RUN, RUN, RUN
!
Babes started running the minute he spotted the cop coming out of the Modern Diner. The man wasn’t dressed like a cop, but Babes knew an undercover agent when he saw one. The briefcase was a dead giveaway. That’s where undercover agents carried their weapons and surveillance equipment. Babes knew. He’d seen it on television.
Run faster!
He was breathing heavily. His side ached. He checked over his shoulder to see if the undercover cop was following him, tripped on a buckle in the sidewalk, and fell to the ground. Running was not his thing. But he had to keep going. He’d been led to believe that the purpose of the meeting was to avoid trouble with the police. Obviously, that was a lie. Police chases never ended well for people like him.
People with secrets. Dark secrets.
He couldn’t go home. That would be the first place the cops would go looking for him. He took a shortcut through an alley and raced to the bus stop at the other end. The door was closing on a number 99 bus that was pulling away just as Babes reached the corner, but he hit the window with his fist and got the driver to stop.
“Hey, easy on the glass there, pal,” the driver said as the door reopened.
Babes jumped aboard, flashed his pass, and found a seat.
His heart was pounding, but the familiar rumble of the diesel engine as the bus pulled away was comforting to him. He looked out the window to see if the cop had followed him. He saw no one.
Lost him.
Then a wave of panic struck. Babes looked around the bus to see if there were any other undercover agents carrying briefcases. He saw only two other passengers. The black woman with her baby he’d seen on this route many times before. Nothing to worry about there. But the old man with the walker was not above suspicion. Babes had taken this bus all the way to Providence at least a thousand times before, and he’d never seen him on it.
Better keep an eye on that guy.
The brakes screeched as the bus reached the next stop. Babes shuddered, fearful that the agent from the Modern Diner had somehow caught up and was about to board. But no one got on. The old man with the walker got off.
Thank God.
The bus rumbled on. Babes was no longer winded from the run, but he could still hear himself breathing. He had to get his anxiety under control. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around his shins, and gently rocked back and forth. His mother would have scolded him for putting his dirty shoes on the seat, but this was his comfort zone, and he was headed for a full-blown panic attack if he didn’t do something.
“North Providence,” the driver said as the bus reached the next stop.
Babes jumped from his seat and ran off the bus. He hadn’t seen any sign of the undercover agent since leaving Pawtucket, but he was certain that the cops were still after him. He kept running until he reached Dr. Fisch’s office. If he couldn’t go home, his most trusted physician would know what to do.
Homicidal cows flirt.
Anytime Babes got near his doctor’s office, the letters in
DOCTOR WILLIAM FISCH
tumbled around in his brain to produce that rather unfortunate anagram.
Babes burst through the door. His legs were moving way too fast for him to control his movements, and he stumbled toward the reception desk.
“Is Dr. Fisch here?” he asked, breathless.
The receptionist was clearly startled by his entrance—even a little fearful.
“Calm down, Daniel,” she said.
“Is he here? I need to see him! I must see him right now!”
The door to Dr. Fisch’s office immediately opened, and the doctor stepped into the reception area.
“What’s all the shouting about?” he said.
Babes went to him and stood as close as his anxieties would allow him to stand, which was still respectful of the doctor’s personal space. Not even in a crisis could Babes get right in his face and look him in the eye.
Babes lowered his voice, not wanting the receptionist to hear. “I have to talk to you,” he said.
The receptionist overheard. “Your next appointment will be here in ten minutes, Doctor,” she said.
“All right,” said Dr. Fisch. “Come on in, Babes. Susan, hold my calls.”
Babes entered the doctor’s office. His steps were tenative, even though he’d visited Dr. Fisch many times before. Morning was not his usual appointment time, and the lighting in the office now was different. More sunlight. Very unfamiliar. Highly distracting.
“Have a seat, Babes.”
The doctor sat in his armchair. Babes didn’t like the recliner other patients used. The leather felt icky against his fingertips. Knowing what an issue it could be for his patients, Dr. Fisch had several other chairs to choose from. Babes pulled up the oak chair with the straight back and no armrests. He sat with shoulders rigid, legs together, the palms of his hands flat atop his thighs.
“Tell me what’s the matter,” the doctor said in a soothing voice.
“I did something,” said Babes.
“Something good? Or something bad?”
Babes didn’t answer. The lighting in the room was all wrong. It was so bright. He wished it were four o’clock in the afternoon, his usual time.
The doctor said, “Did you do something good or something bad?”
“Something…bad.”
“Okay,” said Dr. Fisch. “You want to tell me about it?”
It was like a spotlight, all that light coming through the window. Like a white-hot light of interrogation.
“Babes, can you tell me about it?”
Where the heck is all that light coming from?
“Babes?”
It was that damn morning sun. The sunlight was reflecting off the windshield on the white van in the parking lot, cutting through the office window, and hitting Babes right in the eye.
I wonder if that’s a police van.
“Babes, I need you to focus for me, all right?”
An unmarked police van, shining that light in my eyes.
“They’re here,” said Babes.
“Who’s here?” said the doctor.
The light was getting brighter—at least it seemed brighter to Babes. But he couldn’t move. He could only sit there in his chair and take it.
“Babes, tell me who’s here.”
I can’t take it anymore!
Babes launched from his chair and dove toward the window.
“Babes, don’t jump!”
The doctor sprang into action and tackled him. The two men collided and tumbled toward the window. Their momentum carried them straight into the glass, and suddenly a thousand pellets of shattered safety glass were showering down on them. The doctor fell to the floor with Babes landing on top of him.
The door flew open and the receptionist hurried into the doctor’s office. The piercing sound of her scream made Babes cringe.
Babes tried to help Dr. Fisch to his feet, but the old man needed a moment, and Babes was too apoplectic to give it to him. The blood on his brow sent Babes into a panic.
“Don’t touch him!” said Susan, a look of horror on her face.
Babes was shaking uncontrollably. “I think—Dr. Fisch thought I was going to jump through the window. I just wanted to close the blinds.”
“Get away from him! Go sit in the corner!”
Babes did as instructed as she went to her boss.
“Dr. Fisch, are you all right?”
“I…I don’t know,” the doctor said, grimacing. “Oh, my head.”
She was calling the doctor’s name and asking him how many fingers she was holding up. Babes heard only fragments of what she was saying. He was trying to listen, struggling to focus, but that light from outside stole his attention all over again. Now it was shining on the pellets of glass on the floor, making them glisten like diamonds. It was all wrong. All this light, the doctor down on the floor, Dr. Fisch’s receptionist now blaming Babes for something he didn’t mean to do.
And the unmarked police van was still in the parking lot. “Daniel, stop!” he heard Susan shout, but his legs were moving and his mind was made up as he raced out the door.
Run, run, run!
RYAN’S CELL PHONE VIBRATED. HE RECOGNIZED EMMA’S NUMBER, BUT
he was on the air with no cohost and couldn’t take her call. He was eager to hear about the meeting at the Modern Diner, so he returned her call at the next commercial break. She didn’t answer.
“Thirty seconds to air,” said his producer, a young woman named Beatrice.
“Come on, answer the phone, Emma.”
The door to the studio opened, and Jock walked in from his doctor’s appointment.
“Thank God you’re here,” said Ryan.
“What the hell?” said Jock, shielding his eyes from the light. “Is this talk radio or a tanning salon? I need sunglasses in here.”
Ryan switched off the sunlamp. “Sorry. It’s part of my bright-light therapy.”
“Your what?”
Ryan’s doctor had theorized that he was having trouble falling asleep at night because he was cooped up in a windowless studio all morning, not getting enough bright light. But Ryan didn’t have time to explain this to Jock.
“Never mind,” said Ryan. “Can you cover? I have to make a phone call.”
Jock nodded and slipped on his headphones. Ryan stepped out into the hall and kept punching Emma’s number until she answered.
“How did it go?” said Ryan, no time to say hello.
“I think it was Babes who showed up,” she said.
“What do you mean
think
? Was it him or not?”
“He was standing across the street and ran away before I could get a close look, but I’m almost certain it was him.”
“So you’re saying Babes is your tipster?”
“The posting on the AG’s Web site said to meet at the Modern Diner on Monday at nine
A.M.
The only way for Babes to get that information was to enter a password that no one but the tipster would know—the sender’s address for the Brandon Lomax e-mail.”
“The
what
e-mail?” said Ryan.
The line went silent.
“Are you telling me that the drunk who killed my wife is Brandon Lomax?”
There was another brief silence, and Ryan could almost feel Emma backpedaling.
“That e-mail came from an anonymous source,” she said. “We’re a long way from verifying that Brandon had anything to do with the accident.”
Ryan fell back in his chair, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Ryan, you have to keep this between us. I slipped. Please, be professional about this.”
The door opened, and the producer popped her head into the hall. “Two minutes,” said Beatrice. “The show is
Jocks in the Morning
, not just
Jock
.”
“This is important,” Ryan told her.
“You called in sick last week. Now what is it?”
Ryan gave her a look that said he had both the pope and the president on the line.
“Fine,” Beatrice said. “But the last segment is both of you together.”
The door closed. Ryan could talk again.
“I’m on your side,” he said into the phone, “so don’t worry about the slip. I can help you with Babes, but I want to know more about Lomax.”
“Well, we need to slow down a little,” said Emma. “So far we have no one but an anonymous tipster saying that Brandon is guilty. To be totally upfront with you, he actually has an alibi. His wife says they were together at the time of the crash.”
“I’m no lawyer, but I’m sure prisons are full of guys whose only alibis were their wives.”
“That’s way too cynical. Brandon and Sarah Lomax are two amazing people.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“How amazing?”
“Two of the finest people I’ve ever met.”
“Really? Just how close are you to the Lomaxes?”
“Are you suggesting that it’s clouding my judgment?”
“Have you considered that possibility?”
“Have you considered the possibility that the accident was Chelsea’s own fault?”
Ryan’s mouth fell open, but no words came. He’d never seen this side of Emma.
Emma breathed away some of the tension on the line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Ryan had obviously hit a nerve by attacking the Lomaxes, but he knew Emma was still his only ally. He couldn’t afford to push her away.
“It’s okay. I probably deserved it. As dedicated as you’ve been to this case for the past three years, I shouldn’t have questioned your professionalism.”
“No, I was out of line. Please, don’t let what I said make you question my commitment to the case.”
“I won’t. But…”
“But what?”
“I want to see the e-mail. After three years, we should be able to operate on at least that level of trust.”
“All right,” she said, her voice laden with reluctance. “I’ll have it hand delivered. But it’s for your eyes only. Not even Paul and Rachel can see it.”
“Agreed.”
Ryan’s cell phone blipped, signaling another call. He checked the display. “Speaking of Chelsea’s parents, it’s my mother-in-law calling on another line.”
“You want to call me back?” said Emma.
“No, hold on for a second.” He took the call and immediately knew that Rachel was upset, her voice racing. She wasn’t making much sense.
“Slow down and take a breath,” said Ryan. “Now tell me what the problem is.”
“Babes just called on his cell. He was crying and sounded like a scared child. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. He just said he’s not coming home, not ever, and that we shouldn’t come looking for him.”
“Hold on a second, Rachel. I have Emma on the other line. I’m going to do a three-way.” Ryan patched her in and recapped for Emma.
“Did Babes say where he’s going?” he asked Rachel.
“No. But he had just been to see Dr. Fisch. His receptionist called me right before Babes did. Babes had some kind of…something went wrong. Dr. Fisch got injured.”
“Injured?” said Ryan. “How?”
“It’s not clear,” said Rachel. “Dr. Fisch swears that Babes wasn’t trying to hurt him. He thought Babes was going to jump through the window. Babes was very upset.”
“About what?” asked Ryan.
“He wouldn’t tell Dr. Fisch,” said Rachel.
Emma said, “Did Babes say anything about being at the Modern Diner this morning?”
“No, no. Not to me, at least. He was hysterical, talking crazy. He said someone is after him. Some businessman with a big leather briefcase.”
“Oh,” said Emma, and Ryan picked up on her reaction immediately.
Rachel was still talking, but she was simply repeating herself. Ryan said, “Anything else, Rachel?”
“No, I think that’s everything.”
“Okay. Have you tried calling Babes back?”
“Yes, of course. It rang once and went to his voice mail. That means he turned his phone off.”
“If Babes calls again, you call us immediately. We’ll take it from there.”
“All right.”
They said good-bye, and as quickly as he could disconnect Rachel, Ryan’s question for Emma popped out of his mouth: “What’s up with the guy and the briefcase?”
She told him about the man at the counter in the Modern Diner, the one who looked like he was trying way too hard to look legit.
Ryan said, “So it definitely was Babes you saw across the street from the diner.”
“I’d say so.”
He shook his head. “I’m still having trouble buying Babes as the tipster. Why has he stayed silent all this time? Why did he come forward anonymously?”
“Those are good questions,” said Emma.
Ryan ran his hand through his hair. “I need answers.”
“We need to find Babes.”
She was right. Whatever it was that had scared him off, Babes was now like a big kid on the run, a grown man, living in the distorted world of Asperger’s syndrome, who was fighting to stay one step ahead of his parents, Ryan, Emma, the police, and everyone else who was searching for him—including, perhaps, Brandon Lomax.
And maybe even that guy with the briefcase at the Modern Diner.
The door opened. It was the show’s producer again. “You’re live in one minute,” she told Ryan.
He was about to protest, but then a thought came to him. “I’m ready,” he said.
Beatrice smiled, a little surprised, as if she had expected a quarrel. “Good.”
As the door closed, he told Emma, “I’ve got an idea.”
“Why does that make me nervous?”
“No, this is perfect. Babes never goes anywhere without his earbuds and portable radio. He listens all day long. And he never misses my show.”
“You’re going to talk to him on the air?”
“Live,” said Ryan. “Just like the producer ordered.”