She was waiting for him in the parking lot. She had removed her awful Hessian disguise and was wearing a raincoat over a skirt and sweater. It was the same sweater she’d bought in Philadelphia.
‘They wanted me to stay another hour.’ She pulled off her glasses and put them into her purse. ‘I told them I had to meet my brother.’
‘It’s never been this crowded before.’ He led her over to the Porsche. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘It’s D-Day. There’s going to be a big thing at the War Memorial Building tonight.’
They drove up West State. He could feel her warmth burning beside him. He forced himself not to think of her presence. He was afraid he might crack up again. ‘Duke Foote was there having dinner,’ he said. ‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes.’ She stiffened. ‘I saw him.’
He felt a tremor run through her body. Fine! She was still reacting, anyway. Maybe her survival instincts weren’t as low as he thought. ‘He was with those cops.’
‘What cops?’
‘The lieutenant or whatever he is. And the other one.’
They were on East State now, but heading in the wrong direction.
‘Where would you like to go? How about a drink?’
‘I could use a drink all right. Cops, you say? In the restaurant?’
‘Yes. I pointed them out to you.’
‘You did?’
Good! She was really coming out of it now. Her fright was palpable. Alarms were ringing.
‘I’m a stranger here. Do you know any quiet bars anywhere?’ The words shocked him. He loathed the role he had to play and the dialogue he would be forced to speak for the rest of the evening.
‘Please, no bars. I look too ghastly.’
‘My place, then?’
‘Sure.’
He turned north and drove up the river toward Washington’s Crossing.
He wondered if she hated him.
He pulled into the motel yard and parked beside the Chevette.
It won’t work, he told himself. They walked to the unit, two basket cases playing in a bumpkin production of Samson et Dalila, a wheezing, bald tenor and a colorless mezzo-soprano smelling faintly of kitchen grease.
He unlocked the door, and they went inside. He turned on the lights, set the attaché case and the Porsche’s keys on the table.
‘I think they have the place staked out,’ he said.
‘Who?’ She took off her raincoat. There was a hole in the sweater’s elbow.
‘The cops. The restaurant. Probably going to arrest somebody.’
‘Who?’
‘One of the customers who eats there regularly, I suppose. Or somebody who works there.’ He took a bottle of Martell from his valise. ‘Or maybe they just like the food.’
She sat down and crossed her legs. There was a run in her stocking. She saw it, tried to conceal it.
He uncorked the bottle, took two ponies from the bureau, moved back and forth around the room so he wouldn’t have to look at her.
‘This is all I have. Do you like cognac?’
‘Cognac? I never tried it.’
Excellent! He poured two drinks.
‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ she said suddenly.
His knees gave way beneath him, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘You have? I thought you never noticed me. I’ve been in the place every day now for the last –’
‘No. Somewhere else. Have you ever been –?’ She sipped her drink, frowning. ‘Have you ever been to Florida?’
‘Yeah. A couple of times.’
She shrugged. ‘Everybody looks familiar. This is very good.’ She took another sip. ‘Have you ever been to LA?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing in Trenton?’
‘Just driving through. And you?’
‘I was born here.’ She got up. ‘I’m filthy. Could I use your shower?’
‘Go ahead.’
She carried her glass into the bathroom. The .45 was there, in its holster, hanging on the back of the door.
He opened her purse. It contained her glasses, a dirty handkerchief, a felt pen, her battered Hamlet paperback, and several wrapped cubes of sugar marked The Hessian Barracks.
She leaned out of the bathroom, nude. ‘By the way, my name is Rita Holden.’
‘Glad to know you, Rita.’ He pushed the purse behind him.
‘Who are you?’
‘Me? Oh – nobody in particular. I’m an accountant.’
‘Can I have another?’ She handed him her empty pony.
He took the bottle from the table, walked over to her. She covered her breasts coyly.
‘You don’t want to talk about yourself?’
‘Not really.’ He poured her a double shot.
‘What about me? Shall I tell you the story of my life?’
‘Certainly.’
He sat down on the bed again. They would be safe here for a little while. And if she drove all night she could lose them by tomorrow. They’d close in on her again sooner or later, but she could have weeks – months – maybe even a year of reprieve.
She turned on the shower. ‘My father was a famous shoplifter,’ she called. ‘Interpol and Scotland Yard and the FBI chased him for years and years. But they could never catch him. He was too cunning. Then one night … Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ He put his face in his hands. Rita. Where had he heard that name before?
‘Then one Christmas he dropped dead in a department store, his pockets filled with stolen jewelry. That’s how they caught him. Finally. But it was too late. He just died. It was Christmas. He had the last word. “Merry Christmas,” he said. And he passed away, cheating them of their punishment.’
Christmas Eve, yes. Saint Rita! In that church in Baltimore. O lovely saint, he prayed, let her kill me and be at peace for a while!
‘That’s not true,’ she laughed. ‘He was a doctor. A well-known gynecologist. He was struck by lightning one night while delivering a baby in a stable in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.’ She laughed again, turned off the shower and began whistling ‘La Paloma.’
He opened the attaché case, took out the money, counted the fifties: one, two, three, four, five six … Would she stay naked and continue to play this sad game with him? Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … If he only knew where Maggie was, he’d give her a thousand dollars, too. It must be pleasant to be able to do that, he thought … give your daughter presents and money …
She came out of the bathroom. She was dressed, holding the .45. ‘Look what I found,’ she said.
‘Be careful.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s loaded.’ He put the bills back into the attaché case. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a mobster or anything like that. I have a permit for it. I usually carry a lot of money around with me.’
‘How much do you have there?’
‘Quite a bit.’
She shot him, twice. He spun back across the room, slamming into the bureau, then to the floor.
She threw the gun aside, pulled on her raincoat. She picked up the attaché case and the Porsche’s keys and ran outside.
He heard her drive away. Hallelujah!
He pulled himself up and leaned against the table. She’d forgotten her purse. And her glasses. He took them, closed his valise, corked the bottle of Martell, picked up the .45, carried everything out to the yard and threw them into the Chevette.
He drove out to the Turnpike and followed her.
Off and away!
He hoped she didn’t intend to go back to Yard Avenue. They would be watching the rooming house.
She didn’t. She drove though Mercerville, passing the Mercer County Home for Girls. She probably didn’t even see it. What could she see without her glasses? Avalanches of light, a blizzard of colors. She was going too fast.
She soared through Hightstown, then Princeton. Now she was in a long dark tunnel of trees on the bank of a river. Where was she going? Was she wearing her belt? A truck rolled out of a driveway in front of her. It swerved wildly to avoid the Porsche, its brakes squeaking. It banged into a parapet. Baskets tumbled to the road. The Eye passed, driving through a million bouncing apples.
She swooped into Pennington, missed a turn in the street, and cut across the corner of a lawn, smashing over a swing and demolishing a garden table. A crowd of people on the house’s front porch came shrieking toward her. She sledded along a pavement to the street, sidewiping a parked car.
She drove through the town like a hurricane, up one avenue and down another, looking for an exit. Then she burst out into the Ewing road, just missing a passing taxi. Their two fenders touched and grated.
Come on, Joanna, stop it!
She veered suddenly and skidded into a siding. She hit the brakes, sailed into a plowed field. She backed quickly out to the highway, slamming against a post.
Don’t panic! Park somewhere and wait until it’s daylight!
At the next intersection she scraped a roadsign. She zoomed through Ewing at eighty miles per hour. She braked again for no visible reason and hurtled into a pile of cans stacked on a curb, sending them clanging all over the roadway.
Why are you going so fucking fast?
She roared through Mercerville again, repassed the girls’ home. She’d fled in an immense circle and now was back on the Hightstown road.
It began to rain.
Just keep moving, Flatfeet always said, and they’ll never catch you.
Well, they’d certainly kept moving. God Almighty, how they had moved! It had been a long, long travelogue, indeed!
And they’d never been caught.
But it was all over now. This was their last road. He knew that the instant he saw her wheels lock.
The Porsche slid sideways into a fence, pulverized it, and flew into a billboard.
No more motels. No more cars. No more money. No more airports.
He waited for the flames.
No more wigs. No more pears. No more horoscopes.
He stopped, opened the door, jumped out to the grass. No flames. The horn was blaring like a trumpet, but it wasn’t burning. He raced through the breached fence, fell down a slope, jumped around the billboard. It wasn’t burning.
No more cognac. No more Gitanes. No more sharks and rattlesnakes.
She was hanging out the window, upside down, the rain slashing her face.
He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to the ground, lifted her, carried her up the slope. It still wasn’t burning. He stumbled across the highway, laid her out on a knoll of weeds.
He remembered her in her bookstore on Hope Street. He remembered her standing with her hands on her hips in New York and Chicago and Nashville.
Her nose was broken. Her ears were bleeding.
He remembered her skiing in Sun Valley and swimming in the Mississippi at dawn.
Her eyes opened, and she smiled at him. ‘Yes, I know you,’ she said. ‘You were in the park … you had a camera … you took my picture …’
And the Porsche exploded, throwing sunflowers of fire over their heads.
He looked across the road at the billboard and finally solved Crossword Puzzle Number Seven
DRINK PILSEN – THE CZECHOSLOVAKIAN BEER!
The flames whipped it, swallowing all the letters except OSLO, a capital in Czechoslovakia.