“I’m not in the house,” he said. “Sit down.”
I felt something well up inside of me—anger at the fear, rage at this injustice.
“Change of plan,” I said. “I’m going to hang up, dial nine one one, and take my chances. You can go—”
“If you aren’t motivated by self-preservation, there’s an old woman named Jeanette I could—”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Sixty-five, lives alone, I think she’d love the company. What do you think? Do I have to visit your mother to show you I’m serious? What is there to consider? Tell me you’ll be on that plane, Andrew. Tell me so I don’t have to visit your mother tonight.”
“I’ll be on that plane.”
The phone clicked, and he was gone.
2
ON the muggy morning of May 21, as raindrops splattered onto the sidewalk, I locked the door to my lake house and carried an enormous black duffel bag toward a white Cadillac DeVille. Walter Lancing opened the trunk from the driver’s seat, and I tossed the bag inside.
“Where the hell are you going?” he asked cheerfully as we rolled slowly down my drive. I’d called him three hours ago, told him I needed a ride to the airport, and to pick me up by 10:30, hanging up before he could question me.
“Going away for a while,” I said.
“Where? That’s a big piece of luggage you got back there.” He was smiling. I could hear it in his voice as I watched my house dwindle away in the side mirror.
“Just away,” I said.
“Are you being intentionally vague?” Beads of sweat had formed on his unshaven face, and he ran his fingers through his short gray hair. He glanced at me, awaiting my reply as rain fell in sheets from the charcoal sky, followed by a growl of thunder. “Andy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I finished my book. I’m tired. I need a break—you know how it goes.” Walter sighed, and I stared out the window as trees rushed by, listening to rain patter on the windshield. Walter’s wife, Beth, had ridden in this car recently. I could smell her body wash—sweet, icy juniper. Her pink emery board lay on the floor mat at my feet.
“You going back to Aruba?” he asked.
“No.” I wasn’t going to lie outright to him.
“So I guess you aren’t telling Cynthia, either.” I shook my head. “With The Scorcher coming out, she’s gonna go apeshit.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell her. She’s a drill sergeant. Call her tonight at home for me, would you? Tell her I said I’m tired of writing, I need a vacation, and not to worry.”
“And when she asks me where you went?”
“Tell her all you know is it’s some tiny island in the South Pacific.”
“She’ll think I’m lying.”
“That’s her problem. She’s not your agent.”
“Please tell me what’s going—”
“Don’t ask, Walter.”
The rain was still pouring when we turned southbound onto I-77. I closed my eyes and took a careful breath, my heart dancing like I’d thrown down two shots of espresso. I wanted to turn back. The book tour, and relaxing in the comfort of my home while summer burgeoned around the lake, was how I’d envisioned spending the coming months.
“Call me,” Walter said. “Or write. Just let me know you’re okay.”
“If it’s possible, I will.”
“Need me to get your mail and take care of your bills?”
“Yeah. I meant to ask you before.”
“You’re scaring me, Andy,” he said.
The scurry of windshield wipers swinging back and forth and the groan of the engine became deafening. I fiddled with the automatic window, flicking the tiny button with my middle finger, though nothing happened. The child-safety lock was on.
The minuscule skyline of Charlotte rose out of the green piedmont distance, the buildings decapitated, their pinnacles cloaked in the low ceiling of storm clouds. Walter looked over at me, attempting a smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“I really don’t know. That’s the thing.”
At eleven o’clock, we arrived at the main entrance of Douglas International Airport. We got out of the car, and I lifted my bag from the trunk and hoisted it up onto my shoulder.
“I’ll come in with you if you want,” Walter said.
“You can’t.” I glanced around at the crowd of travelers moving through the automatic doors. No one seemed to be paying us any attention, so I pulled out a manila envelope from a pocket on my bag and discreetly tossed it into the trunk.
“If I’m not back by the first of September, you can open it.”
“September?”
“Walter. Listen to me. Don’t show it to anyone. If the time comes and I’m not back, you’ll know what to do with what’s inside. I wrote instructions.” He slammed the trunk shut.
Our eyes locked. His searched mine, confused, apprehensive. I took him in whole so I could carry his image with me—him standing there in that granite gray suit, no tie, a white oxford shirt with the top two buttons undone. My best friend. Walter. Will I look back on this moment and regret not letting you help me? My God.
“See you around,” I said. Then I slapped him on the shoulder and walked into the airport.
I peered out the circular window and guessed that the jet was cruising somewhere over the plains. Even at six miles above the earth, I could only see a tawny ocean extending from horizon to horizon. In first class, I reclined, unbuckled, in a plush seat. Through the curtain that separated me from coach, I registered the discontented murmur of a hundred miserable passengers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown coach, and amid the fear that accompanied me to Denver, I found this smallest degree of luxury a comfort.
I stepped into the terminal. As I stared down the long corridor bustling with impatient travelers, I saw an old white man in a black chauffeur’s suit staring at me. He held a piece of cardboard displaying my last name printed in tall, thin letters. I approached him.
“I’m Andrew Thomas,” I said. The brim of the man’s hat came only to my shoulders. He looked me up and down with wide, uneven eyes.
“Welcome to Denver. Name’s Hiram,” he rasped, and a smile spread suddenly across his gaunt, sinking face. “I have a limousine waiting for you outside. Shall we get your luggage?”
I followed him through the concourse, and for an old man, his stride was fast and steady. In no time, we reached the baggage claim.