Aphrodite w-3 Read online

  There has to be a connection, he thought. There has to be a pattern.

  It's just another puzzle. And all puzzles can be solved.

  And then a picture came into his mind: the man in the car, looking at his watch.

  Justin's eyes flew open but the picture didn't fade.

  A blond man.

  Handsome.

  Robert Redford hair.

  Smiling.

  Somebody knew we were going to see Granger.

  Which means somebody knows we're here now.

  Looking at his watch.

  Speeding away.

  Bye-bye…

  Smiling.

  Looking at his watch…

  Deena and Kendall emerged from the bushes just as Justin grabbed for the door handle and threw the door open. He tried to leap out of the car, forgot he was strapped in, that Kendall had insisted he use the seat belt. He fumbled frantically to release the latch, finally got it off, and rolled out of the car. When he was upright, he saw Deena and Kendall, just a few feet away now, and he began screaming, "Get away from the car! Get away from the car! Run!"

  They both froze, looked at him like he was insane. He didn't bother to try to run around the front, just leaped onto the hood, scrambled over it. With one motion, he scooped Kendall up into his arms, held her as tightly as he could, grabbed Deena's arm and yanked her forward. He ran as fast as he could, practically dragging Deena behind him, and he was screaming the whole time, "Go, go, go! Faster, faster, faster!"

  He got them into the woods, maybe twenty, thirty yards away, when something told him it was time. He was still screaming, and Deena was still resisting, and Kendall was still squirming, crying in his arms, when he dove to the ground, covering the little girl with his body, pulling her mother down beside him. He heard Deena scream at him, "What the hell are you-" and then he didn't hear any more because that's when the explosion came.

  It was as if a wave of flame rode over him. He did his best to shield them both. He felt Kendall struggle. Somehow he knew she was screaming but he couldn't hear anything, couldn't really feel anything now except the heat. He felt a searing pain in his left shoulder, the one that was exposed to the air, and then the heat was over. It had passed. He waited, used his weight to keep the woman and the girl pinned to the ground, then he let them go, and he sat up.

  Kendall was crying, wracking sobs, and so was Deena. Their clothes were filthy and their faces were covered with dirt and scratches. Deena reached out for the girl, who rolled over into her protective arms. They hugged each other and stayed on the ground, crying. They didn't try to speak.

  Justin stood up. The pain in his shoulder almost brought him back down to his knees, and he saw that a two-inch shard of glass had embedded itself in his skin. He looked back at the road, and what he saw didn't make sense. The car was intact. He'd expected it to be demolished, but except for a bulge in the roof, nothing much seemed to have happened. He stepped closer, went another twenty feet or so nearer to the highway, and saw that the car's windows were gone. It had to be window glass that was embedded in his arm. The force of the explosion had sent it through the air as if shot out of a rifle. Another car was in the middle of the highway. It had been driving by at the moment the bomb went off and the driver had careened into the highway divider. Two men were struggling to get out. They looked dazed but relatively unhurt.

  And then he saw, coming down the highway, driving back from the direction in which it had sped off, the black rented Ford.

  "We've got to get out of here," he said. Deena started to argue, but he shook his head and just insisted, "We've got to go. Now!" He reached down to help her up, and her eyes widened when she saw his arm. "It's okay," he told her. He grabbed the small piece of glass with his right hand, clenched his teeth, and yanked. It felt like a carving knife being removed from the soft center of a well-cooked turkey. Justin thought he was going to faint from the pain and the spurt of blood, but he didn't. His legs buckled for a moment, then they were strong.

  "It's just a flesh wound," he told Deena. "It's okay." He looked down at Kendall. "She's okay too."

  He took the girl from her mother's arms, told her to put her arms around his neck and wrap her feet around his stomach. She giggled-a weak, halfhearted giggle but a giggle-when her feet wouldn't touch, and that was when he knew she'd be fine.

  "We have to get out of here before anyone comes," he said to Deena. When she looked at him, still vacant, still in a state of shock, he said, "It's okay. It's really okay. I know what to do now." He began marching them through the woods, went another hundred yards or so until they were completely obscured by the greenery, then turned and began walking parallel to the highway.

  "I told you someone was trying to kill us," Kendall said, her words muffled by Justin's chest. "Didn't I?"

  "Yes, honey," he said, shifting her weight in his arms so she'd be easier to carry, "you definitely did."

  "I was right, wasn't I?" She lifted her head a few inches and her words were easier to hear now.

  "Yes. You were definitely right."

  "Are they going to kill us?" Kendall asked.

  "No, honey, they're not."

  "Are you going to stop them?"

  "Yes," he told her.

  "How?" the little girl asked, and she didn't seem frightened now, just curious.

  "Yes, how?" This was from Deena. She was curious too. But she was also very afraid. "How are you going to stop them?"

  "I have a plan," Justin Westwood said. "It needs a little more work, but I have a plan."

  23

  It was not easy. Nor was it painless. But by midnight, Justin had their lives relatively back to normal. They walked for two hours. He carried Kendall the entire way. A half hour into the hike she fell asleep, her arms still locked around his neck, her head drooped on his injured shoulder. He barely felt the pain.

  Deena trudged along sluggishly, almost in a trance, for the first half of the trek. Then she started to put herself back together. There was almost no conversation-she uttered one "Shit!" when she tripped and fell into a slimy patch of leaves; that was nearly the entire extent of her chatter-but he could feel her gathering herself back up. He could sense her resilience. At one point he said to her, quietly and evenly so as not to disturb the sleeping girl, "I've seen a lot of victims, you know, over the years. Seen a lot of people after they've been attacked, after murder attempts. Most people, they're angry. I mean, really angry. Their first instinct is to strike out in revenge or rage. It's part of the process. Then they calm down. Become more rational. Sometimes. But you, I don't get that from you."

  "No," she said.

  "Are you trolling for sainthood?"

  "I'm a Buddhist."

  "Buddhists don't get angry?"

  "We try not to. Anger is not very productive or useful. We try to keep the world in perspective."

  "Tough thing to keep this in perspective."

  "You've got my perspective in your arms. Doesn't do me any good to get angry when what matters is keeping her safe."

  It was another minute or so before he spoke again. "So what do you Buddhists believe in, if it's not anger? I mean, other than all those ommms and back bends and little guys with fat stomachs and things."

  She almost grinned. "Are you saying that just to make me angry?"

  "Kind of. But I'm curious."

  "It's hard for me to verbalize sometimes. You know, it comes out sounding a little bit like a Hallmark card. But it's not like that at all. We believe that all things are one. And that to find your self you have to lose your self. We believe that everything we do here is practice."

  "For what?"

  "For something bigger. Better."

  "More peaceful?"

  "More peaceful."

  They didn't speak again until he steered them back out of the woods, toward the road. They were off the highway by this point, and they didn't have long to walk until they came to a diner. It was one of the places that were geared for travelers. Near
the entrance was a room off to the side filled with video games. There was a small souvenir shop that sold paperweights and T-shirts with I-heart-New York logos. There was a line of people waiting to take out food, and most of the people seated in the restaurant were on stools at the counter. But there were also twenty tables or so, and eight or ten booths, many of them empty. Justin woke up Kendall, set her down, and went to the souvenir shop. He gave the woman a credit card and bought three souvenir shirts in different sizes, some aspirin, and a first-aid kit. From the way the cashier looked at him, he could tell his appearance was worse than he'd even thought. He gave Deena and Kendall their shirts, ushered them into the women's room, then went through the swinging door into the men's room and did his best to wash up. It took some work. He removed his shirt, which was torn and scorched and bloody. Taking a deep breath, he cleaned his wound with hot water and soap rubbed onto a rough paper towel. He opened the first-aid kit, took another deep breath, and splashed Mercurochrome onto the gash. When he looked up into the mirror, he had tears in his eyes. One more deep breath, then he went back to the paper towels and, using more soap and water, did his best to clean his face and torso and swab his armpits. He stuck his head under the faucet, rubbed a handful of liquid soap in his hair, then dunked himself again and rubbed as hard as he could manage. He bunched together more paper towels to dry himself and used his fingers to comb his hair back into place as best he could. He wrapped a gauze bandage from the first-aid kit around the wound in his shoulder. It absorbed a bit of blood, but the bleeding had, for the most part, stopped. Then he put on his clean "I Love New York" shirt and went back to the diner.

  Deena and Kendall had already taken a booth. He saw that they were both wearing their new shirts and that they'd also managed to clean themselves up to the point of respectability.

  "Don't we look like the happy family," Justin said as he eased into the booth.

  They all ate tremendous meals-Kendall had a bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milk shake over her mother's brief objection-and then, after using the cash machine and withdrawing the maximum, a thousand dollars, Justin ordered a taxi, which took them to the nearest car-rental place, in the center of Albany. He rented a midsize car, a make he'd never actually heard of, then they headed on I-90 toward New England. Half an hour out of the city, they pulled into a mall and bought a few essentials: toothbrushes and toothpaste, two overnight bags, socks, shirts, and underwear. A mile or so past the mall, they came to a decent-looking motel and stopped. He checked them into two adjoining rooms, told them that they needed a very good night's sleep. He said that right now, whoever was after them believed they were dead. That wouldn't last long, he explained. By tomorrow he expected that they'd certainly be checking his credit-card receipts, cash-machine withdrawals, and cell-phone use. They'd be back on the case. He said he was too tired to explain further and that he'd fill them both in first thing in the morning. By the time he got to this part of his speech, Kendall was under the covers and sound asleep.

  He said good night, went into his room, closing the connecting door but leaving it unlocked, took out his two possessions that had survived the explosion-one of the phones he'd bought and his gun, both of which had been jammed into his jeans-and put them on his night-stand. Justin lay back on the bed, and before he could even get undressed, he started to doze off. As his eyes closed, he realized that Gary had never called back. He forced his eyes back open, checked his cell phone, and swore: The battery had run out. He had no way to charge it; the charger had been lost in the explosion. He added that to the list of things they needed to do tomorrow, then he forced himself to remove his clothes and get under the covers. Then he was asleep. The next thing he knew, the dream was back; he was reliving his own past, watching his life being shattered, and he woke up screaming from the pain. And the next thing he knew after that, Deena was in his bed, holding him, holding him close, and telling him that he'd had a bad dream and that she was there, that the nightmare was over.

  24

  "Will you tell me what you dream about?" she said.

  It took Justin a few seconds to orient himself. He knew his hair was wet, that his sweat had soaked through the sheets and pillowcase. Deena was holding his head to her breast and he could feel her heart pounding against his ear. He was breathing fast and hard. His shoulder pulsed with a dull ache. Slowly she released him, her hand stroking the back of his head until the last possible moment, until he fell back wearily against the headboard. She got up, went into the bathroom, and brought him back a plastic glass full of water, which he downed gratefully. Then he realized she'd asked him something.

  "What did you say?" His mouth still felt dry, his tongue thickly coated with crust.

  "I asked if you'd tell me what you dream about."

  "Could I have more water, please?"

  She nodded, got up again, and returned with another full glass. When she handed it to him, she sat on the bed, not at all self-conscious about their physical proximity. Her hand rested on his hip and he couldn't help but be aware of the fact that he was naked under the covers. She was wearing her souvenir T-shirt and a pair of socks. That was all. When she twisted to tuck one foot under her leg, he could see the muscles on her thigh and calf go taut. Her hair was a mess of unruly curls, which she realized just at the moment he found himself staring at her, so she shook her head and ran her hands through the tangle. It didn't do much good. She swung her head one more time and shrugged.

  "I don't talk about this," he said quietly.

  "Yes, I know."

  "I've never talked about this. Not all of it."

  "Maybe it's time," she said, matching the softness of his voice.

  He shifted his weight on the bed, watched as she brushed a last, feisty curl off her forehead.

  "Maybe it is," he said.

  And he began to talk. "It's not what you think," he began. "It's never what people think. Even after all the publicity and the stories, no one ever really knew what happened. You didn't see the Times the other day-Jesus, was it just the other day? They got some of the details right, but they didn't know what was underneath. They didn't remotely get to the truth.

  "When we were in East End, on our way to the library, when that guy pulled up in the car, said he was my college roommate, you thought I was embarrassed 'cause I went to a junior college or something, but that's not what it was. This is really hard for me…You want to know where we roomed together? It was at Princeton. I went to Princeton and then Harvard. Harvard was medical school."

  "Excuse me," Deena said, swallowing hard. "Can I have some of your water?"

  He nodded, handed her the glass, watched her gulp what was left. She went back to the bathroom and he heard the tap run. Then she returned with two glasses, both full.

  "Okay," she said. And then she muttered, "Harvard. Jesus Christ. I thought…Princeton and Harvard."

  "I lived in Rhode Island, in Providence. My father's very successful. He's… oh, hell-he's one of those really rich guys. Big house in Providence, mansion in Newport, right on the water, on the Cliffwalk, the whole deal. It's old money. My great-grandfather. He started a bank and my grandfather inherited it and then my father-"

  "Your father owns a bank?"

  "No. He owns several banks."

  "A Harvard rich guy," Deena said. "Did that bottle of scotch get blown up?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "So when you bought the car…" she began.

  "I gave the guy a check for ten thousand dollars. Five grand more than the car cost. Once the bank told him it was okay, he promised to forget we were ever there."

  She shook her head in disbelief. Then she said, "Go on. I won't interrupt anymore."

  "The whole family is pretty conservative. Stiff upper lip and all that. Very concerned with class and image. They're not very interested in your Buddhist ideal of the whole. And they're not big on denying self. So it was a major deal to them when I-I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me go back…

  "When it was
time for college, I went to Princeton. It's where my dad went. And his dad. I studied business and everyone thought I'd go back home and… and run a bunch of banks. But I didn't want to." Justin took a long swig of water. "I wanted to spend my life dealing with something other than money. So I decided to become a doctor and I switched to premed. Caused kind of a ruckus back home, but they calmed down after a while. A doctor was a little up close and personal, too much like work, but at least a doctor was respectable. And when I got into Harvard I think they actually got excited about the whole idea. They saw me running a hospital or becoming dean of a med school. Something prestigious and-clean. I lasted two years and then I quit. Dropped out."

  "You weren't cut out to be a doctor?"

  "I was pretty good at it. The problem was that I found something else I wanted to do." He managed a smile, rubbed his dry lips with his hand. "You know, I wish I had a joint right now. I'd very much like to get stoned out of my gourd."

  "Finish the story, please. What is it you wanted to do?"

  He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe it. "I don't know how to explain this. When I was at Princeton, what I was good at was figuring things out. Business puzzles. I could look at a company and see where it was going. Look at the debt and inventory and the earnings potential and it was like a connect-the-dots picture. I could see the whole thing in my mind-exactly what was going to happen to this company. I absolutely could tell if it was a good investment or if it was going to tank. And I could do it in reverse, too. We'd study a business that failed and I could put the pieces together, figure out what went wrong and why. When I got to Harvard, I thought I'd find the same kind of satisfaction. You know, find someone who was sick, trace the problem, fix the problem. And I could. I did. But I woke up one day and suddenly I saw the big picture. That's not what I was going to be doing. That fixing thing. At least not fixing anything I cared about. And none of my classmates were going to be doing that either. We weren't going to be family doctors, patching people up and sending them on their way. We were going to be curing rich people's tennis elbows and staring up billion-aires' rectums. I could feel myself falling into the trap.