you and then we’re done. This’ll be the last thing I ever ask of you.”
Big pause. “What do you mean?”
“C’mon, man, I got things I need to do.”
“So this is it? One more thing and I’ll be free?”
I didn’t say that. I clarify: “Free from me.”
“And my account will still be available?”
I roll my eyes, put my glasses back on. “You need help.” He waits for a real answer. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
This seems to satisfy him. “All right, what is it?”
“Think back a week. Sean Douglas. The guy who was watching over my friend, the one whose information you located for me?”
“Yeah.”
“I just need to know his office address and a number to reach him directly.”
“Hey, Jim,” he says to someone. A dog barks in the background. “That’s easy enough.” I hear him taking footsteps again. “That really all you need?”
“Yeah. And it’s important I get it right away.”
I hear the slam of a car door, the ding-ding-ding right before he starts the engine. “So what else is new?”
I sit and wait on a tree-lined street adjacent to Fort Greene Park, a half dozen blocks from the Greyhound station, stay sheltered under a pair of horse chestnut trees whose branches and leaves have blossomed and grown into one another like lifelong lovers, watch mothers stroll children along the sidewalk in front of brownstones to the west side. A coolness fills my body at the awareness of how I’ll be leaving this area for good, that the unique architecture of these brownstones, of these areas where I spent my youth, will be available only through my memory.
Forty minutes later, Gardner calls, gets all excited about providing me the same information he gave me a week ago. I can sense the anticipation in his voice at my impending disappearance from his life.
“Sean Douglas,” he says. “Birthday, October thirtieth. Current age, thirty-three. Home address is 453 Michaelson Lane, Towson, Maryland. Based out of the Baltimore office, 101 West Lombard Street, Baltimore, Maryland, Room 605. Marital status: unmarried. Current salary—”
“Four-fifty-three Michaelson,” I repeat quietly, then to Gardner: “How about a phone number? Any private number, like a home or cell?”
“Only a pager.”
Gardner says it slowly and I commit it to memory, have him repeat it twice to be sure.
“Why are you looking for the marshal?” he asks.
I sit and stare at my odometer, can’t believe how many miles I’ve accumulated since I purchased this car. With the exception of the distances driven in and around New York, every mile traveled occurred during some pilgrimage of finding or hiding Melody. “You don’t want to know.” He doesn’t respond. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”
He grunts and mumbles, could be translated as whatever. “So, that’s it? I’m done?”
I back out of my spot and carefully pull onto Washington Park, begin winding my way toward the south side of Brooklyn, the opposite direction from the neighborhoods my family typically drive in or near. “Yes, Gardner. You’re finally done.” Though if I were being more honest: “Yes, Gardner. You’re finished.” I hang up, drop my cell next to the gearshift.
I speed over to the Gowanus Expressway, cross the Verrazano and cut through Staten Island, pick up I-95 near Elizabeth, and begin the return voyage to Baltimore. With every mile southward the worry of being spotted by my family decreases, is replaced by the anxiety of what I’m about to do, with thoughts of wondering where Melody is heading, where she’s going to live, how she’s going to live, how she’ll manage on her own. Having spent my adult life mapping and tracing, I can’t stop formulating a way to find her, to figure her out. But my plan has already proven to be effective: I severed the tie with her and with Gardner’s scope into Justice simultaneously; I’d have no idea how to even begin finding her now, no hope for knowing where it could end. I berated Gardner for his gambling addiction, yet I was so willing to ignore my own, and now that Melody is out of reach and out of sight—now that she is out—I’m getting the early indicators of withdrawal.
In an attempt to balance the fear of being caught against the anxiousness of wanting my plan in full motion, the farthest I make it is central New Jersey. As I pass the exit for New Brunswick, I call Peter’s cell phone. It rings only twice.
“Johnny,” he says, followed by a sigh. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You alone?”
“In my car, driving around. Wondering where