“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, because that was what people said under these circumstances. I almost added, because the mind works in very strange and even macabre ways: Hey, Rachel and I have something else in common.
And then, as if Cheryl could read these thoughts, she said, “He was shot.”
This eerie parallel sat between us for several seconds. I stayed quiet.
“I don’t know the details,” she quickly added. “He was with the FBI too. Rachel was one of the highest-ranking women in the bureau at the time. She resigned after he died. She stopped taking my calls. It hasn’t been good for her since.” Cheryl pulled up to my car and stopped. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand. A lot of years have passed since college. Rachel isn’t the same person you loved all those years ago.”
I kept my tone steady. “I just need her phone number.”
Without another word, Cheryl grabbed a pen from the visor, uncapped it with her teeth, and jotted the number on a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin.
“Thanks,” I said.
She barely nodded as I got out.
I did not hesitate. I had my cell phone. I slipped into my car and dialed the number. Rachel answered with a tentative hello. My words were simple enough.
“I need your help.”
Chapter 15
Five hours later,Rachel’s train pulled into Newark Station.
I couldn’t help but think of all those old movies where trains separate lovers, steam billowing from beneath, the conductor calling a last warning, the whistle sounding, the chug-chug as the wheels begin to move, one lover hanging out and waving, the other running along the platform. I don’t know why I thought of this. The Newark train station is about as romantic as a pile of hippo dung with head lice. The train approached with nary a whisper and nothing you’d want to see or smell wafted in the air.
But when Rachel stepped off, I still felt the hum in my chest. She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a red turtleneck. Her overnight bag dangled from one shoulder, and she hoisted it up as she stepped down. For a moment, I just stared. I’d just turned thirty-six years old. Rachel was thirty-five. We had not been together since our very early twenties. We had lived our entire adult lives apart. Odd when you think of it that way. I told you before about our breakup. I try to unearth the whys, but maybe it is that simple. We were kids. Kids do dumb things. Kids don’t understand repercussions, don’t think long term. Kids don’t understand that the hum may never really leave your chest.
Yet today, when I realized that I needed help, I thought first of Rachel. And she had come.
She moved toward me with no hesitation. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Did they call?”
“Not yet.”
She nodded and started walking down the platform. Her tone was no nonsense. She, too, had slipped into her role as a professional. “Tell me more about the DNA test.”
“I don’t know anything else.”
“So it’s not definitive?”
“Not court-evidence definitive, no, but they seem pretty sure.”
Rachel shifted her bag from her right shoulder to her left. I tried to keep up with her pace. “We have to make some tough decisions, Marc. You ready for that?”
“Yes.”
“First off, are you certain that you don’t want to contact the cops or FBI?”
“The note said they had an inside source.”
“That’s probably bull,” she said.
We walked a few more steps.
“I contacted the authorities last time,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean it was the wrong move.”
“But it certainly wasn’t the right one.”
She made a yes-no gesture with her head. “You don’t know what happened last time. Maybe they spotted the tail. Maybe they watched your house. But most likely, they never intended to give her back. You understand that?”
“Yes.”
“But you still want them left out.”
“It’s why I called you.”
She nodded and finally stopped, waiting for me to signal which way. I pointed to the right. She started up again. “Another thing,” she said.
“What?”
“We can’t let them dictate the tempo this time. We have to insist on assurances that Tara is alive.”
“They’ll say the hairs prove it.”
“And we’ll say the tests were inconclusive.”
“You think they’ll buy that?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.” She kept walking, the cut of her jaw held high. “But this is what I mean by tough decisions. That flannel-shirt guy in the park? That’s about head games. They want to intimidate and weaken you. They want you to follow blindly again. Tara is your child. If you want to just hand over the money again, that’s up to you. But I wouldn’t advise it. They vanished before. There’s no reason to think they won’t again.”
We entered the parking garage. I handed the attendant my ticket. “So what do you suggest?” I asked her.
“A few things. First, we have to demand an exchange. No ‘Here’s the money, call us later.’ We get your daughter when they get the money.”
“And if they don’t agree?”
She looked at me with those eyes. “Tough decisions. You understand?”
I nodded.
“I also want a total electronic surveillance hookup, so I can stay with you. I want to strap on a fiber-optic camera and see what this guy looks like, if possible. We don’t have manpower, but there are still things we can do.”
“Suppose they catch on?”
“Suppose they run away again?” she countered. “We’re taking chances here no matter what we do. I’m trying to learn from what happened the first time. There are no guarantees. I’m simply trying to improve our odds.”
The car arrived. We slid in and started up McCarter Highway. Rachel suddenly grew very quiet. The years again melted away. I knew this posture. I had seen it before.
“What else?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Rachel.”
Something in my tone made her look away. “There are some things you should know.”
I waited.
“I called Cheryl,” she said. “I know she filled you in on most of it. You understand that I’m not a fed anymore.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a limit to what I can do.”
“I understand that.” She sat back. The posture was still there. “What else?”