The Railroad (15 page)

It all seemed hopeless. She was right. It would never work.

After what seemed like only five minutes they came out. I went to the bookcase and pulled money from my copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It looked like about five hundred. “Take this,” I said.

Eileen smiled sadly and walked over to take the money. Before I could hand it to her she threw her arms around me and held me tightly. “You’re a good knight, Mike, Remember that.”

I began to cry then. “Will I ever hear from you again,” I asked with my voice breaking.

“Who knows? I hope so.”

She pulled away, stuffing the money in her pocketbook. Then she handed me a card with a number on it. “My lawyer. Call him. It’s worth a try.”

I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Megan and it seemed that Eileen felt that it was best that I didn’t. She gestured to Megan to follow her and made her way to the front door.

I followed them lamely and watched from the porch as they put their bags in the car. I tried to think of something to say but there was nothing. I stood there silently as they got into the front seat. I strained to see them, to wring some last bit of essence from their presence in my life, but they were indistinct behind the glass of the window. Then the car began to back out of the driveway.
How oddly normal
, I thought. The sight of a late model car leaving a driveway was so ordinary that it almost seemed like nothing was wrong. I held that feeling until the last bit of their car disappeared behind the trees.

That was it.
It’s odd how things can just end
. That was all I could think for a long time.

*

I was awakened at 8:30 by the sound of the doorbell. I lay there wondering what had happened to make someone ring my bell at such an early hour. Then the knocking started. I sat up which turned out to be a mistake. That sharp movement made my raging hangover obvious to me. That in turn made me realize why I had drunk so much the night before.

It had all come tumbling down on me and I felt like crying. I wondered if I really had to answer whoever was knocking or if they’d just go away and leave me in misery. Then I heard some shouting.

“Mr. Dobbs. This is the police. Please open up!”

Oh shit. It was starting already. I stared in the direction of the front door as though my pitiful state might be so obvious that it would make the police go away. After a second the shouting continued and I knew I hadn’t been successful.

I finally steadied myself enough to stand up and throw on a robe. The pounding became more insistent and I debated whether I had enough time to eat a donut and put on some coffee.

“Dobbs! Open up. We have to talk to you!”

Okay, no donut. I ambled to the door and opened it. What I saw were two detectives, one very large and seemingly amiable, the other a little shorter than me with squinty eyes. The shorter one looked like he was permanently annoyed. It seemed that he was the one who’d done all the shouting. “You Mike Dobbs?”

“Yes.”

“Can we come in?”

I stepped back and gestured them into my living room. The half empty bottle stood in plain sight along with the remains of the cookies I’d consumed in a silly attempt to soak up the booze. Squinty glanced at them and shook his head. “We’re looking for Eileen Benoit.”

“She’s gone.”

He snorted. “And she’s not coming back.”

“Actually that’s the truth.”

“And why is that?”

“Because she knew you were coming.”

“And you have no idea where she is?”

“No.”

“Let’s say for the moment I don’t believe that.”

“Let’s say I don’t really care. She’s gone.”

“I don’t need any smart crap from you. I’m trying to find someone.”

I decided that if I was going to be verbally abused I might as well sit down, so I did. “Do you guys want to sit down? I can make some coffee.”

Squinty seemed about to say something but his partner cut him off. “Mr. Dobbs, I’m Detective Wills. This is Detective Marino. He’s from Dutchess County.”

I pinned Marino with a stare. “Why would you be here?”

“We’re trying to find Eileen Benoit. She’s taken the little girl. The Benoit’s lived in Dutchess County.”

“I know that you’re looking for them. I also know why.”

“I’m not sure I get you.”

“Megan was being abused. You probably know that, but you can’t do anything about it. Anyway, they’re not here. Look through the house. You’ll see that nothing of theirs is here.”

“We don’t have a warrant and we’re not here to search your house.”

“I’d like it if you did. Then we can stop playing games.”

Marino didn’t seem to like that. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you,” I said as I pointed at him. “You are here to hassle me because that’s how you handle things like this. I think if you thought about this for a second you’d look back on your years of experience and realize that the first thing a woman in Eileen’s position would do is disappear. And she wouldn’t tell anyone where she was going. I’m new to this and
I
know that. Why don’t you?”

“Don’t hand me that! You can be charged with harboring a fugitive and maybe conspiracy to kidnap.” He stared at me belligerently.

“Okay, let me ask you the question. Do you think that she’d leave and tell me where she’s going? Do you think she really even knows where she’s going to end up?”

That seemed to stop him. I guess he was just used to shooting off his mouth; thinking through to this level of deep logic was too much for him.

I saw a quick grin flash across Wills's face. “We’d like whatever information you can give us, Mr. Dobbs.”

“All right. She came here. A mutual friend sent her. She stayed for a while. Then we got spotted in Manhattan as you know. She left immediately and took everything she had.”

“Could we ask who the mutual friend is?”

“I suppose this is where I ask to call my lawyer.”

Wills shook his head. “We don’t want that. If we wanted to we could bring you in and maybe charge you with something. But as you said we do have some experience with this. I have a feeling that you don’t know where she is. But you might later. We’d appreciate your cooperation. I’d like to point out that you are open to charges of harboring a fugitive, and possibly related charges on the kidnapping.”

“I didn’t know that she was a fugitive until last night. Only that she had left her husband.”

I suppose he was hoping I’d admit that I knew she was running from her husband. It would give them a lever to get information out of me since it would make me complicit. That was the last thing I wanted to give them.

“I’m sure that’s true,” he said, barely hiding the sarcasm. “All I’ll ask is that if she contacts you, you'll call us.”

“She…she didn’t know where she’d go. And she made it clear I’d probably never see her again.”

Marino grunted. "The Railroad". He shared a glance with his partner, and then turned back to me. “You know what that is, Mr. Dobbs?”

“I’ve heard about it.”

“Well you’ll be happy to know that she’s going to be the subject of a nationwide search. That’s how it works.”

“I’m sure it does.”

Wills stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dobbs. If you have any information, please call me at this number any time.” He handed me a card.

Marino stood up as well, though it seemed reluctantly. “You remember what we told you,” he said, the warning evident.

“I sure will.”

He took another look at the bottle of bourbon. “Drinking is bad for you.”

“It’s better than some things.” I was already dreading the moment they left and the silence it would bring.

They nodded and took their leave. I fell back on the couch and reached for the remote. It was definitely a television kind of day.

That night I managed to once again talk myself into believing that drinking outside the house was healthier than drinking alone at home. Being sober didn’t seem to be an option because I felt like shit and basically didn’t give a fuck about anything. And staying home would have left me staring at the phone and hoping it would ring, willing it to ring until I was so sad that I’d want no more than to go to sleep. I found myself a nice upscale bar two towns over. I figured I’d worn out my welcome at the Holiday Inn. That night I did start to make some friends but they weren’t the type of friends I considered healthy; they were on the same sure downward slide that I was. There were a couple of flirtations. I avoided any hint of romantic attachments; waking up in the morning with someone you don’t remember going to bed with is the most depressing thing you can do. You’re just extending your nightmare world into the world of reality.

`I had managed to slow myself down and sober up a little before I went home around one A.M. The drive home was uneventful and I was relishing a night of oblivion after fighting my way through what might have been the worst day of my life. I shuffled up the driveway to my door, more tired than anything else.

I had just gotten the front door open when I heard some harsh breathing. “Fuckin’ thief!” a voice said. Then he grabbed my arm. I wondered if he had a knife.

I immediately knew that whoever my visitor was, he was drunker than I was. And I knew with instant certainty that this wasn’t a robbery. I found myself strangely unafraid. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was depression “What did I take?” I asked reasonably.

“You know what you took, you piece of shit!”

“Hey, I don’t know who you are. You want money?”

He waved his free arm drunkenly. “Fuck you! I don’t want your money. I have more fuckin’ money then you’ll ever have. I want my wife back.”

It hit me. “Oh, Bob. Nice to meet you. Your wife isn’t here.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “You took my fuckin’ daughter too.”

That made me angry. I tried to shake his arm off but he hung on tight. “Let go of me,” I said tightly.

“Fuck you! I’m not letting go. I want what’s mine. You take all I have, something that isn’t yours! And then you tell me to let go? Fuck you! Where the hell are my wife and kid?”

I pushed him, which he clearly wasn’t ready for. He staggered backwards, managing to keep his balance until he hit my trellis with his back. He stood there, hanging on for dear life. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” he roared.

“I’m not you. That’s enough for me.”

His breath rasped in and out as he stared at me, not quite digesting what I’d said. I realized he was very drunk. “Why don’t you get out of here before I call the police? Make it easy on yourself.”

He shuffled forward, his arms pinwheeling to emphasize his words. “Fuckin’ you think the cops will arrest me? I didn’t do anything. You stole my family. They’ll fuckin’ arrest you!”

Then he lunged at me. In the microsecond before we collided, I ran down the situation. I knew that his drunkenness would eventually make him weak and I could probably knock him down. Some rational part of me realized that hitting him would be the worst thing I could do; he had money and could accuse me of assault. It would be my word against his or my lawyer’s word against his lawyer’s.

I’d taken Tai Chi for a number of years in college and graduate school. My instructor was one of the few in the New York area who emphasized the martial aspect of the art. Many don’t know it, but that slow meditative movement is the basis of some of the most subtle and effective, street fighting you’ll ever encounter.

They were forever talking about circles and using your opponent's force. My instructor had told me that the push hands we did, along with some of the other techniques we had been taught, would become ingrained in us. I’d never quite believed him but, without thought, my body moved itself to prepare for his impact. In a split second I was behind him and to the side, guiding his arm into an awkward position that made him bend over almost at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. As he tried to maintain his balance, I scooped his arm backwards and pushed it up behind his back. We did an odd dance for a bit, while he tried to straighten up. All that time I kept my leverage. I was strangely aware of the wind in the trees and Bob’s occasional grunts punctuated by his drunken breathing.

I had him firmly under my control. I debated what my course of action should be. I could leave him on the porch and lock the door behind me but I had the strong feeling that he wouldn’t simply go away until he sobered up. That only left bringing him into the house. Not something I wanted to do.

Then I remembered the basement. The former owner of the house had married a woman with marked paranoid tendencies, or so the realty agent told me. Whatever the reason, the basement was built like a fortress. The windows were barred and the door was double thick with three monster deadbolt locks. It seemed doubtful that Bob could get out of there sober. Drunk, it was a cakewalk.

I pushed his arm a little higher. He squealed in a very satisfying way. Then I pushed him forward, through the front door past the kitchen, through the living room to the basement door. That was the tricky part, getting the door open while maintaining control. I finally pushed him up against the wall to the left of the door, tightening my death grip, while I worked at the locks with my other hand. It took what seemed like minutes to get the door open but I managed it.