Parallel Lies Page 2

  For eighteen months he’d been running, and though in a way he was accustomed to it, he still broke out in a sweat at the thought of capture. He clung to his purpose, confident that God would protect him.

  Ultimately he blamed William Goheen, CEO of Northern Union, for killing his family. But his revenge was no longer focused solely on Goheen. Not only did one life not equal three, but Goheen had not acted alone. The institution, the corporation, had killed his wife and children, intentionally or not. There was no halfway in this.

  A change of clothes—and fast! he thought, still looking out at the carpet of fresh snow. Time seemed always to be working against him.

  He edged up carefully to the frosted window behind the cat’s bed and peered out at the two-story farmhouse not twenty yards away. Gray smoke spiraled from a brick chimney. Icicles hung from the gutters. A yellowish light glowed from the downstairs windows.

  The kid’s bike hanging on the wall suggested a family, not a single guy gone off to work in his truck. It meant there were others inside: a wife, at least one child old enough to ride a bike. Maybe others, too—perhaps a mother-in-law, more children, houseguests. But he needed a closer look. He wouldn’t get anywhere in his bloody clothes. He could only hope that school might take the mother and child away to catch a school bus, or that the wife was still asleep, a heavy sleeper. He watched the house carefully for ten long minutes, evaluating his chances of crossing the open space unseen. If there was movement inside, he couldn’t detect it: he decided to make his move.

  He elected not to crouch or sneak. He would run openly. If confronted, he would act as if he were in shock. He would claim there had been a horrible traffic accident, that he couldn’t remember where, or even how he’d gotten there, but that he needed a telephone quickly. He needed help. He would play on do-gooding Midwestern values. From there, he’d see.

  He opened the garage’s side door and started running. All kinds of thoughts went through his head. How had he come to this point? He didn’t belong here. Eighteen months ago he would have laughed at the notion that he would be running across a yard of freshly fallen snow in bloody clothes, with the intention of stealing fresh clothing from complete strangers. He’d been a schoolteacher—eighth grade science and computer science; he’d loved his job, his wife, the twins. To have told him then that the threat on his life would be so high just a few years later; he would never have believed it. And yet here he was.

  He reached the house unnoticed. Perhaps he would not need any elaborate story. He crept up the back porch. A forgotten withered black pumpkin frowned monstrously at him, its jaw frozen, wearing a crown of ice.

  He saw someone inside. An attractive woman in her early thirties, she wore green flannel pajamas, the top unbuttoned enough that she wouldn’t want a strange man gaping at her. Short, but not skinny. Hearty Midwestern stock. Dull hair that hadn’t yet been brushed out. She left the kitchen and returned a minute later cradling a pile of sheets. Alvarez ducked under the window and moved in tandem with her to the far end of the small back porch where another window looked in on a pantry, a laundry room. An ironing board stood on all fours next to the window.

  The woman bent over to remove a load of clothes from the dryer, exposing her breasts to him, and he thought how there had been a time when that might have had an effect on him. Now he felt no stirring, no interest whatsoever. He thought of his wife, the crushed car. It strengthened his resolve. He focused on a pair of men’s jeans strung over a clothesline rack in the far corner. The woman lifted a pile of darks to the top of the dryer. He spotted a flannel shirt, some heavy socks. Alvarez leaned back from the window as the woman unloaded the clothes. He sensed that she was about to look out, that she had felt his presence.

  She moved some clothes from the washer to the dryer and then stuffed the sheets into the washer. He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t being watched. He briefly considered entering the kitchen right then—he felt certain the back door would be unlocked—surprising the wife, perhaps tying her up, and stealing some food and clothing. But any such encounter would put him at greater risk. Cops would be called in—his trail would be easier to follow. He began to feel impatient, but the cold in his bones was gone, replaced by hot adrenaline.

  She reentered the kitchen. Alvarez moved cautiously to another window and took a position nearer the porch stairs but still with a view inside. The woman measured out water into a pot and turned on the stove. She pulled down a box of Cream of Wheat and set it on the counter. Morning rituals. He recalled them with longing.

  Then she hurried out, disappearing into another room.

  He was guessing three to five minutes for the water to boil. How accurately did she have such things timed in her head? His wife would have known exactly. Three minutes would be plenty for him to get in, grab the clothes, and get back out. He made his move, pulling his hand into the sweatshirt’s sleeve so as not to leave fingerprints on the doorknob as he turned it.

  The door opened. He stepped inside.

  The kitchen smelled like a home. God, he missed that smell. For a moment it owned him, the poignant feeling carrying him away, and then the distant sound of shower water caught his attention. It was warm in here, the first warmth he’d felt in days. Was she just warming up the shower, or getting in? Each option offered a different scenario. He crossed toward the laundry room. He wanted to stay here; he wanted to move in. He pulled the jeans into his arms, stepped to his left and reached for the flannel shirt in the pile of dry clothes.

  The buttons plunked against the surface of the dryer. He stiffened, though he thought the noise from the washing machine would conceal this much tinier sound. But in rising up abruptly he bumped the ironing board and now watched as the iron, just out of reach, began to rock, first this way, then that, teetering back and forth. At that moment, the wife, her flannel pajama top now fully unbuttoned, pants off and left back in the bedroom or bath, crossed the kitchen to where, had she looked to her right, she would have seen a panicked stranger reaching out to stabilize her iron, which was about to crash to the floor.

  The iron started to fall.

  Alvarez caught it, reaching out just in time. He then remained absolutely still, aware that the iron might have just presented itself as a weapon, if needed. Could he bring himself to use it that way? he wondered.

  He couldn’t hear her over the noise of the appliances. He pictured her measuring the Cream of Wheat and carefully stirring it into the boiling water. That was when he realized she had used hot tap water, not cold, which had shortened the time it took to boil. He moved a bit in order to remain hidden, all the while keeping one eye on the kitchen.

  The woman’s pale bare bottom shifted hip to hip as she left the room.

  Alvarez returned the iron to the ironing board, grabbed a few more pieces of clothing—a T-shirt, several mismatched socks—and made for the kitchen. Here, he heard the shower water still running. This woman had her morning routine all planned out.

  He took two steps toward the back door and changed his mind. He returned to the pantry, deciding to take some canned food while he had the chance. A clock ran inside his head; he had maybe another minute or two.

  “Mommy?” a tiny voice called from behind him.

  Alvarez flattened himself to the wall. Dead still.

  “Mommy?”

  He rocked his head to see, with great relief, that he was partially screened from the kitchen by the open pantry door. Through the crack he saw a small six- or seven-year-old boy with red hair, freckles, and a blue stuffed dog tucked tightly under his arm. The boy crossed to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. He moved around the kitchen comfortably, reaching for a glass on tiptoes and then filling it with the juice.

  The plumbing pipes to Alvarez’s left rumbled and went silent. The shower had ended. He stood there with his bundle of clothes and cans of tuna not knowing what to do next.

  She’d be drying herself off now. Just from having observed her, Alvarez knew she’d
already decided what clothes to wear, if in fact she hadn’t already laid them out.

  The boy gulped the orange juice. Alvarez felt himself tighten, not over his predicament, but at the sight of the boy—a living, breathing boy, in a joyful moment of drinking orange juice. A child. Innocent. Loving. Waiting for his mother. Alvarez’s vision blurred. Nothing would bring his twins back. He’d revisited their loss countless times. He pushed his anger deeper inside and locked it away, though only temporarily. It owned him. Possessed him. But he could not work with it in the forefront of his thought, he could barely move. He had learned to tame it but feared he would never be rid of it.

  What to do? he wondered, silently urging the boy to seek out his mother. The Cream of Wheat would burn in another minute or so. Mom had to be just about fully dressed by now. His worlds were colliding. He had to get out.

  The boy seemed to be debating whether to leave the kitchen, but Alvarez needed to take action, now.

  The window …

  There appeared to be some home-fix-it caulking plugging its edges. Could he get out it with his arms full? Slip off this far end of the porch? He could taste his freedom.

  The boy remained in limbo, hugging his blue dog and staring off into space, but he faced the laundry room, preventing Alvarez from crossing the pantry’s open door and making for the window.

  “Nate, honey?” called Mom, sounding close, though not yet into the kitchen.

  “Yeah?” the boy called in response.

  “Stir the cereal for me, would you? Turn it off first! Use a pot holder! And watch out for the bubbles. They’re hot! I’m going to get your sister up.”

  A second child!

  The boy crossed to the stove.

  Alvarez moved back to the ironing board. He set down his loot on the dryer and gently moved the ironing board out of his way. Would she remember how it had been sitting? If he could get out without setting off any alarms in her, he might buy himself more time—freedom.

  He unlocked the window, the washer’s motor and churning water providing cover. One firm bang with an open palm jarred the window loose. The weather stripping, long strings of soft caulk, pulled from the jamb. He was in a full sweat now—hands, armpits, brow, the back of his neck. He tossed his haul out into the snow, slipped his legs out, and reached to pull the ironing board back into place, dragging it.

  His mistake was attempting to stand the iron itself back up as he had found it. He stood it up fine, but in his final effort to get out, he once again nudged the ironing board. This time, he took no notice. As he ducked his head out the window, he heard the iron strike the floor.

  He pulled the window shut and scooped up his stolen possessions.

  The woman heard the noise. Sounded like something falling. With Samantha cradled in her arms and Nathan standing on a chair stirring his hot cereal, she stepped into the confined space. She thought it felt cold, but this laundry room never heated well in the morning. Northwest side of the house and all.

  The iron lay on the floor. She stared at it, puzzled. Then the washing machine shook, going off-center, as it was prone to do with sheets and towels, and the room vibrated so much she was surprised every shelf hadn’t fallen down along with the iron. Just another thing that needed fixing. Like most everything in this place.

  CHAPTER 4

  His name was Peter Tyler, and he drove a beige, front-wheel-drive Ford convertible that smelled of spray can deodorant, courtesy of Avis. The rental agent could not understand his insisting on a convertible in the middle of winter. Tyler gripped the warm plastic steering wheel a little too tightly, thinking that if the snow didn’t let up, he would never make it to the rail yard on time. Not the best message to send back to Washington on the first day of a new job.

  He adjusted the mirror and briefly caught sight of his own dark eyes and knitted brow, his worry overriding what was normally his more lighthearted expression. He needed this job, both financially and emotionally, even if it was only freelance work. He knew that rebuilding his life would not be accomplished in leaps and bounds but in small, determined steps. And as hard as it was for him to adjust to this, adjust he must. For the past decade, he had formed his identity around his work as a homicide detective. With that now behind him—stolen from him, by his way of thinking—he needed something to hold on to. Anything. This job, however temporary, seemed a place to start. A beginning. An opportunity he could not squander. That it also felt a little like the first day of school was simply something he would have to overcome. Change never came easily.

  The snowstorm had left St. Louis in slop—wet, thick, and sticky. Tyler rolled down his window and reached outside, snagging the wiper just long enough to dislodge some of the ice from the blade. A three-inch clear arc appeared through the muck on the windshield, about chin height, requiring Tyler to either sink in his seat or meet his chin to his neck and try to look out through the steering wheel. He sank. For a moment, he could actually see outside.

  Cars and trucks had spilled off the road to both sides. Flashers flashed. So did tempers. He saw two different lame attempts at fistfights, comical for the winter apparel. A tow truck, also off the highway, convinced him road conditions were serious. He slowed and tried the wiper again. A truck horn sounded behind him. Tyler cursed a blue streak inside the fogged rental and then, unable to take it any longer, unfastened the two clasps, hit the button, and put down the convertible top while under way. Surprisingly, even with the top down, not much snow hit him; it was being carried back by an airfoil created by the windshield, but this required a certain speed to be effective, so he sped up and threw caution to the wind.

  He hadn’t explained his acute claustrophobia to the rental clerk, doubting the man would have wanted to hear that the car’s interior was going to be exposed to winter conditions. Peter Tyler had been driving ragtops for over a year.

  With the lid down, people waved at him from cars and the side of the road. This was a country that celebrated personal expression. There would no doubt be talk around the suburban dinner tables that night of the crazy man in the beige convertible doing forty on I-70 in freezing weather with the top down.

  Tyler stopped the car outside the rail yard, put the top back up—first impressions were important to him—and took another moment to brush the snow off the wet shoulders of his trench coat. Homicide cops wore trench coats—lined in the winter months, but still trench coats—and Tyler had been a homicide cop for eleven years prior to the six or seven minutes that had changed his life. Now he felt like a cheap imitation. He wasn’t sure he even deserved the trench coat. Life was a bitch.

  With the car’s lid up, his heart beat fast and his palms sweated. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. This affliction was relatively new, and growing worse: perhaps it came from a fear of jail time—a real possibility for a while there. The so-called assault, and the resulting charges, had changed everything. Now he felt lucky just to have a job, any job, and he was not going to screw it up. He certainly wasn’t going to let some stranger’s first impression of him be in a snowstorm, in a convertible, with the top down. He still hoped that a strong performance on this investigation—his first assignment for the National Transportation Safety Board, or NTSB—might lead to a more permanent position. He needed the work, the income, the stability. He needed this.

  At a few minutes past three in the afternoon, with the storm still raging, Tyler parked and climbed out. The rail yard smelled of petroleum—grease, fuel, and cleansers—even in a snowstorm, a rusty bitterness in the back of the throat that reminded him of overheated electrical sockets.

  A ruddy-cheeked man approached and introduced himself as Hardy Madders, rolling his eyes at the joke of his own name. An overweight man with loose jowls and a jovial disposition, Madders shook Tyler’s hand vigorously, introducing himself as the yard’s superintendent. He led Tyler across railroad tracks buried in six inches of wet snow, pointing out where to step to avoid tripping on the buried rails. The yard held freight cars, tankers
, and flatbeds. Red, black, gray. Dozens of tracks, perhaps thousands of cars. According to Madders, a man who plainly liked to hear himself talk, the yard hands sorted the arriving trains, redirecting groups of cars to various tracks and to trains on other routes. An interline train from the east or south would carry one “package” of several cars headed to the northwest, another package intended for the southwest, and several more bound for the West Coast or Canada. Here, at the St. Louis switching yard, these cars were separated out and rerouted—“repackaged”—connected to engines and sent on their way. “Twenty-four, seven. No holidays here,” Madders added.

  “And the car I’m supposedly interested in?” Tyler asked.

  “Oh, you’re interested all right,” Madders assured him. “Why would the NTSB send an investigator all the way from Washington if there wasn’t something to be interested in? Don’t you boys have regional offices?”

  “I’m new,” Tyler answered, not wanting to give this guy too much information. He carried NTSB credentials but did not feel like a federal employee, a federal agent. For the last eleven years he’d distrusted the feds. Now he was one.