Authors: Thomas Perry
After about ten minutes she saw the two men come around the corner onto the concourse.
She stood up and walked to the ladies’ room. She had almost convinced herself that
they had been fooled or given up, but they hadn’t. They must have bought tickets to
get this far, and in a moment they would notice that gate six was the only waiting
area that was full. The New York flight was going to be the first flight out, and
it was the one to watch.
Jane found Chelsea waiting for her and told her what she’d seen. “We can’t let those
men follow you onto a plane or even see which one you take.” She took off her scarf
and set it on the shelf below the mirror.
“What are we going to do?”
“First we change clothes. I saw a pair of gray pants and a blouse in your bag. Put
them on, and give me what you’re wearing now.”
They changed clothes quickly, and then Jane retied the two hijabs, with Chelsea wearing
Jane’s. She put her own clothes in the trash. Next she opened her purse and took out
a stack of hundred dollar bills, held it up, and put it into Chelsea’s bag. She took
out a credit card and handed it to Chelsea.
She looked at it. “You’re Gail Stein?”
“Sometimes.” She held out her boarding pass and plucked the other from Chelsea’s hand.
“We need a change of plans. You’re going to fly to Albany. They’ve already checked
our IDs for the last time, so you can use my boarding pass. When you get there, use
some of the cash to buy your ticket to Manchester.”
“What’s the credit card for?”
“The unexpected. The card’s limit is twelve thousand and Gail Stein pays her bills,
so don’t be afraid to use it if you need to.”
The loudspeaker in the ceiling blared, “United flight twenty-four thirty to JFK New
York City is ready for boarding at gate six.” As the female voice launched into its
repetition Jane said, “That’s it. We’ll stay here until they call for the Albany flight.”
The flight to New York was announced again and again, and Jane could tell they were
trying to get the missing woman passenger to show up. Finally there was a “last call”
message. Jane and Chelsea waited. Now other women were coming in and out, so they
pretended to be freshening their makeup. After a few minutes Jane put their scarves
on again, arranging them carefully to cover their hair.
At last, they heard the call. “Flight fifty-seven eighty-two to Albany is boarding
at gate number three. Flight five seven eight two is ready for boarding at gate three.”
Jane took Chelsea aside. “That’s your flight. Wait for them to give the final call
for boarding, and then come out of here fast and straight into the line. Keep your
eyes down and get into the boarding tunnel as soon as possible.” She hugged her, then
released her. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Good-bye.”
Jane stepped out of the ladies’ room, kept her head down, and walked quickly past
gate 6. There were two airline employees stationed at the desk, and one of them typed
something into her computer to make the display change to show a flight leaving for
Chicago. She heard a male voice far behind her say the word “Chelsea,” but the other
man said something that silenced him.
Jane increased her speed, moving quickly back toward the security area. She turned
the corner, stepped into the space beside the security area into the clear corridor
for arriving passengers to leave the secure area, and kept going. She edged into a
group who seemed to be just off one of the first flights to land, and kept with them.
She knew the two men were following her at a distance, thinking she was Chelsea. They
probably couldn’t believe their luck. As soon as she was alone, they would move in
and try to take her.
Jane reached the open part of the terminal and kept going. She stepped into another
ladies’ room. As soon as she was inside, she took off Chelsea’s scarf and put it into
her purse. She tied back her hair, retied her running shoes, and slung her purse across
her chest.
She waited until she heard the announcement for the flight to Albany, and then heard
it again a few minutes later. She heard the voice warn that this was the final call.
After ten more minutes, she was sure the flight had left. She took two deep breaths,
and then stepped out of the ladies’ room.
She walked past the ticket counters and along the glass front of the terminal, and
caught her own reflection. It would have been hard to look less like Chelsea Schnell
than Jane did. She was taller, her hair was longer and jet black, and her skin was
olive. Near the doors there was a glass panel at right angles to the others, and she
saw the reflection of the two men, now waiting outside the ladies’ room she had just
left, watching the door and expecting the blond Chelsea to appear at any second.
In a moment Jane was out the automatic doors and making her way across the short-term
lot to the Passat. As she walked, she took out her phone and called the cell phone
she had left with Jimmy Sanders. She heard his “hello.”
“Hi, it’s me. She’s on a plane to Albany, so she’ll probably get to Manchester quite
a bit later than we expected.”
“We’ll check to see what flights there are, and be there.”
“Is everything still okay?” Jane asked.
“We’re fine.”
“Good. Try hard to stay that way. Got to go.” She hung up, got into the Passat, and
drove to the exit from the lot. As she paid the parking fee, she looked into the rearview
mirrors and verified that no car was following her.
22
D
aniel Crane sat at his desk in the storage office feeling miserable. He wasn’t entirely
confident in his lawyer, Richard Brannigan, now that he’d hired him, but he was supposed
to be one of the best. At first he had said that Crane had done the right thing by
calling him in right away, because once a suspect retained a lawyer, the cops usually
didn’t even bother to question him. It hadn’t worked out that way this time. They
had taken him and his lawyer into a little room with cameras mounted on the ceiling
and fired questions at him, and each one had felt like a puncture wound.
Brannigan had kept repeating, “Don’t answer that,” or “My client won’t answer that,”
until it became annoying, but the cops had not relented.
The whole thing had been a disaster. The lead cop, a burly man with a bald head and
piercing eyes said, “You gave that girl GHB and raped her. Want to tell us anything
about that?” Of course it was a trap to make him give specific reasons why he was
innocent, so he would contradict himself. Then there was: “You know, she has permanent
brain damage, and you did that to her.” He was aware that it was perfectly legal for
them to lie to him in an interrogation. “We’re talking to every woman you ever met,
and a lot of them are giving us an earful.” It was all lies. Crane had never used
the powder before Chelsea. They never mentioned the brain damage again, because they
hadn’t fooled him.
He had drugged her because he loved her, and now he had lost her. The emergency operator
had told the police that Verna Machak had come into the house, seen Chelsea, and called
them, and the ambulance EMTs had brought one of the envelopes of powder from his house
with them to the hospital. What right had EMTs had to do that, to search his house
for drugs?
The emergency room doctors had called the cops, and then told Chelsea she had been
drugged. Maybe if he’d had a chance to talk to her that morning he could have explained.
He could have said he used it himself to help him sleep, and that she’d accidentally
drunk from his glass that night while he was getting ready to drive her home. Or something.
But he couldn’t stay and talk to her because he’d had to drive to Box Farm and wait
for Salamone, who hadn’t even shown up, and then been taken to the police station
and wasted the whole day while they tried to rattle and terrify him. He had wanted
to get to the hospital and talk to her alone, but the cops had kept him until late
in the day and then warned him not to try to see her, and his own lawyer had repeated
it, so here he was.
Now she was gone. She had checked herself out of the hospital somehow, and she wasn’t
at her house and she wasn’t answering her cell phone. He had sent men she knew to
look for her at the hospital, and others to watch the airport, and others to talk
to friends of hers to get them to call when she turned up. Nobody had accomplished
anything. Thompson and Harriman had thought they’d seen her trying to fly to New York,
but when they’d gotten closer, the woman had turned out to be somebody else.
Crane looked at his watch. It was only nine in the morning, and he felt like he’d
worked a whole day already. He got up from his desk and went to stare out the window
at the complex of storage bays. He had worked and struggled to get where he was. He
had taken risks that other men would never have been brave enough to take. And then
he had fallen in love.
He had never been able to understand women, never known how to get women to like him.
He had never understood why they ignored him and picked dumber, poorer, less ambitious
men.
He had suspected Chelsea was one of those women he’d heard and read about who liked
a bit of an edge to her love life. Maybe she had liked a big strong dope like Nick
Bauermeister because he overpowered her. He’d heard many women say they liked a man
who was confident and in charge. A lot of women seemed to have a fantasy about being
taken, so they didn’t have to make any decisions, just acquiesce, and let the man’s
desires sweep them away. He thought about it and realized that he hadn’t heard any
actual women say that in person. They had mostly been in magazine articles written
by women. But they’d said it. When he had given Chelsea the powder that first time
he’d been trying to give her that freedom from having to decide—the freedom from
fears about the propriety of having a relationship right after her boyfriend died,
or her own shyness about being with a new man.
And it had worked. She had practically forced him the next time. After that she had
been his girlfriend, as though they’d been together for years. She had gone out with
him every evening and gotten used to coming home with him and staying the night. And
then everything had soured in one evening. He had felt desperate, taken the last chance
he had to keep her, and that desperation had wrecked everything. He had not planned
to give her the powder again, and so he hadn’t been prepared. He had to work quickly,
to give all his attention to pouring it into her drink without getting caught, and
had probably given her too much. Now she would never understand that he had only loved
her too much to let her go.
He thought about killing himself. The police had been in his house, so they had probably
taken his pistol out of his desk, but he had others in his personal storage space
out there beyond the window in row A. They had been taken in burglaries, and he’d
stored them in case he needed to have some available that weren’t registered to anyone
but some guy whose house had been robbed. If he shot himself in the head with one
of those, what were the police going to do—dig him up and put him in jail?
But Crane knew he wasn’t going to kill himself. As long as there was any chance of
getting through his trouble he wouldn’t quit. He didn’t feel a strong enough urge.
“Cars coming in.”
Crane turned to look at the monitors on the wall. “Salamone. I’ll talk to him alone.”
He watched Thompson get up and go down the stairs.
Crane longed to go with him. The sight of Salamone’s car changed everything. Crane
felt as though he had fallen into ice water. He wasn’t feeling dreamy and bereft anymore;
he was frightened. Did Salamone know already? Crane’s lungs couldn’t bring in enough
air, and when he tried to make them he felt dizzy. He was aware of the sound of Thompson
at the bottom of the stairs, and then he heard the back door swing open and shut.
He sat down at his desk and looked at the monitors. The big car came to the gate and
the driver’s arm came out and took a ticket. The gate opened and the hand released
the ticket to let it flutter to the ground. The car behind Salamone’s pulled up and
the driver did the same. He didn’t recognize the second car, and it irritated him.
It was one thing for Salamone to do that, but these were strangers, two men in a dark
gray Cadillac. Behind them was a black SUV.
On the wall monitors he watched Salamone get out of his car, and then his two men.
Cantorese had been driving, and he eased his fat body out from behind the wheel and
straightened his short legs to stand. Pistore was out in an instant, his sharp young
eyes already scanning in every direction.
Salamone went to the door, and as soon as he was inside he appeared on another monitor.
As he climbed the stairs he looked somber. He wore a dark suit that seemed to have
been made to fit his body by a talented tailor. Crane envied him.
Crane looked ahead and Salamone appeared in front of him. Salamone said, “Daniel.
Are we alone?”
The question struck Crane as insanity. Salamone was never alone. Cantorese and Pistore
were at his shoulders. But Crane said, “Yes. I sent Thompson out to the units.”
Salamone nodded. “We—I mean you and me—have got trouble. Bad trouble, and we’re going
to talk about that later. Right now, outside in that Cadillac down there, is Mr. Malconi
himself. He would like two storage units. His units won’t be together. And his keys
will be the only keys.”
Crane could tell from his measured tone that if Crane argued, he would regret it.
“Sure. How about”—he looked at the clipboard with the roster of units—
“
C-fifteen and J-nineteen?”
“Fine. Get the locks.”
Crane went to the stock room and brought out two brand-new locks, still in their boxes.
Salamone nodded. “There will be no bill, and no list anywhere with his name on it.”
“Of course.”
“Come with me.” The two men went down the stairs.
Crane stopped at the door. “Are you sure it’s okay? I mean does he mind if I see him?”
“If he minded, you wouldn’t be able to get within a hundred yards of him.” Salamone
pushed open the door with his left hand and pushed Crane out with the right. He walked
Crane to the backseat window.
The tinted window slid down. There he was, Mr. Malconi himself. His hair was surprisingly
thick and healthy looking, most of it white and bristly. His face was tanned and marked
with deep creases on his forehead, around his mouth and eyes, and even on his cheeks.
He looked like a doll made of a dried apple. His shining black eyes were focused on
Crane. “Hello, Mr. Crane.”
“Hello, sir.”
The old man’s expression was unchanging. “Your friend Mr. Salamone says you’re a smart
man. Good head for business and all that. Is it true?”
“I hope so.”
“I wanted to get a look at you today, and talk to you in person.” He glanced at Salamone,
then back at Crane. “I believe a man should take responsibility for his actions. Do
you?”
“Yes,” said Crane. He wondered if this man ever heard the word “no
.
”
“Can I talk freely, or are we going to be overheard?”
Crane looked around him and saw that Salamone’s two men were on the sides of the little
parking area, and that two other men had gotten out of the black SUV, and were also
scanning the area. How could anyone overhear? “You can talk freely.”
“Good. Now, you’ve got yourself in trouble because you wanted one of your men’s girlfriend,
so you killed him. Did you ever go to Sunday school, Mr. Crane?”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“Does the name Uriah the Hittite mean anything to you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just curious. It doesn’t matter. We’ve gone to quite a bit of trouble to keep you
protected so you won’t be sent away and your business broken up or abandoned. Two
nights ago a cop was sneaking around the house of Walter Slawicky. You know him, right?”
“Yes.” Crane’s mouth was dry, but he managed to say, “He went to the police for me
to say that he’d sold the rifle to Jimmy Sanders.”
“Sanders is the Indian you were trying to pin the shooting on, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think the cop was looking for the place where Slawicky hid the rifle.”
“There isn’t supposed to be any such place. He was supposed to take it out in a boat
and drop the pieces in Lake Ontario.”
The old man’s eyes seemed to sharpen. “Do you know for certain that he got rid of
the rifle?”
Crane paused, then said, “I don’t know why he wouldn’t. Having it would get him into
trouble, maybe get him charged with murder.”
“You don’t know why he wouldn’t.” The old man almost smiled. “I guess you just haven’t
been in trouble much. When you’ve been in trouble you don’t like it, and you think
about stashing away things that you might trade to get out of it next time—information,
evidence. Maybe someday the cops will have Slawicky on a big charge. If he has the
weapon, maybe he can trade it, and you, for a little slack. And maybe he doesn’t trust
you. He knows you killed your other guy, Nick. Why not him?”
Crane stared down at his feet, and shook his head. Things just kept getting more complicated
and awful.
“Okay,” said the old man. “Enough about him. Time for a sad story. The other night,
we had some men watching to learn more about this Slawicky—maybe see if he still has
that rifle—and who shows up, but a cop? He’s snooping around Slawicky’s, obviously
looking for something. So one of the men shoots him.”
“Those were your men?”
“Not
my
men, just men. One of them, thirty-one years old with a good family, was there. He
and his friends didn’t know there wasn’t only one cop. A second cop who had apparently
been in the car took out a shotgun and shot him in the chest. He died.”
“I’m sorry,” said Crane. “That’s terrible.”
“I’m sorry too. He was a good man. He can’t even be given a decent burial for a long
time, because he was connected with a lot of other people the police would like to
get at.”
“No burial?”
“His friends picked him up so his body wouldn’t be found. You’re going to take a tiny
part of the responsibility. He’s in that SUV back there. You’re going to hold on to
him for a while until arrangements can be made.”
“Here? In a storage space?”
The old man looked at him, the dark eyes bright like the eyes of a predatory bird.
“Do you object?”
Crane said, “No. I don’t object. He can go in J-nineteen.”
“Go tell the guys back by the SUV. In fact, get in and show them where to go. When
you’re finished, come back and give Mr. Salamone the keys.”
“Yes, sir.” Crane began to walk. His legs felt stiff like stilts, and he had a moment
when the pavement rose up in front of him and he felt faint, but then the men from
the SUV got in and opened the passenger door for him. He was relieved to sit.
The driver said, “Where to?”
“You can go around this way,” Crane said. He pointed at the end of the first row of
storage spaces. “J is in the third row, and the bay is number nineteen.”
When the SUV reached J-19, one man got out and pulled up the door of the storage bay
and the other backed the SUV up into the mouth of it. Then the two men got out, opened
the hatch, and pulled out a cooler of the sort that Crane had seen at chamber of commerce
picnics, about five feet long, two feet wide and deep. He imagined a man crammed in
there with his knees bent. Crane moved in a reflex to help carry the cooler to the
back of the storage bay and set it down on the concrete surface. He could see the
cover was latched and locked, and sealed with duct tape.