pathetic than his substandard protection of his witness is Melody’s defense of him: “He probably just misses his wife. Marshals are just as human as anyone. He probably needs some time to chill out.”
“Sure, whatever. But that guy isn’t married.”
“He is, actually.”
“Actually, no.”
“Actually, yes.”
Gardner better be right. “He is absolutely not married, Melody. What, you think only the feds can do research or check someone out before getting involved?”
I leave Melody there, slip out of the room without a single tick of a latch or creak of a hinge. I pull the door behind me as she stares at the marshal, her shoulders now slumped, the realization setting in that she is going to be let down again, that not one person in her life really cares about her safety, really wants her to live, wants her to be happy, wants her to escape.
Until now.
I drop down and creep under the window to her room, to all the rooms, sheltered by a burly hedgerow likely planted during the Carter administration. As soon as I open the door to my car and slide down into the seat, I start stripping: the gloves, the jacket, my outer shirt. Down to a T-shirt and jeans, I can’t stop the sweat, can’t slow my heart, can’t catch my breath.
As I watch the marshal, a mere dot in my field of vision, I realize my body’s reaction to this event has nothing to do with him, is in no way related to having narrowly gotten in and out of Melody’s room, not related to the worry and concern of freeing her from this particular crevice of the country they swept her into. I know this because I can’t stop recalling every word Melody and I just shared, replaying every interaction and dialogue in my head. I have spent the last twenty years gradually getting closer and closer to this woman, like a slow journey across the country beginning with the Atlantic, now finally ending at the shoreline of the Pacific. Yet we will continue the journey west; tomorrow, her hand in mine, we sail.
I turn the ignition of my car, thrilled I traded in my former vehicle. The Mustang would roar, a lion entering and announcing its takeover of new turf; the Audi purrs like a cat, hiding somewhere nearby without your knowledge, a nimble blur that flies by when you turn your head. And as the marshal stands and brushes the sand from his pants, I slink across the parking lot and disappear.
I drive south on Route 13, really the only direction I can go; I don’t want to retrace my steps to the north, within a mile the east becomes an inlet to the ocean’s barrier islands, and I’m currently where the westbound lanes end. The early morning air is thick with salty moisture that my air conditioner works hard to remove. Less than a minute of driving and I hit the tollgate for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. I wind over to the only manned booth, see not a single car coming or going. I hand a twenty to an elderly woman who makes no eye contact, grab my change, hit the gas and go.
For seventeen miles I am floating above and drifting below the Chesapeake Bay. I do not see other cars or trucks, I do not see land. I drive alone, fast. The strings of lights in the tunnel sections whiz by, flash like an old movie projector, have the look and sensation of a child’s version of time travel. I can’t help thinking this must be how Melody has lived so many moments of her life, being transported somewhere. Being transported elsewhere.
And sure enough, as I emerge from the second tunnel and rise to the top of the last bridge, I see the other side, the land that lines the bay on the Hampton Roads area of Virginia, and for a moment I wonder if I really did travel across time, unsure of how this urban place can reside so near to one of the most rural parts of this country, separated by nothing more than a twelve-dollar toll. As my wheels touch down on land again, the landscape is draped in homes and businesses and multiple distant skylines. I will drive until I fall right into the middle of one.
Norfolk, Virginia, becomes my destination. I drift through the empty downtown streets, crawl between the unlit skyscrapers, and easily make my way through this nightlifeless city. I descend floor after