Dirty Blonde

Judge!” “Look, this way, Judge!” “Put down the window, Judge!”

Cate slammed on the horn. She couldn’t go back. Reporters swarmed the car. Brady stopped. She looked around for an escape. She couldn’t get out of the car. She’d be imprisoned in the house. There. The sidewalk.

“Judge, why are you dating the criminal element? Judge!” “Judge, where’s your ex-husband?” “Judge, are you getting a cut from the TV series?” “Judge, are you gonna sue?”

Cate edged forward as if they weren’t there, and the reporters parted when she didn’t stop, springing out of the way, hollering after her car, filming and snapping away. Reporters ran after the car, but Cate drove up on the curb, then accelerated, avoiding a cameraman near the front bumper.

She hit the gas and sped to the end of the street, then turned around the corner, driving away. Newsvans gave chase, but they were no match for the Mercedes’s eight-cylinder. Cate barreled through the city streets, hit the expressway at speed, and lost them all, including Brady. By the third exit, her cell phone started ringing. She flipped open the phone, tense and upset. “Yes, Brady?”

“Where are you, Judge?”

“Listen, I think I won’t be needing you for a while.”

“What?” Brady was shouting. “You on 95? I’m on 95, looking for you.”

“Brady, relax.” Cate drove under the I-76 sign at the Art Museum exit. “I’m going out of town, and where I’m going, nobody will find me. Not the press, not Russo, not anyone.”

“Judge, tell me exactly where you are. Where you’re going.”

“Thanks, Brady, for everything,” Cate said, and closed the phone. She didn’t want him following her. She didn’t want anybody following her. She’d had enough invasions into her privacy for a lifetime. She hit the gas, reaching seventy, then eighty, soaring away. She didn’t exhale until she left the city limits, and two exits after that, she realized where she was going. The only place where no one could find her.

Because it didn’t exist anymore.

CHAPTER 34

Cate drove with the radio off, insulating herself from the news and leaving Philadelphia far behind. In time, the only sounds were the regular thumping of the rain on the car and the pounding of the big windshield wipers; she switched onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike and drove north for an hour, finally beginning to relax only when she steered off the turnpike. She slowed the car and felt a calming inside, her heartbeat returning to normal at the familiarity of the sights. The FirstEnergy Stadium, the truck accessories outlets, and the plywood gazebos for sale interspersed with the onion domes of Ukrainian Catholic churches, their golden minarets and hatched crucifixes oddly exotic in the rural American landscape.

The elevation changed at Pricetown, and Cate felt the slightest pressure in her ear, like the whisper of an old friend. The rain became sleet, and the car climbed over the wet bridge and into the snowy, tree-covered mountains that embraced the road. The traffic grew sparser on the zigzag route through the Appalachians, and Cate drove over steep hills and down deep valleys, the motion making her aware of her own fatigue, as if she were being rocked to sleep.

Snow began to fall, and she spotted a billboard for a Holiday Inn Express, got off Route 61 in Frackville, and pulled into an almost empty parking lot, where she grabbed her purse and got out of the car. The frigid air took her by surprise, and icy snowflakes bit her cheeks like tiny shards of glass, as if heaven itself was shattering and falling in pieces around her.

When Cate woke up, she wasn’t sure where she was. The room was pitch-black, disorienting her, and she sat up, uncomfortably hot. She still had her coat on and shrugged her way out of it, then rubbed her eyes. A window was in front of her, the curtains open, and the hillside glowed a ghostly white from the new-fallen snow. She turned around and found a clock by its green digital numerals, glowing in the dark. 9:30.

At night? Cate got up, walked around the bed, and found a switch, which immediately cast a harsh light around the room, reminding her. Holiday Inn. Resign or sue. Russo, after her. Marz dead. Simone, murdered. Gina and Warren.

She searched around for her cell phone and saw that the display had gone black. Her battery was dead; she hadn’t plugged it in, of course. She set it down and reached to the end table for the telephone, and her call connected after two rings, when she said, “Gina?”

“Cate! I’ve been calling your cell. Are you okay? I heard there was a crazy guy in court.”

YOU’RE A WHORE. “Oh, that. I’m fine, really.”

“Where are you?”

“A Holiday Inn in Frackville.”

“You’re kidding. Is Frackville near Frickville? What are you doing in Frick-and-Frackville?”

“I got out of Dodge. I was over the press.” Cate considered telling her she was suspended, then let it go.

“Don’t turn on the TV then. You’ll freak.”

Cate sighed. “How’s the baby?”

“Fine. We still hate the new speech therapist. Hey, why didn’t you just come here?”

“After last night, I think you guys are better off if I stay away. By the way, did you get the bodyguard I sent you?”

“Justin? He’s parked out front. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“So why don’t you come over here, now that we’re all safe?”

“No, thanks. I feel better, away from it all.”

“When are you coming back?”

God knows. “After the weekend.”

“What about work? Don’t you have court?”

“I’m not on the bench until later.” Much later.

“Nesbitt was here today. He came and got his car. Nice guy. He was asking about you. Hubba hubba.”

Cate flashed on Nesbitt, watching her from the middle of the courtroom. “Calm yourself. I’m never having sex again.”

“Who’s talking about sex, I’m talking marriage. Oh wait, the baby’s about to knock over a glass.”

“I’ll let you go. I’m fine, and I’ll call you later.”

“Okay, stay in touch. Love you.”

“Me, too.” Cate hung up, suddenly aware that she was hungry and thirsty. She grabbed her bag, found her card key, and left, walking across the parking lot to a Cracker Barrel. The air was black, the night starless, and her Blahniks were wet by the time she reached the restaurant, warming instantly at the sight of its ersatz coziness. Antique ladles and strainers hung from the ceiling, and its fake-country store sold cast-iron skillets, Goo-Goo pies, and souvenir sweatshirts that reminded Cate she had no clothes.

She bought a tourist sweatsuit, a stash of Trident gum, and a takeout meat loaf called Comfort By the Slice, then carried her booty back to her Holiday Inn, where she ate, showered, and slept her way through to Sunday morning, ignoring all media until she picked up the free newspaper in the hotel lobby, Schuylkill Sunday. Cate guessed that it wouldn’t mention her secret sex life.

She got upstairs and skimmed the newspaper at her desk, over Cracker Barrel’s Country Morning Breakfast. Soft indirect light filled the room, reflecting off the pristine snow outside the window, and Cate felt rejuvenated for the first time in days until her gaze fell on the date on the newspaper. February 23. The anniversary of her mother’s death. She felt a familiar tightening in her chest. Her mother had died seventeen years ago, of an aneurysm. Today.

Ring! The phone jarred Cate from her thoughts. Gina was the only person who knew she was here. She crossed to the end table and picked up.

A man’s voice said, “Judge?”

Cate went silent, the fear rushing instantly back.