Vanishing Act

17

It was a small shop on a quiet block, the third in a row of seven narrow painted fronts, each with a single door and a small display case full of expensive knitted clothes, ivory carvings, furs, or leather. The sign over the door said WESTMINSTER STATIONERS. When Jane pushed the door open, a small bell attached to a spring on top tinkled for a few, seconds, then rang again when Felker closed it. On all of the shelves were neat displays of boxed stationery, open stocks of vellum and linen, hand-pressed paper of silk threads and cotton, and colored inks and pens for calligraphers, artists, and architects.

Jane stood still in the middle of the room in front of the video camera so she could be recognized on the monitor, and in a moment Lewis Feng appeared. He was about six feet tall and very slim, dressed in a dark suit and a shirt so white and starched that it seemed to belong on the shelves with the paper. "Hello, Jane," he said.

"Hi, Lew," she answered.

"Come in." The way he said it told Felker that this was only an anteroom.

He led them into an office that looked like a doctor’s consulting room. He went behind his desk while Jane and Felker waited, then opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a key. He used it to open another door, which led into a large workshop with dozens of pieces of equipment, a few of which Felker recognized. There were a light table, an enlarger, engraving machines, even an old-fashioned printing press. Felker understood. A stationer could have an incredible collection of printing equipment and special papers without anybody giving it a thought. Lew Feng noticed that Felker was looking around, and said, "The foundation of our relationship is our mutual lack of curiosity."

"Of course," said Felker. He glanced at Jane with a wince.

Feng went to a shelf where there were ream-size packages of paper with the wrappers still on them. He lifted one off the pile, tore it open on a workbench, pulled a piece of paper out, and set it in front of Felker.

"Here is your birth certificate. The form is genuine. The signature is forged, but the county clerk in question is both real and dead." He paused while Felker glanced at it, then reached into the package again. "Driver’s license. This is genuine. The written examination and driving test were taken, and the license issued. The only thing on it that we’ve added is your photograph. The military discharge papers and the old tax returns are convincing but false. You can use them with anyone but the government. The Social Security card is genuine, but its value is limited. The only way to get one was to have an eighteen-year-old with a second birth certificate in your name apply for it. So you can safely use it and pay taxes into the account, but I’m afraid you would have to wait forty-seven years to collect the benefits."

"I’ll just have to save my money," Felker said.

Lewis Feng betrayed no amusement. "I know this doesn’t seem like a big penalty compared to your present problems, but you need to know. If you misuse these documents, you could be ... embarrassed."

"I understand," he said; "Please, go on."

"This diploma is a Bachelor of Science from Devonshire-Greenleigh College, a reputable small college in Pennsylvania that ran short of money about eight years ago and closed. We maintain the fiction that there is still a registrar’s office that employers can write to for a transcript, funded by the alumni, so if you need academic records, just write to the address on the envelope."

Felker picked up the diploma and read, "John David Young."

Lew Feng said, "Many of our clients are Orientals, so we use Oriental names that don’t attract attention in North America: Young, Lee, Shaw, and so on. Jane specified the first name John, and we had a John Young."

"Had one?"

"We had been building one. Jane asked for the deepest kind of cover, and that takes time. The credit cards are real. The car was bought from a dealer in John Young’s name—"

"Car? I have a car?"

"It’s the safest way to cross the border."

Felker looked at Jane, then at Feng. "What is all this going to cost?"

"We were paid in advance," said Lewis Feng.

"We’ll talk about it," said Jane.

Lewis Feng went on. "This is the key to your apartment in Medford, Oregon. It was rented for you by a legitimate apartment-finding service, so nobody is going to be expecting you to look like the person who put down the deposit."

"This is all safe?" asked Felker.

"Nobody knows anything except members of my family, and I protect them by making sure they never see the customer or know anything more than a long list of new names we make up. I have to keep some record of the information that we’ve generated so that when you need additional documents, we won’t create inconsistencies. But it’s well hidden and it’s never cross-referenced to your original identity, which I don’t know. As I said, our mutual lack of curiosity is the foundation of our relationship."

He handed Felker a crisp manila envelope for his papers and keys and held out his hand. Felker shook it numbly. "Good luck in your new life, Mr. Young."

"Thank you."

They walked out of the shop in silence, then down the street for two blocks. "This is your car," said Jane. It was a gray Honda Accord, with Oregon license plates, parked by the curb. He stopped to look, but Jane pulled him along. "Leave it. I don’t want them to see it at the hotel."

He stopped again. "Where did the money come from?"

"People give me presents. I gave you one."

"I have my present. I’d be dead if you hadn’t—"

"Hold on to your cash. You’ll need it until you’re settled."

She flagged down a taxi, and they got into it. They didn’t speak all the way back to the hotel. When it pulled up in front of the entrance to let them off, she said, "Wait for me." Felker pulled her aside. "What’s going on?"

"You’re alive," she said. "You’re a new man, with a suitcase full of cash and a new car and a new apartment. You have a fresh start. See if you can do something with it."

"Let’s talk about this inside."

Jane shook her head. "I’ve already checked us out of the hotel. The doorman has our bags, and my plane leaves in two hours."

"You mean it’s over?"

"This is over. The old John is missing, presumed dead."

"You know what I mean."

"Maybe sometime you can get in touch with me, if you live. If I live, I might meet you someplace." She looked up into his eyes, then threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. She whispered, "Happy birthday, John Young." Then she walked to the doorman’s cubicle, handed him a receipt and a Canadian bill, and took her suitcase.

As she stepped into the taxi, she said, "Airport, please." As the cab pulled away from the curb, she didn’t look out the window at John Young. She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. She reached into the little pocket and pulled out the photograph. It was her favorite one. It was the one she had taken before he was ready. Telling him she had sent Lew Feng all three pictures was the only lie she had ever told him.

Twenty minutes later, John Young walked up to the Honda Accord. He put his suitcase into the trunk, hid all of the documents except his new driver’s license in the wheel well, and closed the trunk. Then he got into the car, drove it around the block, and parked it again. From here he couldn’t see the ocean, but he could see the fog coming in, the ocean’s presence beginning to obscure everything else. He sat perfectly still and prepared his mind for what he now had to do.