Rachel was in the trunk, which was totally weird if I thought about it. I reached for the cell phone and flipped on the two-way radio feature. My finger pressed down on the call button and almost instantly I heard the robotic voice say, “Take the Henry Hudson north.”
I put the phone to mouth, walkie-talkie style. “Okay.”
“Tell me the moment you get on the Hudson.”
“Right.”
I got into the left lane. I knew the way. This area was familiar to me. I had done a fellowship at New York Presbyterian, which resided about ten blocks south. Zia and I had roomed with a cardiac resident named Lester in an Art Deco building at the tail end of Fort Washington Avenue in upper, upper Manhattan. When I lived here, this section of the city was known as the far northern point of Washington Heights. Now I had noticed several realtors redubbing it “Hudson Heights” so as to differentiate it, in both substance and cost, from its lower-class roots.
“Okay, I’m on the Hudson,” I said.
“Take your next exit.”
“Fort Tryon Park?”
“Yes.”
Again I knew it. Fort Tryon floats cloudlike high above the Hudson River. It is a quiet and restful jagged cliff, New Jersey on its west, Riverdale-Bronx on its east. The park is a mishmash of terrains—walkways of harsh stone, fauna from a bygone era, terraces of stone, nooks and crannies of cement and brick, thick brush, rocky slopes, open grass. I had spent plenty of summer days on her green lawns, adorned in shorts and T-shirt, Zia and unread medical books my companions. My favorite time here: summer, right before dark. The orange glow bathing the park in something almost ethereal.
I put on my blinker and glided onto the exit ramp. There were no cars and few lights. The park was closed at night, but the roadway stayed open for through traffic. My car chugged up the steep road and entered what felt like a medieval fortress. The Cloisters, a former quasi-French monastery that was now part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, held middle ground. It houses a fabulous collection of medieval artifacts. Or so I’m told. I’ve been in this park a hundred times. I’ve never been inside the Cloisters.
It was, I thought, a smart place for a ransom drop—dark, quiet, filled with serpentine trails, stone cliffs, sudden drops, thick woods, paved and unpaved walks. You could get lost here. You could hide here for a very long time and never be found.
The robotic voice asked, “Are you there yet?”
“I’m in Fort Tryon, yes.”
“Park near the café. Get out and walk up to the circle.”
Riding in the trunk was noisy and jarring. Rachel had brought a padded blanket, but there was not much she could do about the noise. A flashlight stayed in her satchel. She had no interest in turning it on. Rachel had never minded the dark.
Sight could be distracting. The dark was a good place to think.
She tried to keep her body loose, riding bumps, and wondered about Marc’s behavior right before they left. The cop at the house had, no doubt, said something that shook him. About her? Probably. She wondered what exactly he had said and how she should react.
Didn’t matter now. They were on their way. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.
Rachel was falling back into a familiar role. There was a pang here. She missed being with the FBI. She had loved her job. Yes, perhaps it was all she had. It was more than her escape—it was the only thing she really enjoyed doing. Some people pushed through the nine-to-five so they could go home and live their lives. For Rachel, it was the opposite.
After all these years apart, here was something that she and Marc had in common: They’d both found careers they loved. She wondered about that. She wondered if there was a connection, if their careers had become some kind of true-love substitute. Or was that looking at it too deeply?
Marc still had his job. She did not. Did that make her more desperate?
No. His child was gone. Game, set, match.
In the darkness of the trunk, she smeared her face with black makeup, enough to take the shine away. The car started climbing upward. Her gear was packed and ready.
She thought about Hugh Reilly, the son of a bitch.
Her breakup with Marc—and everything after—was his fault. Hugh had been her dearest friend in college. That was what he wanted, he told her. Just to be her friend. No pressure. He understood that she had a boyfriend. Had Rachel been naïve or purposefully naïve? Men who want to “just be friends” do so because they hope to be next in line, as though friendship were an on-deck circle, a good place for practice swings before heading to the plate. Hugh had called her in Italy that night with nothing but the best of intentions. “I just think you should know,” he said, “as your friend.” Right. And then he told her what Marc had done at some stupid frat party.
Yes, enough blaming herself. Enough blaming Marc. Hugh Reilly. If that son of a bitch had just minded his own business, what would her life be like right now? She couldn’t say. Ah, but what had her life become? That was easier to answer. She drank too much. She had a bad temper. Her stomach bothered her more than it should. She spent too much time readingTV Guide . And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: She had gotten herself ensnared in a self-destructive relationship—and gotten herself out of it in the worst way possible.
The car veered and climbed upward, forcing Rachel to roll back. A moment or two later, the car stopped. Rachel lifted her head. The cruel musings fled.
It was game time.
From the old fort’s lookout tower, some two hundred fifty feet above the Hudson River, Heshy had one of the most stunning views of the Jersey Palisades, stretching from the Tappan Zee Bridge on the right to the George Washington Bridge on his left. He actually took the time to appreciate it before he got to the matter at hand.
As though on cue, Seidman took the exit off the Henry Hudson Parkway. No one followed. Heshy kept his eyes on the road. No car slowed. No car sped up. No one was trying to make it look as though they weren’t following.
He spun around, lost sight of the car for a brief moment, then spotted it again as it came back into view. He could see Seidman in the driver’s seat. No one else was visible. That didn’t mean much—someone could be ducking down in the back—but it was a start.
Seidman parked the car. He turned off the engine and opened the door. Heshy lifted the microphone to his mouth.
“Pavel, you ready?”
“Yes.”
“He’s alone,” he said, speaking now for Lydia’s benefit. “Proceed.”