He doesn’t respond, like he’s waiting for a punch line. Then I hear him fumbling around as though he’s trying to locate something—a pen and pad, a recorder, another person; who cares, really. Then he says, “Come again?”
“Jonathan Bovaro. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Get what you need.”
I stare to the side as I drive, notice how the setting sun is cut into slices by the towers in and around the metro Philadelphia area.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“You lose something recently?”
“Not exactly.” He sighs. “I just lost, in general. Right?”
I can’t decipher what he means; seems like he expects me to have some piece of information I don’t possess.
“Where are you?” he asks.
I hesitate before answering, wait until a road sign with mileage estimates comes into view; Baltimore is eighty-nine miles away. “I’m roughly an hour and a half from downtown Baltimore.”
“What’s in Baltimore?”
“You are.”
He hesitates like I might give more insight. “Okay. When and where?”
“I’ll meet you at the top of Federal Hill, nine o’clock tonight.”
“Federal Hill.”
“I will not be armed, and have no intention of causing you any harm, okay? And please be alone.”
“Nine o’clock.”
I know he won’t be alone, that others will be waiting in unmarked vans within a distance of accessible capture; they’ll have to survey us among so many others in this popular public park.
Just after crossing the Susquehanna River in northeastern Maryland, I exit from the highway and drive toward the small water town of Havre de Grace, casually slip behind a strip mall distanced from the center of town, and pull up to a half-filled Dumpster.
I open my trunk, grab my overnight bag, and carefully remove Melody’s bloodied sundress and place it on the front seat of my car. I empty all of her other clothes onto the ground—the jeans, the blouses, the undergarments—then pick them up and toss them into the Dumpster. I reach over, grab two bags of wet trash, and toss them on top of her clothing. I zip up my bag, toss it back in the trunk, and return to the highway.
As soon as I emerge from the southbound side of the Fort McHenry Tunnel, I exit onto Key Highway, creep toward downtown through the back streets of South Baltimore, and eventually land at Federal Hill. I park at the foot of the historic hill, slide my cell phone in my pocket, grab Melody’s sundress, and climb the steep steps to the top.
I take a seat on a crumbling bench near the edge of the hill and stare down over the masses milling about the Inner Harbor, face the city in the exact opposite direction from when Melody and I stayed at the Renaissance. This spot, this view so high and unobstructed, is likely the location where 80 percent of all images of Baltimore’s skyline are taken, the massive buildings curling around the harbor forming a steel and concrete comma, the lights reflecting off the placid water at the center to create a living postcard.
I watch the families and couples strolling and turning randomly, like ants crawling across a sidewalk. I sink with emotion when I realize that only twenty-four hours ago Melody and I strolled these very walkways, our minds filled with hope and possibility. I stare down at the harbor, now inhabited by two less ghosts.
To my right, a young family is sprawled across a large blanket. To my left, a drunk is passed out on a bench in better condition than mine. Three kids sit on their bikes and stare out over the water before departing to the south side of the city. Behind me, a group of men load furniture into a U-Haul from one of the historic row homes on Warren Avenue. Others walk up and down the staircases to the south and west sides of the hill. Then in the indistinct distance I see Sean come into view. With each step he emerges, first his head, then his body, then his legs. He scans the park until his eyes fall on me. He walks in my direction with a slowness that suggests exhaustion more than caution. And even now, as much as I need him to be one, he does not strike me as a marshal—neither tough nor serious enough. Were he a true marshal I could see him pouncing on me, despite my not having done anything overtly illegal, immediately setting the boundaries. Instead, Sean walks casually and glances once or twice at the harbor