The Exceptions

THREE


I dry my face with the arm of my sweater and bottle my emotions, feel like I could burst at any second, as tightly pressured as a shaken soda. I drive away from the Greyhound bus terminal and realize I haven’t moved this casually in some time. It feels strange to linger, to drift; I hesitate drifting away, for these are my final moments of peace, the last minutes I’ll get to myself for some time.

I glide down the bus lane and watch for any familiar cars in the off chance my family figured out my plan. It takes a bit before I can clear my head enough to begin thinking practically; I must remind myself that although Melody has been released, she will not be free until I unfold the rest of my plan. I watch the buses pass and wonder if she’s on one, wonder where she’s going, fight not randomly following one in the way I followed the marshals to find her in Cape Charles.

As a bus disappears in front of a cloud of its own exhaust, I flip open my cell and call Gardner at home. It rings six times before he answers, and when he does he never says a word. I hear him open his front door, discernible by its squeaky hinges, hear the tap of the knocker as he closes it behind him. He takes loud footsteps down a sidewalk.

“Geez, what?” he whispers loudly.

“Bad time?” I ask. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your day.”

“Yes, it’s a bad time. Of course it’s a bad time. It’s Sunday aftern—”

“Randall, stop. You need to start recognizing sarcasm and ridicule.”

He mumbles something profane, then: “I am done with you. You understand? Done running around and getting you information like some administrative assistant.”

“Your addiction available? Put it on the phone. It has a far better sense of judgment.”

He presses his mouth against his phone, says, “What would you say if I told you I’m making new friends, that I might not need you and your washed-up father and your nutcase brothers anymore, that I went to a competitor and they were interested in my product.”

Poor Randall. He has no clue how useless he’s become, how expendable he now is, how he should be enjoying every last moment he has with his family. “Best of luck with that,” I say. “And let me give you a heads-up: My obvious indifference should concern you. Any chance you’re bright enough to finally realize I was your lifeline all these years?” I hear a car drive down his street.

“Any chance you realize another family might be interested in what I know about all of you?”

I wish he could see the contorted face of annoyance I’m making, wish he was within my grasp so I could toss him around a little for old time’s sake. “You know nothing, you cacasodo, but let me explain something: I kept you alive. Any other family’s gonna take what they need, then toss you in the waste bucket.”

“Yeah? We’ll see. I’ll just—”

“Look, I don’t really care, Gardner. In fact, I hope whatever family you plan on working with is patient when they finally free your wife and children of the burden you’ve cast upon them for all these years.” I take a deep breath and remove my glasses, wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. “I need one final piece of information from you and then we’re done. This’ll be the last thing I ever ask of you.”

Big pause. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, man, I got things I need to do.”

“So this is it? One more thing and I’ll be free?”

I didn’t say that. I clarify: “Free from me.”

“And my account will still be available?”

I roll my eyes, put my glasses back on. “You need help.” He waits for a real answer. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

This seems to satisfy him. “All right, what is it?”

“Think back a week. Sean Douglas. The guy who was watching over my friend, the one whose information you located for me?”

“Yeah.”

“I just need to know his office address and a number to reach him directly.”

“Hey, Jim,” he says to someone. A dog barks in the background. “That’s easy enough.” I hear him taking footsteps again. “That really all you need?”

“Yeah. And it’s important I get it right away.”

I hear the slam of a car door, the ding-ding-ding right before he starts the engine. “So what else is new?”



I sit and wait on a tree-lined street adjacent to Fort Greene Park, a half dozen blocks from the Greyhound station, stay sheltered under a pair of horse chestnut trees whose branches and leaves have blossomed and grown into one another like lifelong lovers, watch mothers stroll children along the sidewalk in front of brownstones to the west side. A coolness fills my body at the awareness of how I’ll be leaving this area for good, that the unique architecture of these brownstones, of these areas where I spent my youth, will be available only through my memory.

Forty minutes later, Gardner calls, gets all excited about providing me the same information he gave me a week ago. I can sense the anticipation in his voice at my impending disappearance from his life.

“Sean Douglas,” he says. “Birthday, October thirtieth. Current age, thirty-three. Home address is 453 Michaelson Lane, Towson, Maryland. Based out of the Baltimore office, 101 West Lombard Street, Baltimore, Maryland, Room 605. Marital status: unmarried. Current salary—”

“Four-fifty-three Michaelson,” I repeat quietly, then to Gardner: “How about a phone number? Any private number, like a home or cell?”

“Only a pager.”

Gardner says it slowly and I commit it to memory, have him repeat it twice to be sure.

“Why are you looking for the marshal?” he asks.

I sit and stare at my odometer, can’t believe how many miles I’ve accumulated since I purchased this car. With the exception of the distances driven in and around New York, every mile traveled occurred during some pilgrimage of finding or hiding Melody. “You don’t want to know.” He doesn’t respond. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

He grunts and mumbles, could be translated as whatever. “So, that’s it? I’m done?”

I back out of my spot and carefully pull onto Washington Park, begin winding my way toward the south side of Brooklyn, the opposite direction from the neighborhoods my family typically drive in or near. “Yes, Gardner. You’re finally done.” Though if I were being more honest: “Yes, Gardner. You’re finished.” I hang up, drop my cell next to the gearshift.



I speed over to the Gowanus Expressway, cross the Verrazano and cut through Staten Island, pick up I-95 near Elizabeth, and begin the return voyage to Baltimore. With every mile southward the worry of being spotted by my family decreases, is replaced by the anxiety of what I’m about to do, with thoughts of wondering where Melody is heading, where she’s going to live, how she’s going to live, how she’ll manage on her own. Having spent my adult life mapping and tracing, I can’t stop formulating a way to find her, to figure her out. But my plan has already proven to be effective: I severed the tie with her and with Gardner’s scope into Justice simultaneously; I’d have no idea how to even begin finding her now, no hope for knowing where it could end. I berated Gardner for his gambling addiction, yet I was so willing to ignore my own, and now that Melody is out of reach and out of sight—now that she is out—I’m getting the early indicators of withdrawal.



In an attempt to balance the fear of being caught against the anxiousness of wanting my plan in full motion, the farthest I make it is central New Jersey. As I pass the exit for New Brunswick, I call Peter’s cell phone. It rings only twice.

“Johnny,” he says, followed by a sigh. “What’s goin’ on?”

“You alone?”

“In my car, driving around. Wondering where you went. Why the rush, brother?”

“You’re not gonna find me. Look, I can only talk for a minute.”

“About the girl.”

“She’s gone, Pete. Gone forever.” The absolute truth, though his interpretation will be: I killed her.

He doesn’t respond right away. “Is that so.”

“Our parting did not go well. It was a struggle to let her go.” She fought me to her death.

Another delay. “Where was she relocated to?” Where’d you dump her?

“Lower East Side.” The East River.

“She moved in the middle of the day, just like that?”

He’s right: Dumping a body in the East River on a Sunday afternoon is not the easiest thing to do, especially alone, but we’ve done it before, being well acquainted with the most concealed spots, the trash-filled and polluted places so rarely visited. He knows it’s possible, and if I had to dump a body fast, it would be there—especially now that he knows I don’t really have the stones to carry a dead body around in the trunk of my car.

“Problem is,” I say, “she left all her stuff in my car.” Her blood is everywhere.

“No big deal, John. Come on back, we’ll get all her—”

“I gotta get out of here, Pete. I don’t think I can live without her.” I can’t handle what I just did.

“Relax, there’s plenty of other fish out there.” Not sure what the direct decoding of his statement is, but it comes across as a near-literal, so many dead bodies on the floor of that waterway. I hope they don’t ever try to drag the East River, for my family’s sake.

“I can’t do it, Pete. I can’t live with it. You know I was never built for a relationship like what I had with her.” You knew murder would be too much for me to handle. “I’m out of here. I’m gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just too much.”

“Slow down, let’s talk. Where are you? Let me catch up with—”

“I’m gone, Pete. You’re never gonna see me again.”

“Wait, wait, wait—”

“Listen to me. This is real, okay? I want you to hear and comprehend every word I’m about to say.”

My brother’s sudden silence, his unexpected compliance, indicates he knows something sobering is forthcoming, something that will impact his life. The white noise of his car disappears; he has pulled over.

“All right,” he says.

I take a deep breath and begin. “Understand this: No matter what you see or hear over the next few days, you trust me, you got it?”

Nothing.

“I need you to trust me, Pete. Pop would never go for what I’m about to do. And if this works, you won’t just be a kid in a candy store; you’ll be running your own chain. No matter what, you trust me.”

He sighs quietly. “Why me? I’m the least trustworthy person in this family.”

“Exactly. Now break Pop’s trust for me and convince him what I’m doing is not going to hurt anyone.” Except me.

I can hear Peter rub his stubbly chin, breathe off to the side.

“Also,” I say, “I may give you a name in a few days. And if I do, I want you to take it very seriously.” Very seriously was one of the first terms I learned as an adolescent, used to imply someone falling under our clumsy version of surveillance, followed by the inevitable slaying.

“Someone nearby?”

I don’t have time for him to start guessing. I redirect: “Just remember I am not the bad guy, okay?”

“The candy store thing. I don’t follow.”

I contemplate whether I should declare this key component of my plan, how potentially empowering my solution may be for him, but I know it could only jeopardize it. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

“I’m not so sure—”

“Goodbye, Pete.”

It feels weird to hang up on my brother—but not unreal. I’m like a snake that just shed a layer of skin. There are so many more left. I can only hope that if I shed enough layers I’ll turn into something better than a slimy reptile.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead, take a series of deep breaths, wish I had a bottle of water to chug. I drive for miles and try to think of anything except where Melody is right now.

As I pass the exits for Trenton, I call Sean’s pager, punch in my cell number, and wait.



Upon the first exits for Philadelphia, I finally get the call.

“Marshal Douglas,” he says. His voice comes out strong, but weariness seeps through like he could use a nap. Or a drink.

I lick my lips, utter the first of my last words: “This is Jonathan Bovaro.”

He doesn’t respond, like he’s waiting for a punch line. Then I hear him fumbling around as though he’s trying to locate something—a pen and pad, a recorder, another person; who cares, really. Then he says, “Come again?”

“Jonathan Bovaro. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Get what you need.”

I stare to the side as I drive, notice how the setting sun is cut into slices by the towers in and around the metro Philadelphia area.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

“You lose something recently?”

“Not exactly.” He sighs. “I just lost, in general. Right?”

I can’t decipher what he means; seems like he expects me to have some piece of information I don’t possess.

“Where are you?” he asks.

I hesitate before answering, wait until a road sign with mileage estimates comes into view; Baltimore is eighty-nine miles away. “I’m roughly an hour and a half from downtown Baltimore.”

“What’s in Baltimore?”

“You are.”

He hesitates like I might give more insight. “Okay. When and where?”

“I’ll meet you at the top of Federal Hill, nine o’clock tonight.”

“Federal Hill.”

“I will not be armed, and have no intention of causing you any harm, okay? And please be alone.”

“Nine o’clock.”

I know he won’t be alone, that others will be waiting in unmarked vans within a distance of accessible capture; they’ll have to survey us among so many others in this popular public park.



Just after crossing the Susquehanna River in northeastern Maryland, I exit from the highway and drive toward the small water town of Havre de Grace, casually slip behind a strip mall distanced from the center of town, and pull up to a half-filled Dumpster.

I open my trunk, grab my overnight bag, and carefully remove Melody’s bloodied sundress and place it on the front seat of my car. I empty all of her other clothes onto the ground—the jeans, the blouses, the undergarments—then pick them up and toss them into the Dumpster. I reach over, grab two bags of wet trash, and toss them on top of her clothing. I zip up my bag, toss it back in the trunk, and return to the highway.



As soon as I emerge from the southbound side of the Fort McHenry Tunnel, I exit onto Key Highway, creep toward downtown through the back streets of South Baltimore, and eventually land at Federal Hill. I park at the foot of the historic hill, slide my cell phone in my pocket, grab Melody’s sundress, and climb the steep steps to the top.

I take a seat on a crumbling bench near the edge of the hill and stare down over the masses milling about the Inner Harbor, face the city in the exact opposite direction from when Melody and I stayed at the Renaissance. This spot, this view so high and unobstructed, is likely the location where 80 percent of all images of Baltimore’s skyline are taken, the massive buildings curling around the harbor forming a steel and concrete comma, the lights reflecting off the placid water at the center to create a living postcard.

I watch the families and couples strolling and turning randomly, like ants crawling across a sidewalk. I sink with emotion when I realize that only twenty-four hours ago Melody and I strolled these very walkways, our minds filled with hope and possibility. I stare down at the harbor, now inhabited by two less ghosts.

To my right, a young family is sprawled across a large blanket. To my left, a drunk is passed out on a bench in better condition than mine. Three kids sit on their bikes and stare out over the water before departing to the south side of the city. Behind me, a group of men load furniture into a U-Haul from one of the historic row homes on Warren Avenue. Others walk up and down the staircases to the south and west sides of the hill. Then in the indistinct distance I see Sean come into view. With each step he emerges, first his head, then his body, then his legs. He scans the park until his eyes fall on me. He walks in my direction with a slowness that suggests exhaustion more than caution. And even now, as much as I need him to be one, he does not strike me as a marshal—neither tough nor serious enough. Were he a true marshal I could see him pouncing on me, despite my not having done anything overtly illegal, immediately setting the boundaries. Instead, Sean walks casually and glances once or twice at the harbor as he approaches. He’s wearing jeans and a Towson University sweatshirt and scarred Doc Martens, looks like he hasn’t shaven in a while, his hair all bent up and to the left as if it’s been growing toward the sun.

He approaches, then stops and stands in front of me, blocks my view of the city, shadows me like a tree.

“You,” he says.

“Have a seat.” He does not comply. I stare at him for a few seconds before my words cripple him: “She’s gone. I killed her.”

I feel a dizziness at having confessed to something that, if the rest of my plan goes awry, might have me executed—but I can’t unring the bell: I reach over and hand him Melody’s bloodstained sundress, the result of her being tossed among garbage cans in the alley barely a mile from where we are at this moment.

Sean reaches for the dress and sits at the same time.

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

“She was trying to get information from me, wanted me to give her all sorts of details about my family. I tried to reason with her.” I lower my voice as a couple passes. “She just wouldn’t listen. It got… out of control. I just lost it.”

Sean looks at the dress, spots the biggest bloodstain, avoids touching it. “I don’t believe you,” he repeats weakly. What he really means: I can’t believe it.

“You keep DNA samples on all your witnesses?”

He sniffs hard, then mumbles, “Of course.”

“It’s gonna match. This is real.” I take a deep breath, can barely speak the lie because it could’ve so closely been the truth had I not spirited Melody away. “She’s spread all over the East River. She’s gone.”

To the dress, he says, “You’re full of it. You don’t have it in you, Bovaro.” Then to me: “Anyone else in your family, but not you.”

“Why do you think I’m here talking to you? I can’t live with this. You think I’m confessing for entertainment?”

Sean studies the stain again, slowly turns the dress and sees another red blotch. He swallows and looks away, focuses on the drunk. I read his demeanor as nothing other than his own perceived failure, a witness lost because he couldn’t contain the danger, couldn’t sell the dream.

I swallow, almost gag on my request: “I want to talk to Justice. I have information they’ll want, but one thing in particular they’ll need.” Sean does not seem moved. “I’ll confess to killing Melody, no reneging.” Fake sigh. “I have to live with what I did. I’ll also give up all the details on how the McCartneys were killed. I was there, and I’ll tell them exactly what happened. But most of all, I’ll supply you with information that will give Justice headlines for a year straight. I’m not exaggerating.” And then, another ring of the bell: “But I want to go into Witness Protection. I want to start over.”

Sean turns back and looks me in the eye; it takes so much strength to return his stare, to convince him that my actions are genuine. Though I quickly realize that the way he’s looking at me might have something to do with my poor choice of words: Start over. My guess is the utmost concern of any witness entering the program is being kept safe, not getting a new identity, the mere means for achieving the safety. He stands up, gently places the dress over his shoulder, waves for me to get to my feet. His repugnance for me has carved a sneer into his sullen face; I recognize when an adversary can barely contain himself.

“Let’s go,” he says. I slowly stand, feel a little vertigo at the realization that I’ve not only surrendered Melody, but I’m about to surrender myself, that whoever I become, Jonathan Bovaro will soon disappear forever.

Sean glares at me, for the first time comes across as something more than an unqualified marshal. “I hope your family kills you,” he says, “I really do. I hope you don’t make it another twenty-four hours.”

He turns slightly and waves his hand for me to walk next to him. As we get to the edge of the hill, one of the streetlights catches the metallic edge of the handcuffs clipped to the side of his jeans, partially tucked into a back pocket. The fact that he’s not using them is a bad sign.

We descend the staircase together, not a word between us. When we arrive at the bottom of the hill, he escorts me to my vehicle, doesn’t have to ask which is mine.

“Last shot,” he says, staring off and away. “Get what you need.”

I look at the Audi like I’m leaving a dear friend at the airport. I open the trunk, grab my bag, then slam it shut. As we’re halfway to Covington Street, en route to his black government SUV, I say, “Wait!”

I run back to the passenger side of my car, open the glove compartment and pull out the CD case, and take with me the entire library of discs that served as the soundtrack to my finding and protecting Melody, the discs purchased when I followed her through Best Buy, the discs that will allow Melody to speak to me forever.

Sean stays close, watches as I take the case and jam it into the pocket of my overnight bag. I gaze around the perimeter of where we’re standing, where his vehicle is parked, tucked in an angled spot across from the American Visionary Art Museum. Turns out Sean kept his promise: He came alone. No one is around to help him. No one is around to watch him open the back door of his Explorer for me, and no one is around to see him check up and down Covington before he slams my head into the doorframe of the SUV, twice. There is no backup, no other marshals, no one else who took an oath to protect and serve as he punches me three times in the face. No one to see that I let him do it, that I merely curl up in a ball and allow his fists to hammer me. No one to notice that I never ask him to stop.