The Sixth Station (17 page)

I went back to the tablet and—bingo!—there was a message. It was from [email protected] Lefty One Eye was the name of our dog, the one I took in when I came home one night and found the poor guy shivering on the steps of the brownstone. When I couldn’t get pregnant, Lefty was like my consolation gift from the heavens.

We once had a throw pillow on the couch that read, “We’re staying together for the sake of the dog,” which turned out to be true.

When Lefty died after eating three Costco-sized boxes of frozen burgers we’d bought for a BBQ, he killed off the last part of us as well.

I could feel myself welling up again. If only Donald could see me now.… Oh, shit, who cared anyway? I ate another cheese Danish. Unthawed this time.

I opened the e-mail, and there it was—God bless him—a confirmation number, bar code, and all, for a Delta flight from the Pearson International Airport in Toronto at 7:05
P.M.
that night, arriving Istanbul, 2:15
P.M.
the following day with an hour-and-a-half stopover at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport.

I couldn’t tell by his e-mail if I had a direct with a layover or a switch of aircraft. If it was a plane change and the first plane was late or the gates far apart—which they always are at de Gaulle and which inevitably involves a shuttle bus—I was screwed. I’d play it by ear.

Hey—if I even get that far without being apprehended or shot, I’ll be happy.

I still hadn’t gotten a call from Dona, so I took a chance and hit “return” and typed in the fax number with the annotation “Bates Motel f#.” I hit “send” and figured it would get me nailed, totally confuse Donald, or somehow he’d know it was for Dona.

In rapid order two more messages arrived. The first was from “Hot Sexy Viagra Male” (how do they find you two minutes after you open an account?), and another one from [email protected]
Dona! Only she would manage to get an Italian Internet account.

I opened it.

It was also written in Italian: “
La prenotazione prepagata è stata fatta in nome di Alexandra Zaluckyj in Europacar all’aeroporto di Istanbul
.” “A reservation—prepaid—has been made in the name of Alexandra Zaluckyj at Europacar at the Ataturk Airport.”

Why would she write in Italian? Did Dona even know Italian?

I took a chance and hit “return,” and typed in the fax number again.

With no time to waste and scared that I could be tracked by my tablet even with the tracking shut off, I shut down, put on my almost-dry underwear, slipped on my jeans, T-shirt, scarf, boots, and leather jacket, and went back over the room to make sure I’d left nothing behind as evidence.

Of what—a bad dye job?

I called the front desk and asked if by some miracle a fax had come for me, but Mrs. Wife said, “No, no fax.”

I waited another fifteen minutes, called again and again. She said, “No, no fax.”

“I will call you from my next location and perhaps you can fax it to me there?”

“How will you pay me for this fax?”

“I will leave you five dollars. How’s that?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll leave it in an envelope in my room.”

I hopped into the Caddy without saying good-bye to my hosts. Mr. Husband was still glaring at me for the six Danish I had glommed, two of which were squished in my red satchel at the moment. Yes, I had eaten four Danish, something I had never done in my life. My limit had always been half of one.

As I was pulling out of the drive, Mr. Husband came running out, frantically waving at me. I stopped the car short and he said, “You owe fifteen more dollars!”

“For what—the Danish?”

“You have the faxes. It costs fifteen dollars.”

“For a fax?”

“It’s five pages, that’s fifteen dollars.”

“Fifteen dollars? I left five dollars in the room.” A fortune. And the choice was?

“Three dollars a page,” he said, and I knew he was making it up as he went along.

I grudgingly handed over the ten dollars and tucked the envelope with the pages into my red satchel.

I set a course for the Toronto airport—it was nearly 8:40
A.M.,
which gave me around ten hours before takeoff, but I had much to accomplish and a long way to go.

I drove a few hours and pulled into a travel plaza. I parked close to the entrance in case I had to make a quick getaway. I also had to figure out what the hell I was going to do about gas. My funds were dangerously low, and I was desperate for some salty Roy Rogers fried chicken, but on my limited means, I settled for a Diet Coke and, yes, another cheese Danish.

Needless to say, I was excited that the Roy Rogers lady just handed me an empty cup, which I was supposed to fill myself.

Too bad I can’t fill it with gasoline.

I went back to the font three times, until I was as blown up as a balloon over Macy’s.

The travel plaza offered emergency everything, and I bought a sports bra in a tube (ten dollars), two
I LOVE NY
T-shirts in black (fifteen dollars), and a plastic pretend Louis Vuitton large carry-on bag (twenty-one dollars), with the initials
LU
instead of
LV
.

The TVs around the rest stop were reporting on the manhunt for Alessandra Russo, who was wanted for the murder of Father Eugene Sadowski, in what was now being described as a crime of passion. My press photo was on the screen and so were pictures of me in Iraq with my foot up on a pile of bombed-out bricks, like some crazed hunter. There was no way anyone would recognize that person in my present state. I hoped.

The bigger news, of course, was that the United Nations area around the ben Yusef trial, which had already begun for the morning, was more unruly than ever, with protestors from both sides jamming up the streets. Demiel’s face, as he was perp-walked in front of the press that day, looked surprisingly serene.

Maybe I could learn something from him.

I looked anything but serene, and I felt scared and frantic. I filled up the cup again and plopped down in a booth like a bag lady.

I’m trying to escape to Istanbul looking for—what, I don’t know—with roughly seventy dollars to my name. If I don’t get nailed, I may in fact starve to death. How long can I last on one more Danish-in-a-bag? Of course, I’ve eaten enough this morning to hold me for the entire month. I wonder if they still serve food on Delta.… Do I dare try to cash a check? That could take a few days to trace. No.

Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Clearly. So I got up and headed back out to the Caddy.

As I approached the big glass doors, I saw Sadowski’s car, and it appeared that someone was in it.

Shit.

Yes. Someone was in my car! I peered around the side of the door, keeping away from the front. The driver’s side door opened slightly, and in a flash I saw the intruder. It was the German! He exited, shut the door, and quickly walked away and toward the doors to the pavilion.

The Düsseldorf assassin/garmento had done something to my car, of that I was certain. But how the hell had he found me again? How? Impossible! I had been very, very careful.

Before the man spotted me, I hurried back to the women’s bathroom to think a minute. Not the most comfortable of places—they are built to get travelers in and out as quickly as possible—but I settled into a stall, figuring I had maybe ten minutes before the restroom attendant / cleaning lady would knock on the door to see if I was dead or shooting up.

How the hell had he found me? I had been so damned careful.

Then it hit me, and I slapped my forehead so hard the other ladies must have thought I fell off the bowl.

The GPS! How could I have been so freaking stupid? It was like a built-in tracking device.
Are the cops barricading the place right now?

I was sweating and had to control myself from shaking.

Do not bring attention to yourself.

After eight minutes I walked out—sauntered actually, or attempted to—and scanned the building. There was only one cop—a highway patrol officer—and he didn’t seem to be in the mood to catch a killer. He was adjusting his fly as he walked out of the men’s room and headed, I swear, to the Dunkin’ Donuts counter.

I had to get out, and the car was no longer an option.

At a kiosk, a woman in a fake Canadian Mounties uniform was selling bus tickets to the Niagara Falls area. Why they would have a bus operator in a travel stop for cars, I didn’t know. Then I realized that there was a casino up in the Niagara Falls area. I seemed to recall from a news story I’d once done that this casino was operated by the Seneca tribe (or as they were called in the newsroom, “casino-owning Americans”). Seniors probably drove here, parked their cars, and then mustered up for day trips spent squandering their Social Security checks on the slots.

The good: There was a way out.

The better: I had my satchel with my computer, my passport, and the phone with me. I had just bought some essentials.
This could work
.

The bad: Oh, money. Right.
Damn.

“How much are the tickets?” I asked the Mountie ticket lady.

“New York or Canadian?” the woman asked perkily.

“Huh?”

“New York or Canadian side of the Falls,” she then said.

“Oh, Canadian. For sure.”

“Do you have proof?”

“I need to show you proof to buy the ticket?”

“Not for me, dear, but you’re crossing borders. The officers at the border sure need proof! You don’t want them to think you’re a fugitive from justice, do you?” She giggled as though this were the first time she’d made that joke.

“Oh, yes, of course. I mean, no. And how much are they?”

“Seventy round-trip—or twenty if you buy twenty-five in casino chips. The bus stops at the casino on the way in and the way out.”

Fifty bucks would wipe me out!

“Oh, great … but I need to get some cash first,” I said, knowing for sure I’d get traced with Sadowski’s ATM, but I had six hours and maybe I could dodge the Feds, or whoever the hell was on my tail, and the German for that long. I said my fourth prayer in two days.

I stuck the card in the ATM and a request for my password popped up, of course
. Shit. Shit. Shit.

The fake Mountie was watching me.

What? You never saw a woman with clown hair who was down to her last Danish?
I smiled and waved like an idiot.

I pulled the card out and noticed it wasn’t even in Sadowski’s name. It was in the name of “Alazais Roussel.”
What the hell?

I flipped it over and saw that written on a piece of Scotch tape on the back were the numbers 42 15 0 13 45 0.

It was worth a shot. I put the card in again, pulled it out, and punched in the numbers. Immediately, the machine responded with the words “cash withdrawal?”

You bet your ass.

I punched in $300, an amount I thought was safe, and those green beauties came flying out. It was like hitting lotto. What the hell! I did it again and got another $200.

I went back to the Mountie’s kiosk and bought a round-trip casino special—no sense in calling attention to myself with a one-way ticket.

“The next bus is in twenty minutes. In front,” she grinned.

Since I couldn’t go outside and risk being spotted by the German, I walked around and bought a horrifying pink hoodie with rhinestones in the shape of a horse, some equally terrible fake Indian moccasins, and some knock-off Ray Bans, which will be in style until the next coming—maybe even the one after the next coming. I went back into the bathroom, put on the sweatshirt, the moccasins, and the glasses, and put my leather jacket, T-shirts, and toiletries into the carry-on.

Ten minutes until I could blow that joint. I paced and studied wall maps and uninteresting local history lessons printed up in big plastic reproductions of 1790s-era documents—anything to keep my face to the wall.

Something, a hunch, a feeling, a whatever, made me glance over my shoulder just as the German walked toward me.

Son of a bitch!

But he didn’t make me, and instead glanced all over, looking past the seriously unattractive tourist with the aging rocker-chick hair, pink hoodie, and mock mocs. He turned and walked to an area that faced the women’s bathroom, and watched every woman who came out.

The guy was good. Normally an act like that would get him pinched as a pervert, but he was totally unobtrusive.

I took my shot at the same time and walked outside with my head down and headed for the bus pickup area.
Five minutes, four.

The seniors were already lined up outside in front of a sign that said
CASINO DAY TOURS
. I didn’t exactly blend in as I’d hoped I would have, although some of those dames were as done up as I was in pastel rhinestone tracksuits. I kept looking around nervously until one old gent asked me if I was waiting for my husband.

“Don’t worry, honey. We guys never miss the Wednesday bus.”

“Oh.”

“Texas Hold’em tourney day.”

I nodded knowingly and looked around again. I was sweating.

The big tourist bus with a smiling Seneca Indian holding a hatchet finally pulled up. Happy Trails was the bus operator. Right.

I wanted to knock those seniors down and rush aboard, but I couldn’t and I was at the end of the line. Slowly, ever more slowly, they boarded. Without warning, the bus driver suddenly shut the door before I and a few other stragglers could even board. He walked to the back and lowered the electric ramp to allow a parade of walker- and wheelchair-bound senior gamblers to wheel onto the bus.

Damn it! I’m standing out here and the freaking German is going to come out and blow us all away.

Why the driver had to shut the door and keep the rest of us outside as he let the invalids board I couldn’t even begin to understand. Like we were going to try to steal a ride when we were all trapped on the same damned bus!

I headed to the back ramp, where a morbidly obese man with an oxygen thing attached to his wheelchair and a tube up his nose tossed his cigarette on the ground and wheeled onto the drop-down ramp.