Chapter 35

THURSDAY AFTERNOON I phoned Nancy, Penny, and Matt and told them my going-to-a-spa story. Nancy and Penny told me to have fun. Matt wanted me to hurry back.

Thursday night, after Walter went to sleep in his room, I took the emergency sewing kit out of my bureau drawer and did some needlework. It wasn’t artistic, but it was creative.

First, I sewed strips of Velcro onto the edges of two sides of the round throw pillow I’d bought to wear beneath the maternity dress.

Next, with the homemade straps attached, I slit the seam at the bottom of the pillow, stuck my hand inside, and with my fingers made a cavity in the stuffing. The hiding place prepared, I took the Glock 19 out of the drawer of my bedside table, removed the magazine, ejected the bullets, and snapped the empty magazine back into the pistol.

I have a premises permit for the 9-mm automatic. It’s legal for me to keep it in the apartment for self-protection, but I’m not allowed to carry it concealed. That regulation was only one of several laws I planned to break during the next three days.

My Glock—black, almost eight inches long, and eighty-three percent steel—could be spotted on a security X-ray machine. It wouldn’t pass unseen through properly monitored metal detectors, either, but I wasn’t worried about it being discovered. I’d worked out a way to cross four state lines without going through any security checkpoints.

I slipped the automatic pistol inside the pillow, repositioned the stuffing so that it cushioned the piece, then re-stitched the seam.

Placing the pillow against my stomach, I attached the Velcro straps so that they gripped around my back. The Glock, unloaded, but with the magazine in it, weighed about a pound and a half. I spent a couple of minutes bending, stretching, and reaching out to the sides, replicating movements a person would make in the course of normal activities. The pillow stayed in place.

Next, I took the fifteen rounds I’d ejected from the Glock’s magazine and opened a thick old copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Halfway into the story, I’d hollowed out a well in the pages. Now I dropped the bullets into the created space, stuffed enough cotton balls around to keep them from clicking against each other, closed the book, and shook it. No sound from the ammunition. I wrapped the book in bright gift paper and tied it with a ribbon.

Finally, I wrote a goodbye note to Walter, apologizing for not seeing him before I left, but explaining that I hadn’t wanted to wake him. I reminded him that I’d be home Sunday evening.

 
FRIDAY MORNING I got up at four A.M. That was too early for Magic. As I eased out of bed, the little furry heating pad who slept curled up next to me opened his eyes, blinked, yawned, and went back to sleep.

I took the world’s quietest shower, and dressed in black cotton slacks, black running shoes, and a loose, safari-style navy blue cotton jacket that would conceal the money belt I fastened around my waist. It had twenty thousand dollars in cash in it—more than I thought I’d need, but allowing for unexpected problems. I had another six thousand dollars, mostly in hundreds, in my wallet, along with my fake “Charlotte Brown” driver’s license displayed in the wallet’s plastic window. That done, I folded the piece of paper I’d torn from the Daily News classified ads, and shoved it into the pocket of my jacket.

Taking an old tote bag from the closet, I stuffed in the maternity dress, the “baby bump” pillow with the automatic pistol inside, the black wig, glasses, the roll of duct tape, the needle-nose pliers, and a flashlight with fresh batteries. On top of these items, I added underwear, socks, and a toothbrush, paste, the lock pick I’d taken from the studio property room, and the gift-wrapped book that concealed fifteen rounds of 9-mm ammunition.

I left the note to Walter on the kitchen table, and slipped out of the apartment.

 
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the woman who emerged from an all-night diner’s restroom carrying my tote bag looked nothing like me. She—Charlotte Brown—had shoulder-length black hair with bangs, wore glasses, and, in her dowdy green maternity dress, appeared to be about seven months pregnant. The weight of the automatic pistol in the pillow strapped against my stomach reminded me to move with the abdomen-first walk of a genuinely pregnant woman.

At six A.M., my subway car pulled into the 191st Street Station in upper Manhattan and I got off.

In spite of the nagging voice of reason that kept telling me to go home—I had come to buy the last item I needed for my trip into the distant past.