Night Fall

I heard a car door slam, then another, and it took me two heart skips to realize it was coming from the television. On the screen, there was blackness now, and it was going to be about five minutes before Jill’s voice said, “Bud, I think a plane exploded.” I heard her footsteps out in the foyer, and I stopped the VCR, then knelt beside the video camera, found the Power button and turned it off. I surprised myself by figuring out how to eject the mini-cassette, which I put in my pocket.

Jill came into the family room carrying an overnight bag and wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She said, “I’m ready.”

“Okay. Let’s put everything back as it was.” I handed her the video camera, which she carried to the closet while I ejectedA Man and a Woman from the VCR and shut off the power. I sca

I asked her, “Could you tell who just called?”

She replied, “It came up private, and there were no messages.”

“Okay… here’s the plan. My car is hot-it’s being tracked. We need to use your car.”

“It’s in the garage. But I need to leave a note for Mark.”

“No. No notes. You can call him later.”

She forced a smile and said, “For ten years I’ve been wanting to leave him a note on the kitchen table, and now that I’m really leaving, you tell me I can’t leave him a Dear Mark note?”

I said, “E-mail him. Let’s go.”

I carried her overnight bag and followed her out into a corridor near the kitchen, where she opened a door that led into the three-car garage. Two cars remained: the Lexus SUV and a BMW Z3 convertible with the top down. She asked me, “Which one would you like to use?”

I remembered from Dom Fanelli that the BMW was in her name, which might become important if we were pulled over by the police on a missing persons report from Mr. Winslow. I said, “BMW.”

I put her overnight bag in the back compartment of the BMW, and she asked, “Would you like to drive?”

“Actually, I need to get rid of my car. Where can I leave it around here?”

She asked me, “Where are we going?”

“Manhattan.”

“All right. Just follow me. About five miles south on Cedar Swamp. You’ll see a sign for SUNY College of Old Westbury on the right. You can leave your car there.”

“Good. Start the car, but don’t use your remote to open the door.” I went to the garage door and looked through the windows. I couldn’t see any vehicles out there, and I pushed the button for the garage door. As it opened, I stepped outside, and she backed out and used her remote to close the door. I handed her the mini-cassette from the video camera and said, “Hold on to this. If we get separated, you need to get yourself and this tape to someplace safe. Friends, relatives, a hotel. Donot go home. Call your lawyer, then call the police. Understand?”

She nodded, and I looked at her, but she didn’t seem frightened or confused, which made me calm down a little. I said, “Put your top up, and close your windows.”

She put the top up as I got into the Ford Taurus and started the engine.

I followed her down the long driveway and onto Quail Hollow Lane.

So far, so good. But this situation could turn on a dime, and I went through several scenarios and contingency plans in case the shit hit the fan.

It wasn’t like Ted Nash to cut me much slack, or to take Sunday off. But maybe I hit his head harder than I thought, and he was lying down in a dark room with a bottle of aspirin, trying to figure things out. Not likely, but whatever he was doing at this moment, he didn’t seem to be doing it here.

In retrospect, if I’d known that I was going to find Jill Winslow and a copy of the videotape, I would have had no hesitation about killing him there on the beach to avoid this situation. Pre-emptive strikes are okay when you know for sure what you’re pre-empting.

If I ran into Nash and friends now, I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to correct my mistake, but I was fairly sure he’d take the opportunity to correct his.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Within a few minutes, we were back on Cedar Swamp Road, and I kept glancing at my rearview mirror, but it didn’t appear that anyone was following.

I was starting to believe I had pulled this off: Jill Winslow, the videotape, the name of Bud Mitchell, and with any luck, a clear run to Manhattan.

I unhooked the police radio from my belt, turned it on, and listened for a while, but there was almost no chatter, and what I heard had nothing to do with me. I turned off the radio, making a mental note to return it to Sergeant Roberts first chance I got, which could be a while.

Up ahead, I saw a sign for the College of Old Westbury where Jill made a right turn. I followed her down a tree-lined road into the campus of the small college, which was nearly deserted on a Sunday. She pulled into a parking lot, and I put my Ford Taurus into an empty space. I took my overnight bag and threw it into the rear compartment of her car. I said, “I’ll drive.”

She got out and came around to the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.

The BMW was a five-speed manual, which I hadn’t driven in a while. I got it into first gear with just a little grinding, which made Mrs. Winslow wince.

We got back on Cedar Swamp Road, heading south. The BMW drove like a dream, and better yet, it could outrun anything that Nash and friends had picked up from the government car pool.

Within five minutes, I saw the sign for the Long Island Expressway, and Jill said, “You want to turn here for the city.”

“Hold on.”

I got within twenty feet of the entrance ramp, then hit the brakes and cut hard right onto the ramp, tires screeching and the anti-lock brakes pulsating. I checked out my rearview mirror, then downshifted and hit the gas. Within ten seconds, I was on the Expressway, and I shifted into fifth gear, swerved over two lanes, then put the pedal to the metal. This thing really flew.

I settled into the outside lane at eighty miles per hour, and checked my mirrors again. If anyone had been following, they were now about a half mile back.

Traffic was spotty, and I was able to weave around the Sunday drivers going too slow in the outside lanes.

Jill hadn’t spoken in a while, then she asked me, “Are we being chased?”

“No. I’m just enjoying the drive.”

“I’m not.”

I slowed down and got into the middle lane. We drove in silence, then she asked me, “What’s your first name?”

“John.”

“May I call you John?”

“Of course.” I asked, “May I call you Jill?”

“You already have.”

“Right.”

I turned on my cell phone and waited for five minutes, but there was no beep, and I shut it off. I asked Jill, “How are you doing?”

“Fine. How areyou doing?”

“Pretty good. Do you understand what’s going on?”

“Somewhat. I assumeyou know what’s going on.”

“Pretty much.” I glanced at her and said, “You should understand that you’re on the right side of this now-the side of truth and justice, and of the victims of TWA 800, their families, and the American people.”

“Then who’s after us?”

“Maybe no one. Or maybe a few bad eggs.”

“Then why can’t we call the police?”

“Well, maybe more than a few bad eggs, and I’m not sure yet who’s bad and who’s good.”

“What are we going to do while you’re trying to figure it out?”

“Do you have a hotel in the city that you usually stay at?”