I miss another call from Phil. He’s already rung twice today to argue with me about why I’m dropping the Holli stuff. He’s been fuming since I told him and I’ve got the voicemails to prove it. I still haven’t called him back. He can wait. Everyone can wait.
Glock 22s are absurdly easy to use. Not many buttons. Not much you can fuck up. The thing about a Glock is it doesn’t have a safety catch. You know that bit in films when the heroine finally needs to use her gun and she raises it to the looming bad guy, squeezes the trigger, and click…nothing? The safety’s on. Well, that won’t happen with a Glock. With a Glock, his head explodes. If the magazine is in and it’s cocked, that’s it. Point and shoot. And it’ll only fire if a finger pulls the trigger. You can drop it, or snag the trigger, or shove it in your waistband, whatever, it won’t go off. The double-trigger system means your finger has to go into the trigger bed and pull all the way back. That’s the only way a Glock fires. But if you grab the gun out of that waistband and accidentally touch that trigger bed on the way, you’ll almost certainly never have kids. No safety means no safety.
My mobile bursts to life again. This time it’s Nancy, Fred’s wife. Goddamn it. I forgot to thank her for watching the house for us while we were on honeymoon, and for the food she left us. I haven’t got back to Fred either about the footage. They’re probably worried. Mark is right: I am forgetful. I let it go to voicemail.
If you ever find a Glock, you’ll know it’s a Glock because of the logo on the bottom right of the handgrip. A big “G,” little “lock” written inside it. If you find one, then here’s what you do: First, keeping your hand away from the trigger, pick up the gun. There should be a small button right by your thumb on the grip. That’s the magazine release. Place your other hand under the butt and push the thumb button. The magazine will pop out of the butt and into your hand. If the magazine is full, you’ll see a bullet at the top of the magazine. Now pop that magazine down somewhere safe. Next you need to check/empty the chamber. In other words, see if there’s a bullet in there and if there is, eject it. You do this by pulling the top section of the barrel backward away from the tip of the gun. The little window should open up on the top of the gun as you cock back. If there’s a bullet, it should pop safely up and out of the top as you cock. Cock back again to double-check the chamber is clear. Now your gun is safe. Then, to load it, pop that bullet into the top of the magazine you set aside. Slide the whole magazine back into the butt of the gun until it clicks, cock it again, point, and shoot. Practice that routine about twenty times and you’ll be as convincing as any actor in Full Metal Jacket. Besides, it keeps your thoughts from buzzing around the reasons you may need the gun in the first place.
Mark calls before bed to check on me. It’s the one call I do take.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just watching stuff on the computer.” Technically true.
“How are you feeling?” he probes. He doesn’t want to push it but he’s still uneasy, I can tell.
“I’m fine, honey, seriously. Don’t worry about me. I’m absolutely fine.”
I tell him I love him and he tells me he loves me too.
* * *
—
When I feel confident enough with the gun, I clean it thoroughly again and apply silver duct tape from Mark’s toolbox to the gun handle. The checked grip sections on gun butts can’t retain prints but the smooth areas at the front and back can. The Internet tells me that it will be easier to pull duct tape off after firing than it would be to wipe the gun down after an altercation. I know myself well enough to know I won’t be thinking straight after that happens. If that happens. The tape will help.
I leave Mark a note on the stairs in the hallway. He’ll get back from New York tomorrow night and I won’t be here. The note says I love him with all my heart, I’m sorry about the mess, I didn’t want to stay in the house alone, and I’ll be sleeping over at Caro’s that night. Not to worry. I’ll see him soon.
I start to gather what I’ll need from the shambles that is our home. I download a GPS coordinate location app onto my phone; I’ll need it to find the coordinates of the meeting location. I fill a rucksack with the gun, bullets, phone, and USB. I pack a change of clothes. Toiletries. An old yellow travel alarm clock I’ve had since I was a kid, my hiking clothes and boots, and a flashlight. As I wander the house gathering these items, I wonder at what stage all of this started. If I could wind it back, how far back would I have to wind? To before I turned on the phone? To before we opened the bag? To the circle of floating papers? To the wedding? To the day Mark called me from the men’s loo? Would that be far enough?
At 7 A.M. I pack the car and go. The road to Norfolk is nearly empty, the soft mumble of Radio 4 filling the car as I work things through in my head. Norfolk, I figure, is my safest bet. It’s isolated. There’s no real police presence. I know my way through those woods. And there’s no CCTV. No one will be watching me. If someone follows me, I’m sure I’ll know it. I pull over on the hard shoulder of the motorway and text the number again from the phone. I specify only a time for tomorrow and general location. I will send more detailed GPS coordinates on the morning of the meeting.
* * *
—
Mark’s not leaving from New York until this evening and he won’t get back to our house until after midnight tonight. I try not to picture his face, his eyes when he sees me tomorrow morning, when I finally get home, after this is over. He’ll know I’ve been lying to him. He’ll know I wasn’t at Caro’s; he’s not an idiot. And I’ll have to tell him everything. I promise myself that once this is all over I’ll be honest; I’ll never lie again. I’ll be the best wife in the world. I promise.
I’ve booked a hotel room. It’s not the same hotel we stayed in before; it’s one I’ve never been to. I plan to stay just one night. I’ve set the meeting time for six tomorrow morning and they’ve confirmed. I also received a new voicemail. The same male voice as before. He wants me to hand over the coordinates for the downed plane tomorrow too. That’s part of the deal now. Luckily, I have that information.
They’ll be able to get here by the meeting time tomorrow, wherever they are. A private jet flight from most places in the world would only take a few hours, not days. Russia is a four-hour flight. They have more than enough time to get here, wherever they’re coming from.
I’ve chosen an isolated area to meet, in the woods, and I’ve chosen 6 A.M. because the earlier the better. I don’t want any interruptions; I’ll have enough to worry about as it is. My backpack lies across the back seat of the car, my thick coat draped protectively over it. Inside, a small bag of emergency food and a bottle of water. It’s cold out and there’s a lot to be done today. The memory stick is nestled in the rucksack’s front zip pocket, safe, easy to access. In the internal computer compartment of the rucksack, the gun waits in its case, next to the bullets and the phone. Everything I need for tomorrow.
* * *
—
I get to the hotel at 10 A.M. I have no more voicemails. Check-in runs smoothly. The receptionist is sweet but this is obviously a gap-year job. She’s totally uninterested, which works out perfectly for me with the hours I’ll be keeping.
My room is small and cozy. The bed is a thick, deep nest of crisp cotton sheets and down feathers. There’s a gleaming copper tub in the bathroom. Very nice. Perfect.
I double-check I have the flash drive and gun, slip on my thick outdoor coat, pull on my backpack, and head out. I’m going to walk the route for tomorrow’s meeting.
* * *
—