurt us.”

“Mike Vamp doesn't play games, April,” Max said. “He's one of the most notorious hitmen in the country. It's not just because of his name that he's known as ‘the Vampire.' He follows the scent of blood as though he's got a hunger for it.”

I closed my ears to that statement. “I won't leave Steve!”

“I'm afraid you're not going to have much choice,” Max said. “There's something I haven't told you. We did find Jim tonight.”

“I don't understand,” began Mom. “Then why did we have to—”

“The reason I was in such a rush to get you out of the Mayflower was because I knew it was due to be invaded by police.” Max paused and then continued. “ Jim was shot in the head. His body was crammed in a linen closet at the end of the hall. He was carrying a gun, but he never got to use it. Apparently he wasn't able to get it out of his holster.”

For a moment we were all too stunned to react.

“His hands,” I finally whispered. “He had arthritis in his fingers.”

“Then he should have known better than to take on this job,” Max said. “The man was a former cop, he wasn't any neophyte.” He placed a hand on Dad's shoulder, and although he wasn't smiling, his voice had a reassuring warmth to it. “I've got to get back to Richmond and see to things there. If I make it home by tonight, I'll call you from Susie's place. Tomorrow I'll get the relocation paperwork started. The sooner we get you out of Virginia, the better.”

After he left, Dad went over and locked the door again. Then he came back and tried to put his arms around Mom.

“What happened tonight was tragic, but Max is right,” he said. “ Jim Peterson was a professional who acted irresponsibly. If he had a physical problem, he should have said so. If he couldn't do the job, he shouldn't have taken the assignment.”

“George, I don't want to hear this. Jim was our friend.” Mom pulled free of his embrace and turned to Bram and me. “Kids, get into bed and let's all try to sleep for a while. Maybe, when we wake up, this will make more sense to us. Either that, or it will all turn out to have been a nightmare.”

Of course, that didn't happen, but impossible as it seems, we did sleep heavily, as though we had been drugged by some gigantic tranquilizer with residual effects that lingered in our systems long after we awakened late in the morning.

We spent the days that followed sprawled across our beds, leafing through magazines and watching the same soap operas and nonsensical game shows that we had watched at the Mayflower. There was a question I knew I ought to be asking myself, but it was too painful to contemplate, so I let it slide away.

My mind felt fuzzy, unfocused, disconnected from my body. When I got up to switch channels or go to the bathroom, I felt as though I were groping my way through fog, and once Islammed into the corner of an open dresser drawer and nevereven noticed I had hurt myself until I was standing in the shower that night and glanced down to see a large purple bruise on my hip.

Later, I realized we were all in a state of shock. In my mind, of course, I knew that Jim was gone, but on a deeper level I didn't believe it. Every time I heard a car pull into the parking lot outside our motel room, I half expected the door of our room to pop open and Jim to come striding in with his arms filled with board games.

The account of Jim's murder rated only two paragraphs in the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
, but there was a lengthy obituary in the
Norwood Gazette
, which we found at a newsstand a block from our motel. I read it as though it was one of Mom's novels, a fictional story about an invented character. It listed as survivors a wife, two sons and a daughter, and a large assortment of grandchildren, but I wouldn't allow myself to think of them as people, just as a meaningless list of names without faces.

If I could have attended the funeral it might have been different. That ceremony gives death a stamp of authenticity, like the words “The End” on the final page of a novel. When Grandpa Clyde dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of a golf game, I couldn't accept that fact until I went with my parents to the funeral home and saw the flower-decked casket with my grandfather in it. Only then did his death become reality to me, and only then was I able to start my grieving.

Since we couldn't go to Jim's funeral, we tried not to think about it. The day came and went, a slate-gray day that was humid and heavy with rain clouds, and I knew that if Jim had been there his hands would have been aching. We closed off the sight of the day by drawing the drapes across the window and spent it as we did every other, reading and watching television, while outside the rain started falling, gently at first, and then progressively harder, on the roof, on the sidewalk, on the parking lot and, for all we knew, back in Norwood, on Jim Peterson's grave.

Max had not assigned us a replacement bodyguard, and he had not strictly forbidden us to leave our motel room. He had suggested that we go out as infrequently as possible, so we confined our outings to places like motel coffee shops and pizza parlors, and occasionally, in the evenings, we went to the movies. We'd been given a list of motels at which Max had made reservations for us, and at checkout time each day we left one motel and took a cab to the next. Every evening Max phoned us from his daughter's apartment to make sure we were safely resettled.

On the third night he told us we could expect a representative from the U.S. Marshals Service the following day. Rita Green, a sharp-featured woman in a tailored suit, arrived in the afternoon. She settled herself in a chair in the corner of our motel room and studied our faces as though she were casting a play and we were actors auditioning for parts.

“I'm here to discuss relocation arrangements,” she told us. “I assume that Max has explained the procedure to you.”

“Actually, we've been told very little,” Dad said. “Please fill us in on how things are going to be handled.”

“The first step, which we're working on now, is to fix you up with new identities,” Rita said. “There are several possible ways of going about that. We're obtaining yours by the ‘dead infant' method, Mr. Corrigan. With that, we search county birth records for a child who was born in approximately the same year you were but who is now deceased. We then apply for a copy of the birth certificate. Since records of births and deaths are not commonly cross-referenced, there's seldom any problem obtaining a duplicate.”

“What about the rest of the family?” Dad asked her. “They're going to have to have the same last name I do.”

“Since it makes no difference what your wife's maiden name was, we'll obtain her birth certificate the way we do yours,” Rita said. “Then we can have a marriage certificate made out in your new names and planted at a bureau of public records. Of course, in the case of the children, the birth certificates will need to be falsified so their last names will be the same as yours and their mother's. Once you have your birth records, we'll create passports too so you can travel. Then you can apply for other forms of identification like voter registrations under your new identities. After that it's a simple matter to get a driver's license.”

“What about putting the children in school?” asked Mom. “Won't they need to have transcripts and vaccination records?”

“We'll falsify those as we do the marriage certificate and have them mailed directly to your children's new schools from a small private school in Vermont that we use for that purpose. There are people there who work with us on school transcripts. They have more ‘former students' than any other school in the country.”

“You mean our grades won't count anymore?” Bram asked hopefully. “Can all my ‘Needs Improvements' be changed into ‘Excellents'?”

“That's the sort of thing we try not to do,” Rita said. “The transcripts should be a true reflection of your abilities. If your sister is poor in math, for example, and the math teacher at her new school decides to look up the grades she was making at her old school, we don't want her transcripts to make her out to be a math whiz. The less attention you draw to yourselves, the better. You don't want anything that's going to make people suspicious.”

“Where are you going to be sending us?” Dad asked her.

“That hasn't been decided yet,” Rita told him. “In fact, that's the principal reason I'm here today. We want to put you someplace where there's as little chance as possible of your running into people who knew you before. Because of that, I need to know something about your backgrounds.”

“I was born and grew up in Pittsburgh,” Dad said obligingly. “That's where my relatives live, what there are left of them. By that I mean there's an aunt and some cousins. My parents and brother were killed in a car wreck the summer after I graduated from high school. For the next few years I drifted, not caring much what I did, trying one job after another, the way kids do. When Liz and I met, I was working at a resort in the Catskills. I've never been west of the Mississippi River, and I've never been farther south than we are right now.”

“What about you, Mrs. Corrigan?” asked Rita.

“I'm an only child and grew up in Norwood,” Mom said. “My mother still lives there and is very active in social and civic affairs. Apart from her, I don't have any close relatives, and except for the years I spent at Duke University, I've never lived anyplace other than Virginia.”

“It sounds as though the West Coast might be a good location for you,” Rita said. “It's easy for people to lose themselves in California. It's such a big state, and people keep coming and going there, so nobody bothers to question where anybody comes from.”

“I don't really think that's a good idea,” Mom said. “I might be recognized by librarians and English teachers.”

Rita seemed disconcerted. “Do you have some connection with the California school system?”

“Liz is an author,” Dad explained. “She writes books for children. Last year she won the California Young Readers Medal and made an acceptance speech at a state librarians' convention.”

“Do you make many such appearances?” Rita asked Mom.