The Sixth Station(47)

Why would she write in Italian? Did Dona even know Italian?

I took a chance and hit “return,” and typed in the fax number again.

With no time to waste and scared that I could be tracked by my tablet even with the tracking shut off, I shut down, put on my almost-dry underwear, slipped on my jeans, T-shirt, scarf, boots, and leather jacket, and went back over the room to make sure I’d left nothing behind as evidence.

Of what—a bad dye job?

I called the front desk and asked if by some miracle a fax had come for me, but Mrs. Wife said, “No, no fax.”

I waited another fifteen minutes, called again and again. She said, “No, no fax.”

“I will call you from my next location and perhaps you can fax it to me there?”

“How will you pay me for this fax?”

“I will leave you five dollars. How’s that?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll leave it in an envelope in my room.”

I hopped into the Caddy without saying good-bye to my hosts. Mr. Husband was still glaring at me for the six Danish I had glommed, two of which were squished in my red satchel at the moment. Yes, I had eaten four Danish, something I had never done in my life. My limit had always been half of one.

As I was pulling out of the drive, Mr. Husband came running out, frantically waving at me. I stopped the car short and he said, “You owe fifteen more dollars!”

“For what—the Danish?”

“You have the faxes. It costs fifteen dollars.”

“For a fax?”

“It’s five pages, that’s fifteen dollars.”

“Fifteen dollars? I left five dollars in the room.” A fortune. And the choice was?

“Three dollars a page,” he said, and I knew he was making it up as he went along.

I grudgingly handed over the ten dollars and tucked the envelope with the pages into my red satchel.

I set a course for the Toronto airport—it was nearly 8:40 A.M., which gave me around ten hours before takeoff, but I had much to accomplish and a long way to go.

I drove a few hours and pulled into a travel plaza. I parked close to the entrance in case I had to make a quick getaway. I also had to figure out what the hell I was going to do about gas. My funds were dangerously low, and I was desperate for some salty Roy Rogers fried chicken, but on my limited means, I settled for a Diet Coke and, yes, another cheese Danish.

Needless to say, I was excited that the Roy Rogers lady just handed me an empty cup, which I was supposed to fill myself.

Too bad I can’t fill it with gasoline.

I went back to the font three times, until I was as blown up as a balloon over Macy’s.

The travel plaza offered emergency everything, and I bought a sports bra in a tube (ten dollars), two I LOVE NY T-shirts in black (fifteen dollars), and a plastic pretend Louis Vuitton large carry-on bag (twenty-one dollars), with the initials LU instead of LV.

The TVs around the rest stop were reporting on the manhunt for Alessandra Russo, who was wanted for the murder of Father Eugene Sadowski, in what was now being described as a crime of passion. My press photo was on the screen and so were pictures of me in Iraq with my foot up on a pile of bombed-out bricks, like some crazed hunter. There was no way anyone would recognize that person in my present state. I hoped.

The bigger news, of course, was that the United Nations area around the ben Yusef trial, which had already begun for the morning, was more unruly than ever, with protestors from both sides jamming up the streets. Demiel’s face, as he was perp-walked in front of the press that day, looked surprisingly serene.

Maybe I could learn something from him.

I looked anything but serene, and I felt scared and frantic. I filled up the cup again and plopped down in a booth like a bag lady.

I’m trying to escape to Istanbul looking for—what, I don’t know—with roughly seventy dollars to my name. If I don’t get nailed, I may in fact starve to death. How long can I last on one more Danish-in-a-bag? Of course, I’ve eaten enough this morning to hold me for the entire month. I wonder if they still serve food on Delta.… Do I dare try to cash a check? That could take a few days to trace. No.

Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Clearly. So I got up and headed back out to the Caddy.

As I approached the big glass doors, I saw Sadowski’s car, and it appeared that someone was in it.

Shit.

Yes. Someone was in my car! I peered around the side of the door, keeping away from the front. The driver’s side door opened slightly, and in a flash I saw the intruder. It was the German! He exited, shut the door, and quickly walked away and toward the doors to the pavilion.

The Düsseldorf assassin/garmento had done something to my car, of that I was certain. But how the hell had he found me again? How? Impossible! I had been very, very careful.