The Passenger (7 page)

R

November 5, 2008

To: Ryan

From: Jo

You can't keep telling me to disappear. I've done what I've been told. I've disappeared enough. In the meantime, I'd like to continue this arrangement. Don't disappoint me and I won't disappoint you.

Jo

I
T
took a few days for the facts to sink in. Being Amelia Keen wasn't going to work for me anymore. I thought about phoning an old friend who owed me a debt that can't be quantified, but it seemed risky making any contact after I'd exterminated Mr. Oliver's colleagues. I wasn't sure what side my old friend was on. I had to accept the fact that I was on my own and needed a new name to inhabit. I was going to miss Amelia Keen; I'd had high hopes for her. I still wasn't sure what to do about the car registration. It was a danger having a vehicle in Tanya's name, but Amelia was also a liability.

For two weeks, from the end of March until the beginning of April, I laid low in Blue's home, earning my keep by cleaning house and buying groceries with my dwindling savings. I read the news to keep abreast of the investigation into the mysterious car crash. The detectives on the case believed two unknown assailants were in the vehicle with the victims. The identities of the two men had yet to be discerned, and no one had come forward to claim the bodies. I was convinced the police were holding out on the press. I figured it was just a matter of time before the SWAT team raided Blue's and my home. Each rustle of leaves outside or an engine purring down the road fed my paranoia. I would start to drink early just to calm my nerves, to stop the constant vibration of the world around me.

At night I watched the main house. There were always exactly two lights on, one upstairs and one downstairs, and always the jittery glow of a television hidden behind opaque curtains. The television seemed to be on all night long, but the upstairs light flicked off like clockwork at ten fifteen p.m. Blue would always check on the old woman after her shift at the bar, killing the downstairs light on her way out. The old lady—I eventually learned that her name was Myrna—was housebound: arthritis, glaucoma, dementia. Only a few times did I see Myrna's shadow shuffling through the house. She only traveled from one room to the other. Blue said that even when she was young, she kept to herself. Left the house with the rarity of an eclipse—only when Blue's Aunt Greta threatened to leave her if she didn't get out and about. I wasn't to bother Myrna. She didn't take well to new people, I was told. I could relate. I didn't take well to people in general.

I had only been at the house two weeks, but it seemed like months had passed. I felt as if I were tumbling at high speed toward the bottom of a ravine. I started to read the obituaries every morning because they brought me some comfort, reminding me that I wasn't the only one whose time was running out. More people die young than you'd think.

That was when it occurred to me that I might be able to find the next person to inhabit at the local mortuary. Every day I scoured the obits for a likely candidate. At first my criteria were pretty simple: I needed a woman who had died prematurely and lived alone. I told Blue about my plan, and she wanted in on the action. We decided to join forces on the hunt, and whoever looked the most like the deceased could call dibs.

We donned black dresses and conservative makeup and drove to the mortuary listed in the paper. We took Blue's car, but she always let me drive. Our first funeral was for Joan Clayton. She was only two years older than me when she died of ovarian cancer. There was a large photo of her next to the open coffin at Marker & Family Funeral Home. In the photo she was still in full bloom. It had probably been taken several years ago. Her cheeks were peach plump; the emaciated body in the coffin looked like a cheap impostor.

“How tall do you think she was?” Blue whispered in my ear. All business.

“I don't know. But she doesn't look anything like you or me. Before or after,” I said. “This won't work.”

A mourner approached. He looked like he might be Joan's father.

“I don't believe we've met,” the maybe father said.

“So sorry for your loss,” Blue said.

“Did you know my Joan?”

“Indeed, I did,” said Blue.

“From school?”

“Yes. From school.”

“I thought I met all of Joan's school friends.”

“We were more acquaintances,” said Blue. “But I wanted to pay my respects.”

“Grover Cleveland or Van Buren?” the father asked.

“Cleveland,” Blue guessed, losing her conviction.

“When did you leave Houston?” he asked.

“A few years ago,” Blue said, realizing she had to quickly shut down the conversation.

“Did you know Jacob?”

“No. I'm afraid we never met. I'll leave you to your family,” said Blue, slowly backing away. “And I am so sorry for your loss.”

Blue turned around and began walking down the aisle and out the door. I was right behind her.

“That was close,” I said on the way home.

“As long as we don't go back to the same funeral home twice, there shouldn't be a problem.”

T
HE NEXT
funeral was Laura Cartwright's. She was twenty-eight when she committed suicide. She was just two years younger than me. According to the obituary she left behind a mother, a father, and a husband. No children. She only had about twenty or so mourners at Hammel & Sons funeral home. There was a picture of Laura next to the coffin. She was blond and blue-eyed, like Blue, but so plump—obese, really—that her features were hard to distinguish.

Blue and I regarded the plus-sized woman in the coffin.

“No bullet wound, and her neck looks fine. Probably pills,” said Blue.

“I guess.”

“I could be her in no time,” said Blue, “if I started off my day with half a dozen doughnuts.”

“You'd need to devour an entire doughnut factory,” I said.

A man approached and stood next to us.

“Were you friends?” he asked.

“Yes,” Blue said. “Although I hadn't seen her in years. Were you close?”

“You could say that,” the man said. “We were married.”

“My condolences,” I said.

“Thank you. I should have seen it coming. But she acted like everything was fine.”

When the man spoke, I felt a sick shiver up my spine. Something wasn't right.

“She wasn't depressed?” I asked.

“I didn't think so,” Mr. Cartwright said. “But she must have been. We were trying to have a baby. It wasn't working out.”

“She looks so unblemished. Pills?” I said.

Blue squeezed my elbow in warning, but Mr. Cartwright seemed warmed by my interest.

“She put antifreeze in her lemonade.”

“Oh my. That
is
terrible. She was so young. How did you meet?” I said.

“At a bar. She was the prettiest woman in there. Put on a few pounds since then,” he said dryly.

“How long were you married?” I asked.

Blue pinched my arm again. Harder.

“Five years. What's your name again?”

“Jane Green,” I said. No point in getting Amelia Keen mixed up in this.

“And how did you know Laura?”

“Elementary school.”

“And you haven't seen her since?”

“No. I just saw the obituary and thought I'd pay my respects.”

“I'm sure she would have appreciated that.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said. “I never got a name.”

“Lester. Lester Cartwright. Did you know Laura's friend Kelly Block? I think she went to elementary school with Laura, too.”

“Name doesn't ring a bell. But it was a long time ago. Excuse me, I need to use the ladies' room.”

Blue followed me into the bathroom and we waited until the mourners were seated and Lester was delivering the eulogy before we made our exit. He wasn't exactly silver-tongued.

“Laura went too soon,” Lester said. “But she's in a better place now.”

“I truly loathe that saying,” Blue muttered under her breath as we shoved our combined weight against the fat wooden doors.

Once we were in the parking lot, Blue questioned my interview technique.

“We should probably keep a lower profile than that, especially if I decide to become Laura Cartwright. I think she's an excellent option. Now I just need to figure out how to go about it. I could probably call the parents up and just get them to give me her social security number. But it would be quite a bit easier if I had access to her driver's license and other identification.”

“How would you get that?” I said.

“Well, they're hardly going to bury her with her wallet. It's got to be around somewhere. I think we should follow the husband home and then break into their house when he's away.”

“You can't be serious,” I said.

“Have you got a better idea?”

I didn't. I pulled the VW around the corner and parked behind an old maple tree. The fresh leaves had just opened like the palm of a hand.

All these years, while I've done nothing significant with my life, I've acquired one perfect skill. I know when a man is lying to me. I know a black heart when I see one.

“He killed her,” I said.

“What? The husband?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” said Blue.

“His wife is dead less than a week and he's commenting on her weight. That's not normal.”

“Normal or not, it isn't proof.”

“Nobody takes antifreeze when they want to off themselves. So many better ways to go about it,” I said.

“Should we leave an anonymous tip for the cops?” Blue said.

“Not if you think she's a viable candidate. Be easier if her death goes unnoticed,” I said.

“Doesn't really matter how she died, does it?” Blue said.

“Guess not.”

“I think I'd like to try on Laura Cartwright. See if she fits.”

W
E WAITED
until the mourners departed and followed the husband in his red GMC Sierra. He drove several miles to a suburb in some place called Fairview and parked his car in front of a white clapboard house. The lawn was brown and patchy and there was old furniture on the porch. We kept vigil in Blue's car for the next hour. When Lester departed, he looked up and down the block as if he were checking to see if he was being tailed. He drove off in his truck and Blue got out of the car.

“Text my mobile if you see anyone coming,” Blue said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Break in and see if I can find her wallet.”

I slumped in the driver's seat of the car and waited for Blue. My nerves felt like rockets firing under my skin. Every sound from wind chimes to the rustling of leaves sent a jolt through me.

Blue was in the house for thirty minutes before I sent her a text.

Get out. This isn't safe.

Blue texted back.
Still looking.

Cars drifted past. I couldn't tell if they could see me or not, but one or two might remember an unfamiliar Jetta parked in the neighborhood. A middle-aged woman in a housecoat was watering her lawn and she looked right at me.

The red truck returned and pulled into the driveway. I texted Blue again.

He's back. Get out.

Blue didn't reply. Lester hoisted a case of beer and a bag of groceries from the flatbed. He walked up the front steps, unlocked the door, and went inside. Blue didn't return to the car.

Where are you? He's in the house.

Ten minutes later, Blue slipped out of the bathroom window and casually walked to the car.

“Let's go,” she said.

I started the engine and drove slowly out of the neighborhood and onto the highway.

“What happened in there?” I asked.

“I couldn't find her paperwork,” said Blue, deflated. “But even if I did, I'm not sure this plan would pan out. I could never get a job with her social security number, since the husband probably filed for some kind of death benefit, and without a bribable contact at the DMV, I'd be using a license with a picture that barely resembled me. No matter how many doughnuts I ate.”

“There has to be a way,” I said.

“I'm sure there is,” said Blue. “We just haven't figured it out yet.”

I
NEVER
quite knew what to make of Blue. I never trusted her and yet I owed her an immeasurable debt because my quality of life improved greatly under her roof. She worked nights, so I got out of her hair during the day; I couldn't yet risk being kicked to the curb. Blue never told me her life story. She was an ex-schoolteacher with a bad husband named Jack. Whenever I inquired about the rest of her history, she was cagey and vague. I asked her once what her childhood was like.
I did what kids did. Played and stuff.
I inquired about her family.
I had some
, she said. I don't remember sleeping well during those days with Blue. It always seemed possible that I could wake up with a gun trained on my head.

Blue wasn't, however, my primary cause of concern. I still had Mr. Oliver to contend with. I tried to imagine what his next step would be. Where would one begin looking for a single woman who matched the description of all kinds of single women in Austin? Sometimes being unremarkable is a good thing.

The Austin library circuit became my second home. Since I couldn't risk becoming too familiar, I never paid a repeat visit to the same branch in a week. I mixed it up as much as I could. Yarborough, Twin Oaks, North Village, Carver, and Faulk Central; I got to the computer banks before the children escaped from school. If I didn't beat the afternoon rush, I'd roam the stacks and peruse travel books, pretending my imaginary new life was just an ambitious vacation.