The First Counsel

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Ten digits later, I'm on the phone with Marlon Porigow, a deep-voiced man who's in charge of my father's visitation rights. "Tomorrow should be fine," he tells me in a great Cajun bellow. "I'll make sure he's up and ready."

"Any problems lately? He doing okay?" I ask.

"No one likes being a prisoner--but he manages. We all manage."

"I guess," I say, my left hand clamped ruthlessly to the armrest of my chair. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow it is."

As he's about to hang up, I add, "And Marlon, can you do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"I'm working on some . . . some pretty important stuff over here--some of it a little personal. And since I'm already nervous that the press is sniffing too closely, if you could . . ."

"You want me to keep an extra eye on him?"

"Yeah." I can still see that photographer scurrying up the block. "Just try to make sure no one gets in to see him. Some of these guys can be ruthless."

"You really think someone's gonna--"

"Yes," I interrupt. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

Marlon's heard that tone before. "You're up to your knees, now, ain't ya?"

I don't answer.

"Well, don't worry 'bout a thing," he continues. "Meals, showers, lights out--I'll make sure no one gets near him."

Returning the phone to its cradle, I'm alone in the room. I feel the ego walls closing in around me. Between Inez and the photographer, the press is zeroing in a bit too quickly. And they're not alone. Simon, Vaughn, the FBI--they're all starting to look closely. At me.

Chapter 16

The Saturday morning traffic out to Virginia isn't nearly as bad as I thought it'd be. I assumed I'd be bumper-to-bumper in I-95's asphalt embrace, but the bad weather leaves me breezing toward Richmond with nothing but dark gray skies and clouds in my eyes. It's the kind of colorless, grim day that feels like it's always about to rain. No, not rain. Pour. The kind of day that scares people away.

Married to the far left lane of the highway, I keep a cautious eye on the rearview mirror until I'm well out of Washington. It's been more than a month since the last time I drove out to see him, and I don't plan on bringing unwanted guests. For almost a half hour, I try to lose myself in the repetitious views of the tree-lined landscape. But every stray thought leads back to Caroline. And Simon. And Nora. And the money.

"Dammit!" I shout, banging the steering wheel. There's never an escape. I flick on the radio, find some good noisy music with a beat, then crank the volume way up. Ignoring the still overcast skies, I slide open the sunroof. The wind feels good on my face. For the next few hours, I'm going to do everything in my power to forget about life. Today's about family.

I spend the last half hour on the highway in a four-car caravan. I'm in second place, with a navy Toyota in front of me and a forest green Ford and a tan Suburban behind me. It's one of the true joys of traveling--linking up with strangers who match your speed. A united defense against the technology of a cop's speed gun.

Two exits away from my destination in Ashland, Virginia, I break from the procession and make my way over to the right-hand lane. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that the tan Suburban follows. Just a coincidence, I decide. Up ahead, I see the sign for Kings Dominion. It always made me laugh that this place was so close to my dad's. An amusement park--so close; so far. I take a full whiff of the irony and a quick glance in the rearview. The Suburban's still behind me.

He's probably going to get off at the amusement park--there's not much else to see out here. But as we approach the exit, he doesn't have his blinker on. He's not even slowing down. He's just moving in closer.

I look over my shoulder to get a better view of the driver . . . and then my throat goes dry. What the hell is he doing here? And why's he alone? Yanking my wheel to the right, I pull onto the shoulder of the road, kicking a cloudful of gravel dust in his face. We're just a few yards shy of the Ashland exit, but with a punch of my leg, I slam the brakes as hard as I can. Behind me, the Suburban is blind from the dust and closer than ever. He comes to a jerking stop, but his front bumper lays a quick bite into mine.

Jumping out of my car, I race to the driver's side of the Suburban. "What do you want!?" I shout, banging the base of my fist against his window.

Turning away, Harry isn't concerned with my question. He's focused on something in the backseat. No, not something. Someone.

She sits up and her laugh rips through me. "And you think I'm a psycho driver?" Nora asks as she readjusts her baseball cap. "Honey, you take the cake, the presents, and the whole damn birthday party."