Woman on the Run (new version) Page 20

  It had arrived after her parents’ funeral.

  Julia dropped her head to her knees and struggled to keep the tears back. Tears wouldn’t help anything, and she should be all cried out, anyway. But apparently she wasn’t because a few renegade drops seeped out. Julia lifted a hand to her cold cheeks and shivered as a gust of rain rattled the windows. Had the heating somehow gone off? She was too tired and too depressed to get up and check.

  Maybe Cooper—Julia stopped herself. She shouldn’t get used to leaning on Cooper. Cooper was gone. He’d left her.

  That was the other part of her nightmare. Cooper leaving. Turning his back on her and walking away. In life as in the nightmare.

  Well, of course he’d left her.

  He was a businessman with a business to run. He had things to tend to and wasn’t responsible for a forlorn Eastern lady who had had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Cooper and she were lovers, sure. But who knew what Cooper was thinking or feeling? What she meant to him. He showed up at night, they had sex for hours, and then he left.

  Repeat cycle.

  A friend of hers in New York had had a married lover like that and she had called him The Bat. Cooper seemed to care, but he sure wasn’t talking. And now he’d left her for a whole week.

  Julia bit her lips. A week without Cooper in her bed seemed almost impossible to bear. She’d had no fear when he was around. All that backed up fear was flooding in now. She wanted to call him back, tell him he needed to stay with her.

  Which was nuts, of course. What was she to him besides a good lay?

  What was she to anyone?

  For the first time in her life, Julia took stock. She had moved all over the world with her parents and it had been wonderful, but she had never thought to look over her shoulder, to see what had been left behind. All she had ever seen was what lay ahead. It had been so exciting, each move a new country, a new city, new people to meet.

  For the first time in her life, Julia wished she belonged to a community. People she could turn to for help. A community of people who lived in one place, and had done so for generations, not expatriates who lived in far-flung places.

  There were new friends here, of course. Alice, Beth. But they thought the women they had befriended was Sally Andersen, a perfectly normal grade school teacher.

  Not Julia Devaux, woman on the run.

  Nothing, but nothing, was as satisfactory as surfing cyberspace. It was like being invisible and all-powerful. Nothing was safe from the prowling intelligence. People would be astounded at just how much could be learned if you knew what you were doing. You could find out a man’s hat size, his favorite reading material, what trinkets he bought his mistress and whether he was on pain medication for his hernia and he wouldn’t even know he’d been investigated.

  Of course the Department of Justice’s files were harder to access than most. The D of J’s firewalls were thick and high and studded with protective devices. But it was all about as useful as a Lego fence if the right person wanted in. And I’m the right person, the professional thought. It wasn’t a question of whether Julia Devaux’s file could be found, but when.

  Time to tighten the timeline. Accessing the D of J’s computer system could be done anywhere from a laptop. That was the easy bit. The next step required intelligence.

  The professional’s ruminations were interrupted by the TV newscaster stating that the weather forecasters were predicting a cold winter. There would be snowstorms around Thanksgiving.

  I want to be in St. Lucia by Thanksgiving, the professional thought. Sunshine and crab instead of snow and turkey.

  “We’ve got a man down.”

  Herbert Davis looked up blankly from the circular letter written by the new broom upstairs who was so determined to sweep clean. How the fuck were they supposed to do that on a disappearing budget? Barclay coughed and Davis remembered that he’d said something. “What?”

  “We’ve got a man down.” Barclay grabbed a nearby chair, turned it around and straddled it. Barclay looked like shit and smelled bad, too. He looked uncomfortably like a bum. The divorce was dragging him down.

  Davis shook his head morosely. The world really was going to the dogs. “Who?”

  “Guy named Richard Abt. Remember him? We relocated him as Robert Littlewood.”

  “That was the…” Davis paused.

  “Accountant.” Barclay was reading from the file.

  “Accountant,” Davis said, barely remembering. “Right. Uh-huh. And he was going to testify in the…the…”

  “RRT case.” Davis nodded as Barclay read out the particulars of the case, then flipped the thick file closed. “Abt was due to testify in court on the 15th of December.” Barclay tapped the file and sighed. “Looks like those creeps at RRT are going to be let off the hook, after all. Abt was the only one willing to testify. All that trouble we went through and there won’t even be a break in their tan line.”

  Davis took a pen and started taking notes. It wasn’t his case, but losing a witness was something that shook the entire service from stem to stern. It was a rare event and when it happened, heads rolled. Davis wanted to be ready to cover his ass if any of the shit hitting the fan blew his way.

  “We know who the perps were?” Davis gave a snort of mirthless laughter. “Besides the obvious?”

  “Well, that’s just it, boss.” Barclay shifted uncomfortably. “Looks like…looks like it was an accident.”

  “A what? An accident? Who bought that crap? The local cops?” Davis looked pityingly at Barclay. “Where did we put Abt, anyway?”

  “In Idaho. Little town named Rockville.”

  Davis snorted. “Local cops probably couldn’t find their butts with a stick and a map.”

  “Nah, it wasn’t the local cops who closed the case, it was us.” Barclay rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the knuckles of his index fingers. “Our people say it really did look like an accident. A hit and run.”

  “A real one?” Davis frowned.

  “Sure looks that way. If it’s a hit, the wiseguys make sure everyone knows about it. Real clear message to anyone else who might have any bright ideas about testifying. Sort of a warning. Like shark repellant.”

  It was true. Still…Davis shook his head sorrowfully. “Can’t believe that poor bastard’s bad luck. Here Abt danced his way out of—” Davis checked the file again, “—a sure conviction on three felony counts, looking at twenty-five to thirty, easy. Decides to go state’s witness and gets a whole new identity and a new job.” Davis ran quickly through the info. “Looks like he was doing pretty well in his new identity, too. And it all goes to shit because of a drive-by—”

  “Ain’t that the way.” Barclay picked at a dirty fingernail. Davis noted uneasily that his hand trembled. “Sometimes you’re the windshield and sometimes you’re the bug.”

  The professional scrolled through the facts on Sydney Davidson, the second name in the file hacked from the U.S. Marshal’s Office.

  A real Doctor Feelgood, our Sydney.

  A brilliant biochemist, Dr. Davidson had been hired by Sunshine Pharmaceuticals, a Virginia-based drug company, right out of college. But the good doctor’s knowledge wasn’t limited to aspirin and antibiotics.

  The professional remembered clearly when the Sunshine Pharmaceuticals scandal hit, in the midst of a hotly contested Senate election campaign. A number of members of the company’s board of directors had been involved in an extremely lucrative sideline—providing highly sophisticated designer drugs to the professional elite of the Southeast Seaboard, including several politicians on both sides of the aisle.

  The photographs of Sunshine’s CEO being led to the courtroom in handcuffs and shackles helped the underdog candidate—an aspiring young district attorney running on a law and order platform—to a landslide victory. After a warrant had been issued to the entire board of directors, Sydney Davidson had turned state’s witness on a dime.

  The professional didn�
�t care much about drugs either way—to each his own poison. Personally, the professional preferred Veuve Clicquot.

  The professional checked the organization chart. No use contacting the CEO or any other of the board members. Only the head of security would do.

  The professional typed the posting to the Norwegian: MESSAGE FOR RON LASLETT, HEAD OF SECURITY, SUNSHINE PHARMACEUTICALS. INFORMATION RE LOCATION AND NEW IDENTITY OF DR. SYDNEY DAVIDSON AVAILABLE UPON RECEIPT OF NOTIFICATION OF DEPOSIT OF ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND US DOLLARS ON ACCOUNT N° GHQ 115 Y BANQUE POPULAIRE SUISSE GENEVA HEAD OFFICE. DEATH MUST APPEAR TO BE ACCIDENTAL. NO CAR ACCIDENT.

  After two hours, the computer finally beeped and the professional blinked and sat up. There wasn’t much do to in Idaho except doze.

  ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND US DOLLARS DEPOSITED IN YOUR ACCOUNT N° GHQ 115 Y C/O BANQUE POPULARE SUISSE GENEVA BRANCH MODE OF TERMINATION ACCIDENTAL ELECTROCUTION WHILE TAKING BATH. PLEASE SIGNAL ACCEPTANCE SOONEST.

  The professional’s response was immediate.

  ELECTROCUTION FINE. MUST LOOK LIKE ACCIDENT FOR AT LEAST 56 HOURS. NEW LOCATION OF DR. DAVIDSON AND IDENTITY: GRANT PATTERSON, 90 JUNIPER STREET, ELLIS, IDAHO. GOOD LUCK.

  “An’ then, an’ then the Dr. Who gets into the Tardis and pow!” Rafael said excitedly, pumping his little fist in the air and scattering a few spice cake crumbs. “An’ then, an’ then the Daleks come in and there are a zillion of them and they are all going, like, ‘Stermate, ‘Stermate!” His arms were out in imitation of a robot as he shouted the words.

  It was Wednesday afternoon and Julia had decided to reward Rafael for his renewed interest in his studies—and for turning Fred into a handsome mutt with glossy fur—by buying him hot chocolate and cake at Carly’s, hoping as well to stimulate a little teatime rush hour traffic for Alice. Rafael was giving her a blow-by-blow account of Dr. Who’s time travels, but the plot kept escaping him and Julia had just about given up trying to follow it. She had her sketchpad out and was idly doodling.

  “There you go, squirt.” Matt had come over with another slice of cake, Rafael’s third. He slid it in front of Rafael. “And it’s ‘exterminate’.”

  “Ex-ter-mi-nate,” Rafael repeated obediently. He thought it over, then scrunched up his face at Matt. “What’s ‘stermate, Matt?”

  “Exterminate. Kill.” Matt tried to sound impatient and superior, but he was fighting a grin. Alice had obviously taken Cooper’s advice and had involved Matt in the diner. He was taking his new job so seriously he dressed up to the point of having a shirt on. “Dead.”

  “Oh,” Rafael said seriously. “Kill dead. Cool.” He was clearly thinking that over as he pulled the plate of spice cake closer.

  Julia looked around, expecting Bernie to come pick Rafael up at any moment. Bernie had taken Cooper’s place the past few days in picking Rafael up.

  The diner was as crowded as she’d ever seen it. Apart from herself and Rafael, Matt and Alice, there were three ranchers sitting in a corner quietly discussing stock prices. Ruddy, weather-beaten men in faded flannel shirts, whitened jeans and scuffed boots, sipping tea. It was a start.

  Rafael dug into his third slice with enthusiasm, continuing the ongoing saga of the Dr. Who.

  “Kids.” Matt, all of seventeen himself, shook his head indulgently. He looked over at Julia, all business. “Will there be anything else, Miss Andersen? Freshen your tea for you?” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and waited expectantly. Julia tried to look as serious as he did, but it wasn’t easy. Matt was trying to be so adult and professional. He’d even removed his eyebrow ring.

  “Not for me, Matt.” Julia shook her head. “And the name’s Sally.”

  She had to give Alice points. The place was as dusty and as dingy as ever, but with Matt fairly quivering to attention and a few people around, it was a little less desolate. The tea had been excellent and judging from Rafael’s appetite, so was the spice cake. Then again, Rafael was guaranteed to love anything with starch, sugar and fat in copious quantities.

  Julia smiled up at Matt. “If you don’t mind, we’ll just wait for Bernie to come pick up Rafael.”

  “Sure, Miss Andersen—ah, Sally.” Matt grinned. “Take your time. So…I guess Coop’s not coming in this afternoon.”

  “Cooper’s away,” Julia said between her teeth. She watched a palm tree in a large terra cotta pot grow on the sheet of graph paper in front of her. It had come from her subconscious, but it looked good. Inspired, she added a palm leaf stencil on the wall. “On business.” She bent her head and concentrated on her drawing. “’Till Friday,” she added. She bore down hard on the paper and the point of the pencil snapped.

  “Oh, that’s right. To Kentucky.” Matt nodded. “The annual trip. Coop’s been planning that trip for months. Dad said that Bernie said that Coop was on the phone all afternoon the other day, trying to call the trip off, but he couldn’t.” He angled his head curiously, trying to catch a peek at the sheet of paper. “Can I see what you’re drawing?”

  “He wanted to what?” Julia whipped her head up.

  “Cancel his trip.” Matt leaned forward, nose ring twinkling in the harsh light of the overhead fluorescent strip. “Can I see what you’re drawing?” he repeated.

  “What I’m what?” Julia looked at him blankly, pencil still, mind racing. Cooper had wanted to back out of his trip? Surely not—not because of her? No, of course not. He knew they could pick up on the sex again once he got back. This bereft feeling was all her own, a compound of fear and anguish and loneliness. Cooper probably never felt afraid or anguished or—

  “Sally?”

  “Who?” Julia started and with an effort collected her wits, which seemed to dim whenever she thought about Cooper. “Oh. What were you saying, Matt?”

  He looked at her curiously, then tugged her sheet of graph paper out from under her elbow and towards him. “What’s this, Miss…Sally?”

  “Oh…nothing. Just—” Taking a deep breath, Julia dragged her mind away from Cooper. “It’s sort of a hobby of mine. I like decorating and I was just bouncing around a few ideas for the diner.” She reached for the sheet, embarrassed. “It’s nothing, Matt.”

  “No, hey, this is great.” Matt took in the palm trees, the curvy aluminum counters, the gaudy jukebox, the neon lettering. His Simpson-blue eyes, so like his sister’s, shone with excitement. “Really great.” He looked around the diner, then back at the sheet of drawing paper. “This would really work here.”

  Despite herself, Julia was flattered. “You think so? I’ve always been partial to retro ‘50s funk, myself.”

  “Is that what this is? I just think it looks great.”

  “What looks great?” Alice wiped the crumbs off the table with a damp sponge, then sat down next to Julia and angled her head just as Matt had done. “What’s this?”

  Julia was suddenly struck by the resemblance between brother and sister, which had been hidden behind Matt’s in-your-face trendoid dressing and body piercing. Now that she looked closer, Julia could see that Matt and Alice shared facial planes, coloring, gestures and expressions.

  How long had it been since she had had a chance to observe families? Not since Singapore, her parents’ last posting. Her mother had made friends with a whole clan of interrelated English families who had been expatriates for three generations. The Devauxs had made a game of trying to pinpoint genealogy by looks and mannerisms.

  She’d lost all that when she’d lost her own family. In New York and Boston, she’d met individuals, but with no idea of their backgrounds. She hadn’t the faintest idea whether her officemates resembled their siblings or even whether they had siblings. It had been so long since she’d had a taste of family life, even secondhand.

  “Sally?” Alice was tugging lightly at the graph paper.

  “It’s nothing, Alice.” Julia tried to hide her doodling with her elbow, but Alice pulled it towards her.

  Julia cursed this habit of hers. Of course, Alice would think the drawing was a slu
r on the diner. The diner was dull and dingy, of course, but that was none of Julia’s business. Trying to change her environment was such an ingrained part of who she was, she’d started toying with ideas without really noticing what she was doing. It came from her mother, who could never leave a room alone until it was precisely as she’d imagined it. Julia had spent her whole life redecorating and it seemed that minor details like death threats and banishment weren’t enough to break the habit.

  “Don’t pay any attention, Alice. I was just, ah, imagining what the diner would look like if it were…” …nice. Julia bit her lip at the last minute. “I mean, if—” She sighed and gave up.

  “You mean if someone had done something to it in the last thirty years?” Alice said.

  “I didn’t mean to imply—” Julia began, then looked at Alice who was watching her steadily with a half-smile on her lips. Julia was beginning to know Alice well enough to realize that she was a straight-shooter. It was pointless to pussyfoot around the fact that the diner was as dismal a place as she’d ever seen. “Well…it could use a coat of paint.”

  “And a wrecker.” Alice shook her head at Julia’s automatic protest. “No, it’s true. Mom never did anything to spruce the place up. She never made much money on the diner and then when maybe she could have afforded it, she got sick. Actually, I’ve been wanting to redecorate for a long time but…” Alice chewed her lower lip nervously. “I don’t know much about redecorating. It’s really not my thing. Like cooking.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Julia protested. “Rafael seems to be enjoying his cake. That’s his third slice.”

  “It’s not mine,” Alice replied glumly. “I tried out that Sacher torte recipe you gave me. You know—the chocolate one?”

  “And?” Julia prodded.

  “And it was awful.” Alice sighed heavily. “It came out flat. And gummy. So I gave the recipe to Maisie and it came out great. It’s already gone. She made me the spice cake, too. Maybe if I redecorated, people wouldn’t notice that I can’t cook.”