Drawing Conclusions (17 page)

Over his shoulder, I could peer into his darkly paneled library. I detested this room; it was where all family punishments were doled out, although
family
punishments might be a bit of an exaggeration since most penalties had been directed toward me. I cringed. The room had been like having the judge's chambers in your own home, with no jury of peers to hear your case.

Many a curfew was assigned in this room, privileges were revoked, and life sentences were issued that stretched until your eighteenth birthday. I think even Charlie got caught up in the crossfire a few times, earning punishments by association. If it hadn't been for the confusing Igor sighting, my demeanor toward my father might have been more forceful.

“Dad, you caught me off-guard. I stopped by to see Mom.”

True, but it was a sidebar to the question I really wanted to ask:
Hey Dad, did you know your limo driver tried to kill me two weeks ago?
I had no choice but to continue the inane conversation because I had no clue as to my father's involvement. Did Igor work for my father as more than a driver? If so, I couldn't get out of the house fast enough to scrub the bull's-eye off my forehead. On the other hand, was my father even aware of Igor's chosen profession as a fairly inept hit man? Maybe he'd be better off driving himself to work today. I wasn't sure whose safety was worth protecting, but I selfishly voted for mine.

“Your mother isn't here. You'll need to ask the maid.”

“Dad, the housekeeper's name is Norma, and I already saw Mom. If you haven't noticed, she's not well. I think she needs medical attention.” I did my best to sound annoyed and impatient. Letting my fear surface would only raise suspicion. He was accustomed to my terse attitude and that's what I needed to deliver.

“I'll check on her later,” he said with indifference, turning his back to me. “Is there anything else before you leave?”

Before I leave? Gee, Dad, it almost sounds like you're telling me to get going. If you give me a sec, I can catch up to Igor and borrow his gun, and then we'll discuss who's leaving.

I controlled my internal musings and addressed my father. “What happened to Tony? He drove you for years. Did he retire?”

“Indeed. Now the car service sends a new and more incompetent driver every day, as if I had requested nothing more than a taxi. I don't even remember calling for the car today.”

I wasn't sure if my father was lying. Did he know Igor or not? I didn't have an answer. If my father didn't know Igor, then Igor was up to no good, using the same cover as the first time: the scheduled driver.

“I think I'll go back and check on Mom,” I said.

“Fine,” my father replied, stepping back into his office.

I ran down the hall, turning corners like a bobsledder. I burst through the front door, expecting to see Cheski waiting patiently to save my life, but the driveway was empty. Exposed and vulnerable, I stepped quickly back inside for cover. I darted from window to window, hoping to spot the policeman parked on the grounds. But he was gone, and so were Igor and the town car. Not encouraging.

I headed back to the kitchen and picked up the house phone. I don't know what possessed me, but I pressed the last call button, jotting down the previous five calls made from the house on the ever-present pad of paper next to the telephone. I'd check later to see if my father had in fact called for a car. I stuffed the note paper in my bag and dialed Harbor House. Charlie picked up on the first ring.

“Charlie,” I wheezed, my chest constricting with each breathe. “Thank god you're there.”

“Fucking Becky,” Charlie spit into the phone.

“Sorry to interrupt. I'll call back later.” I would have laughed at my own punchy joke had I not feared for my life. Unfortunately, Charlie was not in the right mindset for my quick wit.

“What are you talking about?”

“Forget it, Charlie. Just listen. I saw Igor.”

“Where?”

“He came to pick up my dad at the house,” I whispered. “He's posing as a limo driver again. I mean, I couldn't tell if my father knew him or not.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. Maybe. How would I know? I do know that Cheski is gone.”

“Get in the Gremlin and drive home immediately. Take a back route.”

“I can't do that.”

“CeCe. You can. You need to get out of there.”

“No, I really can't. Cheski has the keys. I'm not even sure where he parked the Gremlin.”

“Your mom has a car now. Get in it and get home. I'll call Lamendola in Connecticut and have him track down Cheski. Wait, what am I saying? I'll call the precinct and they'll send a car over. Just stay put until I can send help. In fact, don't move away from the phone.”

I contemplated my options. Staying in the house made me feel as safe as a well-fed turkey on Thanksgiving, but Charlie's advice had merit. Parents always tell children to stay put if they're lost.
Someone will come find you
. The problem was I didn't want to be found. I wanted to get lost. Very lost.

Charlie must have been reading my mind. “CeCe, I know what you're thinking. Stay in the house.”

“Okay. I'll stay, but just talk to me a few more minutes to calm me down. What's up with Becky? Did you just find out that her room is empty?”

“Sort of, but now is not the time to talk about that. Let me get off the phone and try to reach Cheski.”

Charlie ended the call, leaving me terribly alone. I gave it about thirty seconds before making a management decision. Staying in the house was not an option.

A doctor's home is generally organized, so if memory served me correctly, there would be spare car keys in a jar in the pantry. My movements were deliberate and tight, as if I were trying to conserve energy in case I had to react to something disastrous. I located a set of BMW keys and slipped silently into the garage. I knew nothing about cars, but the vehicle directly in front of me looked like it cost a mint. I never understood the numbering strategy behind car models; I had to assume the 750 above the BMW's bumper meant that, idling in neutral, it could outrun the Gremlin. I hesitated, not because I was afraid to get a scratch on an $80,000 luxury vehicle, but because I was petrified. If Igor suspected I was in the house, he could be waiting for me to leave. Maybe he was, at this very minute, surveilling my every move. For all I knew, the Gremlin had a tracking device. Maybe that's how Igor knew that DeRosa and I had flown to Washington. Maybe that's how Igor ended up at my father's house within an hour of my arrival. If I left by the main drive, there was nothing to stop him from running me down in his oversized death limo. Call me crazy, but three trips to the hospital in as many weeks seemed excessive.

Plan B was insane but doable. My old five-speed Schwinn was leaning against the back wall of the garage. It was dusty, and rust dotted the chain, but it came to life when I cranked the pedal with my hand. Of course, I loved the idea of going green, but an ancient bicycle that maxed out at ten miles an hour didn't seem like the best getaway vehicle. I weighed my options. I could stand in the garage, go back in the house, or flee.

I decided to pedal for my life.

I found a nylon drawstring bag and shoved my satchel inside, then I bungeed the pack to the back of the bike. Instead of opening the garage door, I rolled the bicycle out a side door to avoid drawing attention. Across the semicircular patio, there was an open clearing that spanned a hundred yards. If I could make it as far as the pool house unnoticed, then I could safely enter the wooded path. Even if Igor saw me from his car, a vehicle would never make it through that path. If someone were on foot, the bike gave me the advantage of speed.

Every minute of internal debate seemed wasteful now. I took the plunge with the same gusto I invested in a Dumpster dive.

My legs swelled with adrenalin, and my knuckles turned white on the handlebars as I pedaled like a maniac. I kept my head low, as if by some miracle I could actually dodge a bullet. Mostly I prayed my legs would hold up. I was fit, but I wasn't an athlete. As I neared the path, an uncomfortable thought entered my mind, a loose thread I had yet to consider. If my father was connected to Igor and if my father was in fact a player in Teddy's death, then his movements also needed to be evaluated. He knew I was in the house and that Igor was on the premises. If my father had spotted me leaving by the back exit, he could easily have called Igor and have me intercepted when I hit the main road.

I was already in forward motion, unfortunately, so there was no turning back.
Please
, I thought,
let my father be innocent in this mess
. If Igor were at the other end of the path, I didn't stand a chance.

The entrance to the path was almost entirely overgrown with vines and weeds. I plowed the bicycle through the bramble, ignoring the thorns biting at my legs. About halfway down the slope, I stopped and looked over my shoulder. The path was thick with growth and I wouldn't have been able to see anyone until they were within ten feet of me. Not much of a buffer when I realized that Igor could be approaching. That would be an unpleasant meeting.
Hey, remember me? I'm your contract hit.

I pedaled for what seemed an eternity, but was probably no more than ten minutes. With the main road breaking through the bush line, I felt an enormous sense of relief—until Mother Nature decided to screw with my already less than perfect day. The skies opened as I cleared the tree cover, pouring buckets of cool spring rain on my head, and a vicious wind picked up to toss debris in my way. I forged forward, the bike wheels slipping out from under me each time I turned the handlebars. With each fall I seemed to revive my injuries from the cascading limo drop I'd suffered the prior week. I did my best to ignore the torrential downpour, the gaping hole in the knee of my jeans, my skinned elbow, and my bloody chin. Like a fisherman on the open seas, I wiped streams of rain from my face, giving myself just enough vision to locate a neighboring estate where I knew I could cut at least two miles off the trip by sticking to a well-used horse path. If I could make it through that estate, I'd only have to pedal on the main road for a few hundred yards until it intersected with Snake Hill Road, a famous North Shore rollercoaster of a road that spun in spirals like a cotton candy machine.

By the time I made it to the top of Snake Hill Road, my heart was pumping like a champion cyclist in the Tour de France. The hill peaked in a ridiculous tumble of twists and turns, and I accepted there was no way in hell I'd make it down the hill in one piece on the bike. I untied my bag from the back fender and ditched my beloved five-speed in the bushes, sloshing my way down the slick hill. With about a mile to go before I hit level ground, I could just make out the top of Harbor House through the sheets of rain. Feeling quite desperate—not to mention cold and bruised—I decided to cut through the neighboring lots built precariously into the side of Snake Hill Road.

About twenty feet off the paved road, I accepted the foolishness of my plan. My feet gave way to the muck with each step as the rain tore through the earth, creating crevices a team of beavers couldn't mend. I'd had it. I was exhausted, drenched, and terrified. I needed refuge.

I walked to the nearest house, a charming and welcoming Dutch Colonial, for cover. The driveway felt solid under my feet and I picked up my pace, nearly running for the front door.

The roof over the portico provided welcome relief. I ran my sleeve across my face and pulled my hair back just in case the owner thought a crazed lunatic had stopped by. God knew I certainly looked like one. I considered saying just a few words out loud so that my first sentence to a complete stranger didn't tumble out like a desperate rant. Then I peeked in the narrow window next to the front door, ready to smile and wave to my unsuspecting neighbor just to reassure them.

As soon as I leaned toward the window, though, my neck snapped backward like a whiplash victim, and I withdrew my finger from the doorbell. My heart, which had been headed back for a normal beat, cranked up to stroke level, and I actually wondered how many times in one day a person could experience unbridled fear before causing irreparable damage.

Inside the house, Igor sat with his elbows resting on the oak dining table, sipping a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. From the front porch, which was raised a good five feet from the driveway, I could see past a smattering of other homes straight down to Harbor House. I guessed the view was even better from the second floor of the Colonial. Forget high-tech surveillance and tracking devices; Igor was a good old-fashioned villain with a pair of binoculars. There was nothing magical about his powers and nothing spectacular about his evil ways. He was simply an awful person who had camped out behind my house for the sole purpose of tracking my movements.

I darted my head to the sidelight on the other side of the door and again I pulled back within a millisecond. I couldn't believe my eyes. Sitting directly across from Igor was Becky. And, unfortunately for our friendship, she was neither gagged nor bound and seemed to be there entirely of her own free will.

I couldn't put the pieces together fast enough, but the strands of information swirling in my head were trying to connect themselves in a fluid story. A story where a young, attractive girl
just happens
to make friends with a young, successful doctor, ultimately befriending the doctor's friends at the exact time she
just happens
to need a place to live and the friends
just happen
to have an open room. Out of nowhere, the young doctor is murdered and the young girl packs her belongings and virtually disappears within days of the death.

I started to cry, and it was no small whimper. These were the tears of a defeated person, an outpouring of emotion born of cumulative crushing blows. The kind of tears you shed as a child when you realize the world is just too big for a three-foot human being. I slid off the porch, letting the rain wash me down the driveway like a twig being carried by a gushing river. My movements were off kilter, almost jerky, and I wondered if I weren't going into some kind of shock. My body temperature was most likely dropping, and the effort to ride the bike through the woods and rain and up the hill had probably drained me of neces
sary electrolytes.