After high school there was a ten-year-plus lull when they rarely saw each other. Phillip graduated from Harvard and began buying apartment buildings around town, little ones and then big ones. Sue dropped out of college and started driving an ambulance for a living, a job she found just crazy enough to temporarily satisfy the chaos-addict that she'd discovered lurking inside herself. Throughout the nineties they kept in touch via phone calls, Christmas cards, and e-mails, along with that occasional moment of ESP when she was sure that he was thinking about her at the same moment she was thinking about him. She worked maniacal hours, dated the usual string of police-scanner geeks and buzz-cut paramedics, went to bars, took drugs, and woke up in too many different places without knowing exactly where her clothes were.
That period of her life had bottomed out on one Fourth of July weekend on the night she tried to drive home from Singing Beach, blind drunk, to the vacation condo she was renting in Beverly Farms. Despite the fact that the road refused to hold still, ambulance-driver bravado carried the day and she was sure she could make it, right up to the moment her old Jeep Wrangler left the road and rolled over three times before hitting a tree. Sue spent six hours in the OR but made it out alive, scared, scarred, and sober. It was all veryBehind the Music, but no less effective for all of that, a reminder that when life wants to get our attention it doesn't bother with half-measures. Eight months later she ran into Phillip at a Super Bowl party at a mutual friend's house. They ended up back at his brownstone on Beacon Hill, where he said nothing about the scars running up her abdomen and cleaving her right nipple in half, but only kissed her and held her in his arms. And Sue would be lying if she didn't admit, at least to herself, that the first emotion that she felt was a sense of relief, of finally being home.
Six months later she was pregnant with Veda. The sensible thing, Phillip said, was to get married so Sue could quit her job and they could get busy taking vacations, spending the money he was making, and spoiling their kid. Sue surprised herself by saying okay. That was a little over two years ago, when they were both in their early thirties. He was already running a multimillion-dollar real estate business out of his office in Cambridge, holding business meetings by cell phone from his Boston Whaler, or telecommuting from his house on Nantucket-all of which, upon edict from Phillip's lawyers, now belongs to Sue. Phillip has seen to that, shifting ownership of everything to Sue in the seemingly endless jet stream of phone calls, e-mails, legal documents, and bank transfers sweeping out of Malibu over the first twelve months immediately following his departure. Throughout this last summer communications between them dwindled to a trickle, as the last loose ends were tied up, everything going into Sue's name. She hasn't heard from him at all since September, not even a Christmas card. And though he is scum for leaving, she can't help but think that having him here might somehow reassure her that she isn't losing her mind.
The notion evaporates, and she is just driving again. After a moment she tastes salt.
She realizes that she is thinking about Veda, and weeping.
And just like that, the phone is in her hand.
It occurs to her that the man's threat of listening in on her calls could be a bluff, but probably not. After all, she owns a baby monitor, and she's been on her cell phone and heard snatches of her own conversation crackling through Veda's bedroom enough times that she doesn't even use the cell inside the house when her daughter is upstairs napping. And the paramedics and ham radio operators that she's dated used to entertain themselves for hours listening in on other people's calls, miles away. It not onlycould happen; it happened all the time.
Then you have to assume that he is listening. All the time.
But in the silent emptiness of the wooded road around her, the thought of calling Phillip refuses to go away. What if she were to call him and havehim call the police, using some kind of code that Veda's abductor might not recognize, and then hang up? She already knows what she could say, the phrase that would send up a red flag for him, without alerting the man on the phone what she was talking about.
She picks up the phone.
Don't be stupid. Is it really worth risking Veda's life for this?
What if she doesn't say a word? She could just dial his number. He'd see it on his caller ID, andThen she sees them, a half mile back.
Headlights.
I'm watching you.
They're coming up fast, too fast, swooping to narrow the distance between them in what seems like a split second, already close enough to drag her shadow upward across the dashboard.
Sue shoves the phone down between the seats as the headlights swallow her. She can hear the engine, an irregularBLAT BLAT BLAT that sounds more like a single-engine plane than a car. Now it is alongside her, and she sees it's a truck, actually, but the driver's face is obscured as it plows past her and swings up in front, cutting her off.
Sue hits the brakes, dropping back, tasting a sudden reflux of fear. Brake lights flare in front of her, forcing her to slow even more. Her tires squeal; the seat belt catches her hard and makes her sternum ache. The box containing the steamed lobsters tips up on its side and she hears them flop over sideways with a thump. Up ahead of her, twenty feet away, the truck has come to a complete stop, its engine throbbing. It is one of those old no- color farm pickups with rounded corners, a great grinning grille, and something boisterously wrong with its muffler.
She can feel the driver's eyes gleaming in his sideview mirror, reflected back at her in the volcanic-black darkness. Examining her face.
Then she can't move.
Sherecognizes this truck. She's seen it before. Now that it's right in front of her, she's almost positive that it's the same one thatThe phone rings.
8:18P.M.
'Hello?'
'Susan.'
'I'm…please, I'm sorry. I slipped. It was a mistake.'
'Susan.'
'Don't hurt her. Do whatever you want to me. I'm sorry. I swear it won't happen again. Just please-'
'Susan.'
Her teeth snap shut. She closes her eyes. She cannot bear the moist optic glimmer that she senses coming from the pickup's eccentrically tooled sideview mirrors, those dark eyes shining like tumors from their rusty chrome sockets.
The driver's side door opens and a man steps out. His face is lost in the darkness, but she can tell from the angle of his head and shoulders that he's looking straight at her. Snowflakes spill through the headlights aiming off into the woods.
Holding the phone very close to her ear, Sue says, 'Please. Please don't hurt her.'
For a moment the man doesn't move. He seems to be watching her even more closely, as if trying to make a decision about something. Then he gets back up behind the wheel and slams the door.
'Thank you,' she says. 'Thank you so m-'
The truck spins its tires and lurches back into motion, its motor pounding off down the highway in a steadily diminishing array of asymmetric taillights. It leaves her there clutching the phone, not sure whether the voice is still with her or not. In the silence she realizes she can hear him breathing.
'You've made it this far,' the voice says. 'But so far it's been relatively easy. What you're going to do next isn't going to be nearly so easy. But I know you can do it, Susan.' And does he actually chuckle? 'I have faith in you.'
She waits. He does not make her wait long.
'You're familiar with Route 114, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'It runs east and west, right along the state line. If you follow it far enough to the east it takes you out to the coast. But you're going to start out by taking it west. Back to a little town called Gray Haven. You do know Gray Haven, don't you, Susan?'
