“Dire emergency,” he warned. “Understand?”
She nodded.
He rattled off the address: PO box 5782, Pollocksville, North Carolina, and she frowned.
“North Carolina? Why would you have a post office box in—”
“It doesn’t matter. And the name it’s under is Fred Marcus. Don’t ever address anything there to my real name.”
“Okay.”
“Say it back to me.”
“Post office box 5782, Pollocksville, North Carolina. What’s the zip code?”
“That’s too much to remember. And what’s my name?”
“Fred Marcus.”
“Good,” he said. The snow had stopped and he turned off the wipers. “Now, when you get to San Diego, I suggest you head to Ocean Beach. I was there once a long time ago, and I think you’ll blend in. Find a cheap motel room.” He glanced at her and she felt his worry. “Not so cheap that you don’t feel safe,” he added. “Get a job and look for something better as soon as you can.”
She was barely listening. “I wish you hadn’t told Mr. Kyle,” she said.
She thought he wasn’t going to answer her, but after a minute he spoke. “We needed him to get your documents,” he said. “He does them for the Witness Protection Program. I don’t handle them anymore. I’d set off alarm bells if I tried.”
“But … now he knows.”
Daddy looked at her. “Trust me, Lisa, he’s not going to breathe a word.”
Headlights suddenly swept through the inside of the car, and she turned to see a pickup pull into the parking lot.
“Here he is,” Daddy said, then added, urgency in his voice, “What’s the name and address of the PO box?”
She repeated them one more time.
“Good girl.”
The truck pulled up next to their car. She didn’t budge, suddenly paralyzed with fear, as the man opened the door of the truck and stood up, tugging a knit cap low on his forehead. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Her father got out of the car, reaching out to shake Tom Kyle’s hand, but the bigger man kept his own hands in his pockets. Daddy knocked on the window to hurry her up. She fumbled with the door handle, nerves and her still-damp gloves making her clumsy. Finally out of the car, she couldn’t look Tom Kyle in the eye. Her father opened the trunk and handed her the suitcase, which was so light she knew she’d have to be careful not to let anyone else lift it or risk raising suspicion.
None of them spoke. Mr. Kyle put the suitcase behind his seat in the pickup, and for just a moment, she wondered if her father had a different plan for her than the elaborate one they’d concocted. Could Tom Kyle be taking her someplace other than the train station in Philadelphia?
He glanced from her to her father. “I’ll wait in the truck,” he said.
When Mr. Kyle was in the truck, her father pulled her wordlessly into his arms. “Stay in the ladies’ room at the train station till there are more people around,” he said into her ear. “Mix in with crowds. Guard your purse—there’s money in it—and guard the documents in your suitcase. Keep your wits about you.” He hugged her hard. “And most important of all, never pick up a violin again, Lisa, understand? Never. You have to hide your light under a bushel from now on. Promise me.” It wasn’t the first time he’d told her she could never play again. She would attract too much attention, he’d said. People who knew music would figure out who she was.
“I promise,” she said.
“I love you, Lisa,” he said, pulling away. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she heard the tears in his voice. She’d never seen her father cry.
“I love you, too,” she said.
She climbed into the cab of Tom Kyle’s truck. He didn’t say a word, and she cried silently as he drove out of the parking lot, full of doubt over what she was doing.
The snow started again and Mr. Kyle took it slow, even though they saw a couple of plows and the road was in decent shape. Not a word passed between them for nearly an hour and it was either that he knew she needed to cry in peace or he didn’t know what to say. Or, possibly, he simply didn’t care. By the flat, sort of angry look on his face, she thought that might be it.
After a long time, she turned to him. The snow had let up and he was driving faster. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice loud in the truck after so much silence.
He was quiet as though he hadn’t heard her. Then he finally spoke. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” he said gruffly. “I don’t want to hear your excuses for why you killed an innocent man over a fucking college application. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
She turned back to the window, her eyes burning. He scared her. Why her father trusted him to keep this quiet when he was obviously disgusted by her, she had no idea. She wished she could tell her father she thought Tom Kyle could be a danger to them, but as she clutched her purse close to her body, reality hit her hard: she might never be able to tell her father anything, ever again.
18.
Riley
I was sure I broke my own record for speed as I ran home after the meeting with Tom and Suzanne. She didn’t, he’d said. Didn’t what? Kill herself? Was there any other possible way to interpret what he said? How could he know something like that? I wondered if he’d read Sondra Lynn Davis’s blog. Sondra didn’t believe Lisa had killed herself, either. Maybe Tom had read her blog and bought into the theory.
Or maybe he knew something no one else knew. Either way, I felt sullied just by having him talk to me about my family.
I didn’t bother changing out of my running clothes when I got home. I spotted Christine and Jeannie working in the dining room, the curio cabinet doors open as they culled through my mother’s beloved china and old vases.
“Do you have a minute to—” Christine started to get to her feet, but I cut her off.
“Sorry!” I said. “I’m in a rush.”
I grabbed my purse and keys from the table by the front door, got in my car, and headed for the RV park.
* * *
I sprayed gravel behind me as I drove through the park and I didn’t slow down until I reached the end of the lane and saw that Tom’s car wasn’t behind the Kyles’ RV. Damn it! Still, I parked in the shade by the trees, got out of my car, climbed the steps to the motor home, and pounded on the door.
“Hold your horses!” Verniece called from inside, and I heard her heavy footsteps as she came to the door. I pounded again, unable to stop myself. She pulled the door open, a look of annoyance on her face that softened the instant she saw me.
“Riley! What’s all the knocking about? My goodness!”
“Where’s Tom?” I asked.
“Oh, please don’t tell me he didn’t show up for the meeting with the lawyer.” She looked pained. “Every once in a blue moon he stops off for a drink in the daytime, even though he knows better, and then he forgets—”
“He was there. The meeting went fine. But when he left he said something that—” I stopped speaking, winded as if I was still running. “Can I come in?” I asked.
She looked at me with real concern, reaching out to touch my arm as though she thought I might need steadying. “Let me come out there,” she said. “More comfy than in here. We’ll sit in the shade. Would you like something to—”
“No.” I backed down the steps to the concrete pad. “No, I don’t want anything. I just need to talk to Tom!”
“All right, all right,” she said, descending the steps. “You’re worrying me. You seem like such a calm person most of the time, and to see you like this is … well, what’s the problem? You said the meeting went fine, so—”
“He said my sister didn’t kill herself.”
She stared at me a moment, her face a puzzled mask. “Sit down, dear,” she said after a moment, lowering herself into one of the old webbed chairs.
“I don’t want to sit.” I stood in front of her. “I just want to know why he said that.”
“Sit,” she said again, motioning to the other chair, and I reluctantly dropped into it. My right knee jumped up and down as though an electric current ran through it.
“Why would he say that?” I asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “I’m a tad stunned that he would. He has a bit of a mean streak that comes out every once in a while, but I can’t imagine, even in his foulest moods, that he’d tease you that cruelly.”
“So, you don’t think it’s true? That she didn’t kill herself? You think she did?”