nightmare returned, and he had the urgent desire to get away, to get outside, where he could look back at the motel and convince himself that the meeting with Detective Wright had not really happened. He needed fresh air, and maybe someone to talk to.
He eased from the room and tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs. In the lobby some salesmen were gulping coffee and talking rapidly, anxious for the day to start. The sun was up, the snow had stopped. Outside the air was cold and sharp, and he inhaled as if he’d been suffocating. He made it to his Jeep, started the engine, turned on the heater, and waited for the defrost to melt the snow on the windshield.
The shock was wearing off, but the reality was even worse.
He checked his cell phone messages. His girlfriend had called six times, his roommate three. They were worried. He had class at 9:00 A.M. and a pile of work at the law journal. And nothing—girlfriend, roommate, law school, or work—held the slightest interest at the moment. He left the Holiday Inn and drove east on Highway 1 for a few miles until New Haven was behind him. He ran up behind a snowplow and was content to putter along at thirty miles an hour. Other cars lined up behind him, and for the first time he wondered if someone might be following. He began glancing at the rearview mirror.
At the small town of Guilford, he stopped at a convenience store and finally found some Tylenol. He washed it down with a soft drink and was about to drive back to New Haven when he noticed a diner across the street. He had not eaten since lunch the day before and was suddenly famished. He could almost smell the bacon grease.
The diner was packed with the local breakfast crowd. Kyle found a seat at the counter and ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, coffee, and orange juice. He ate in silence as the laughter and town gossip roared around him. The headache was fading fast, and he began plotting the rest of his day. His girlfriend might be a problem: no contact in twelve hours, a night spent away from his apartment—highly unusual behavior for someone as disciplined as Kyle. He certainly couldn’t tell her the truth, could he? No, the truth was a thing of the past. The present and thefuture would be a life of lies, cover-ups, thievery, espionage, and more lies.
Olivia was a first-year law student at Yale, a Californian, UCLA graduate, extemely bright and ambitious and not looking for a serious commitment. They had been dating for four months, and the relationship was far more casual than romantic. Still, he did not look forward to some stuttering tale of a night that simply vanished.
A body closed in from behind. A hand appeared with a white business card. Kyle glanced to his right and came face-to-face with the man he had once known as Special Agent Ginyard, now wearing a camel hair sport coat and jeans. “Mr. Wright would like to see you at 3:00 p.m., after class, same room,” he said, then disappeared before Kyle could speak. He picked up the card. It was blank except for the handwritten message: “3:00 p.m., today, room 225, Holiday Inn.” He stared at it for a few minutes as he quickly lost interest in the remaining food in front of him.
Is this my future? he asked himself. Someone always watching, following, waiting in the shadows, stalking, listening?
A crowd was waiting by the door for seating. The waitress slipped his bill under his coffee cup and gave him a quick smile that said “Time’s up.” He paid at the cash register and, outside, refused to scan the other vehicles for signs of stalkers. He called Olivia, who was sleeping.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I don’t want to know anything else, just tell me you’re not hurt.”
“I’m not hurt. I’m fine, and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m apologizing, okay. I should have called.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Yes you do. Do you accept my apology?”
“I don’t
He eased from the room and tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs. In the lobby some salesmen were gulping coffee and talking rapidly, anxious for the day to start. The sun was up, the snow had stopped. Outside the air was cold and sharp, and he inhaled as if he’d been suffocating. He made it to his Jeep, started the engine, turned on the heater, and waited for the defrost to melt the snow on the windshield.
The shock was wearing off, but the reality was even worse.
He checked his cell phone messages. His girlfriend had called six times, his roommate three. They were worried. He had class at 9:00 A.M. and a pile of work at the law journal. And nothing—girlfriend, roommate, law school, or work—held the slightest interest at the moment. He left the Holiday Inn and drove east on Highway 1 for a few miles until New Haven was behind him. He ran up behind a snowplow and was content to putter along at thirty miles an hour. Other cars lined up behind him, and for the first time he wondered if someone might be following. He began glancing at the rearview mirror.
At the small town of Guilford, he stopped at a convenience store and finally found some Tylenol. He washed it down with a soft drink and was about to drive back to New Haven when he noticed a diner across the street. He had not eaten since lunch the day before and was suddenly famished. He could almost smell the bacon grease.
The diner was packed with the local breakfast crowd. Kyle found a seat at the counter and ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, coffee, and orange juice. He ate in silence as the laughter and town gossip roared around him. The headache was fading fast, and he began plotting the rest of his day. His girlfriend might be a problem: no contact in twelve hours, a night spent away from his apartment—highly unusual behavior for someone as disciplined as Kyle. He certainly couldn’t tell her the truth, could he? No, the truth was a thing of the past. The present and thefuture would be a life of lies, cover-ups, thievery, espionage, and more lies.
Olivia was a first-year law student at Yale, a Californian, UCLA graduate, extemely bright and ambitious and not looking for a serious commitment. They had been dating for four months, and the relationship was far more casual than romantic. Still, he did not look forward to some stuttering tale of a night that simply vanished.
A body closed in from behind. A hand appeared with a white business card. Kyle glanced to his right and came face-to-face with the man he had once known as Special Agent Ginyard, now wearing a camel hair sport coat and jeans. “Mr. Wright would like to see you at 3:00 p.m., after class, same room,” he said, then disappeared before Kyle could speak. He picked up the card. It was blank except for the handwritten message: “3:00 p.m., today, room 225, Holiday Inn.” He stared at it for a few minutes as he quickly lost interest in the remaining food in front of him.
Is this my future? he asked himself. Someone always watching, following, waiting in the shadows, stalking, listening?
A crowd was waiting by the door for seating. The waitress slipped his bill under his coffee cup and gave him a quick smile that said “Time’s up.” He paid at the cash register and, outside, refused to scan the other vehicles for signs of stalkers. He called Olivia, who was sleeping.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I don’t want to know anything else, just tell me you’re not hurt.”
“I’m not hurt. I’m fine, and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m apologizing, okay. I should have called.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Yes you do. Do you accept my apology?”
“I don’t
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