Excerpt
Prologue
The pain rolled over her in waves, especially when air whistled through her mouth. She’d never lost a tooth before; her mouth felt curiously empty. Where had it fallen out? Had they found it? Could they use it to track her? She wouldn’t have thought so, but the pain was fogging her mind. She shook her head as if to banish the thought, but the movement touched off more throbbing. She tried to breathe through her nose.
She brushed her fingers along her jaw. The last time she’d looked in a mirror, she hadn’t recognized herself. She was glad she didn’t have one now. With luck the make-up covered most of the damage.
She walked up to the front door. A house. Not an office or clinic, but a house. Two stories. Brick. Surrounded by others just like it up and down the street. All of them identical, except for the color of the paint and which side the garage sat on.
She took off her dark glasses and rang the bell. They’d told her to be there at fourteen hundred, but it was well past that now. A curtain of dusk was descending, and the air was heavy with the slight metallic smell that precedes snow. She shivered, unfamiliar clothes scratching her skin. Her coat was too flimsy for this bitter cold, but it was all she’d been able to get. She rang the bell again.
She shoved her hands in her pockets, fingering her money. Cash only, they’d said. Dollars. Where were they? Maybe she should look. As she started around to the back, a sudden movement startled her. Fear knifed through her.
It was only a bare branch swaying in the wind. She let out a slow breath as the branch rose and fell, eerily silent in the fading light. Where was the sound? Back home the wind made noise. A whispering breeze or the shriek of a gale, it didn’t sneak up on you. This quiet was unnerving.
She cornered the house. A chain link fence marked the edge of the property. Beyond it lay a field. Spindly clumps of grass poked through gritty snow. A tire lay on its side. The field was so flat civilization seemed to stop at the fence line. This part of the world was like that, she recalled. Something to do with a glacier. Perhaps she really would fall off the edge of the world. Where were the mountains, the lake, the clean, scented air of home?
She found a second door on the side of the house. She pressed her face against the glass. A light shade blocked her view. She shifted her feet. In the thin, flat shoes she was wearing, her toes were already numb. She looked around. No movement. No sound. Nothing to indicate a human presence. She grabbed the doorknob and turned. The door opened easily, and a gust of warm air blew over her. She slipped inside, squeezing her eyes shut in pleasure. She might never have felt anything this good before.
It was a plain but clean room. Wood paneling on three of four walls, a white linoleum floor flecked with brown. Two chairs sat beside a low table. She took off her glasses and sank into a chair, kneading her fingers. She glanced down at her wrist to check the time, momentarily forgetting she’d lost her watch. Without the thick leather band, her tattoo was plainly visible.
She gazed around. The fourth wall, the one that wasn’t paneled, was marred by a thick crack that snaked from floor to ceiling. It reminded her of the winding creek near her grandparents’ home. The one window in the room was covered with the same flimsy material as the door, but a thin strip of light seeped around its edges. Enough to make out a light switch on the opposite wall. She went to it and flipped it on. Shading her eyes against the glare, she saw a door cut into the wall with the crack—she hadn’t seen it before. She tried the knob; it was locked.
On the ceiling rows of square, spongy tiles looked soft enough to punch her fist through. She tracked the squares to a corner where the ceiling and the wall met. A small black box was anchored to the wall. A camera? Here? She had heard the stories about Chicago. Al Capone. Gangs. Crime-ridden streets. Maybe there was some truth to them.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal in two days. But even if she’d had the time, how could she chew with this pain? A muffled sound escaped her throat. Where were they? They had to be expecting her. Why else leave the door unlocked?
“Halloo,” she called out.
No response. If no one came soon, she would have to leave. But where would she go? The two days she’d been on the run felt like two years. She didn’t have much time; she knew they were looking for her. The woman in the airport bathroom said a man had been asking about her just outside the door. He claimed to be her brother, the woman said. But Arin didn’t have a brother. She told the woman it was her husband, that she was running away from his abuse. The woman clucked sympathetically and let Arin buy her scarf as a disguise. Arin snuck down to the gate, her head covered, praying she wasn’t seen.
Now, she threw her coat on a chair and sat in her cotton t-shirt and jeans. She should be home with Tomas. Cooking his supper. Helping him with his studies. She should never have left home. But it hadn’t been her idea to take a vacation. And she’d never been to that part of the world. A few days in the hot sun seemed like a gift. How could she have known he would be there? That he was behind it, all of it? She held her head in her hands. She should have figured it out. But she hadn’t. Years of uneventful transactions had dulled her instincts.
A noise from outside startled her. Thumps. Footsteps. Then a whisper. Finally. They had come. She felt almost weak with relief. As the door started to open, the scalloped edge of the grimy window shade trembled in the incoming draft. A sudden image of delicate cotton doilies sprang into her mind. With embroidery around the edges. Part of her grandmother’s hope chest, she’d coveted them as a little girl. Her grandmother promised they would be hers one day.
She turned eagerly toward the door.
Chapter One
Ricki Feldman is the type of woman best admired from a distance—if you get too close, you might find some of your body parts missing. But here I was sitting next to her at La Maison, one of the toniest restaurants on Chicago’s North Shore.
We were seated in a private dining room with dark wood beams, stucco walls, and terracotta floor tiles. Huge arrangements of fresh flowers—a significant feat in the middle of January—surrounded us. The occasion was a ladies’ luncheon in Ricki’s honor. The directors of WISH, Women for Interim Subsidized Housing, had organized it to thank her for a twenty thousand dollar donation, dollars that would help support low-cost housing for kids who’d been in foster care but couldn’t afford to live on their own.
Charity. Tzedukah. A simple act of philanthropy. Except with the Feldmans, nothing was ever simple. The daughter of a hugely successful real estate developer, Ricki had taken control of the company several years ago at her father’s death, and was proving to be just as ambitious and shrewd. In fact, you got the sense that good deeds, money, even people, were just commodities to the Feldmans. Bargaining chips for some future quid pro quo. Which was why it was wise to make sure you left with everything you came in with when you dealt with them.
Two waiters hovered over her now, refilling her water glass and whisking imaginary crumbs off the white tablecloth. With silky dark hair, magnetic brown eyes, and a willowy build, Ricki was the kind of woman it was hard to look away from. Even so her expression was always calculating, measuring, taking stock. I kept my hands in my lap and my knees pressed together.
The eight other women at the luncheon were decked out in designer finery. I spotted a Missoni label on one woman, another with a Fendi bag. Silver flashed at their necks and ears, and it was hard to find a wrinkle on any face. I felt like the hired help in my Garfield and Marx slacks. In fact, when Ricki introduced me around as the woman who produced the video about “The Glen”, I repressed the urge to pay fealty.
You see, Ricki and I weren’t friends. And I wasn’t a contributor to WISH. A few months ago Feldman Development had built a luxury housing project on the old naval base in Glenview, and Ricki hired me to produce a video about it. I’d had misgivings—environmentalists were trying, unsuccessfully it turned out, to preserve the land as prairie. But she threw a lot of money at me; money I needed to make ends meet. So I took it, produced the show, and tried not to dwell on what the shortage of grasslands would do to global warming.
“The Glen” eventually became one of Feldman’s most successful properties, and when Ricki invited me to lunch, I thought it might be a belated thank you, so I accepted. You might disapprove of their methods, you might not like their style, but the Feldmans were tireless. They got things done. Plus, it’s not often I get the chance to hobnob with women of wealth and privilege.
Now, though, as chatter about exotic vacations, haute couture, and the latest Hollywood scandal drifted over the table, I silently shoveled salad into my mouth, feeling just a bit overwhelmed.
The waiters cleared our plates, then brought out brandy snifters filled with sorbet. As I smiled up my thanks, I caught the waiter staring at my chest. I looked down. A dark oily stain was spreading across my blouse. Salad dressing. And I hadn’t worn a jacket. The waiter sniffed and moved on. I propped an elbow on the table, in an effort to hide the offending spot. Resting my chin on my hand, I tried to appear thoughtful.
It was a short-lived attempt.
“You don’t like sorbet, Ellie?” Ricki asked a moment later.
“Oh, I like it.” I smiled weakly and reached for my spoon. As my elbow moved, Ricki’s gaze dropped to my chest. “Oh dear. I’m sorry.”
Suddenly eight pairs of eyes were on me.
I dipped my napkin in my water glass and dabbed at the spot, but, of course, that only made it worse. My heart’s not enough—I have to wear my lunch on my sleeve, too. I dabbed some more, but it was hopeless. There was only one solution, especially with this crowd. I tossed my head, put my hands in my lap, and affected a je-ne-sais-quoi nonchalance. Next time I’d wear a haz mat suit.
A blond woman with skin so tight it looked like stretched canvas rose and tapped a knife against her water glass. “Now, ladies.” She looked around the table, a brilliant, pasted on smile encompassing us all. “In honor of Ricki Feldman’s generous donation to WISH, I thought we’d play a little game.”
I smiled. I knew these games. A variation of a roast, someone asks silly questions about the individual being honored, and the person with the most correct answers wins a prize. I looked around the table. During the course of producing the Glen video, I’d learned a lot about Ricki. Where she went to school, her cat’s name, her favorite movie. I stood a good chance of winning. I wondered what the prize was. I wouldn’t waste my time over perfume or candy, but a day at a spa, or a gift certificate for some trendy store could be worth it. With this crowd, it was a distinct possibility. I dug out a memo pad and pen from my bag.
The game was momentarily delayed when the maitre d’ rolled the pastry cart up to the table. Leave it to a man a to tease us with the foods we crave but shouldn’t eat. They’re still trying to get even for that Eve and the apple thing. One woman ordered flourless chocolate cake, and another chose a flaky apple tart. I summoned up my will power and tried to pretend they were laced with cyanide. Or botulism.
The lady with the face-lift stood up again. “Ready now, ladies? Oh. I almost forgot.” She looked around and grinned. “Whoever wins gets a massage and facial at North Shore spa.” She smiled and seemed to rest her eyes on me.
Not bad, I thought and smiled back, eagerly anticipating questions about siblings, birthdays, best friends in kindergarten.
The blonde cleared her throat. “All right. First question. Who’s wearing a brand new diamond today?”
Diamonds? The women tittered, and two hands shot into the air. Ricki fingered a diamond solitaire at her throat.
“No, no, ladies.” The blond woman waggled a finger at us. “You’re supposed to write down how many ladies you think are wearing diamonds today. And they have to be new.”
More giggles and surreptitious glances. I squirmed. What kind of game was this? I wondered whether I’d made a mistake coming. I could be at home, surfing the net or planning the important, hard-hitting documentary I would produce one day. I snuck a glance at Ricki. A confirmed workaholic, she could be making deals, building shopping centers, collecting rents. But she was smiling benevolently, as if she had nothing more pressing to do than decide between a two or three carat prong set ring.
It suddenly occurred to me I might not win this game.
The blonde woman waited until the rest of the group had finished writing and licked her lips. “Okay… second question.” She flicked an imaginary speck off her Theirry Mugler jacket. “How many ladies are wearing a new outfit today?”
My smile felt glued to my face. These women may not have gone to Harvard, but the way they scrutinized each other, working their way up from shoes to earrings, was just as intimidating. I imagined a classroom filled with women clutching number-two pencils, filling in designer names on their SAT’s.
“Ready to move on?” The woman chirped.
I took a sip of water.
“Now for our third, and final question.” She paused dramatically, then slid her eyes toward me. “Who knows what Ellie Foreman does for a living?”
I slumped, trying to ignore the knowing looks cast my way. Now I knew why I was there. They wanted me to produce a video for WISH. Ricki had told them all about me. Hell, she probably promised to deliver me on a platter. I was the lamb led to slaughter. The dog to the pound. And Ricki Feldman was holding the leash.
“Waiter!” I shot my hand in the air, no longer caring about the stain on my blouse. If I was going to pay for this lunch, the least I could do was order dessert.
Chapter Two
As I climbed into the car a half hour later, I counted my fingers and toes one more time. Ricki hadn’t approached me about a video, but she did wear a complacent smile for the rest of the luncheon, and the other ladies were entirely too solicitous.
I pulled out of La Maison and headed home. I’d probably get a call next week. They’d want a modest, ten-minute kind of thing. Interviews with the founder of WISH, the young people they’d helped, maybe even—they’d pause self-effacingly—the board of directors. And oh, they’d add, since they were a charitable organization, could I do it pro bono? WISH was undoubtedly not-for-profit, which, over the years, I’ve learned is code for I shouldn’t make one either. If I objected, they’d argue that it couldn’t be that hard. Their kids could probably produce it with the digital gear they’d bought them for Christmas. Frankly, they’d say in a low but earnest voice, they were doing me a favor. All the positive publicity would reflect well on my reputation.
I turned up the heat. A weak flow of air filtered out of the vents. My Volvo was getting old and cantankerous. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a tightfisted person. Or a misanthrope. But my ex-husband’s child support payments are negligible, and producing videos is how I support my fourteen year old and myself. Playing Lady Bountiful, as noble as it may be, doesn’t put food on my table.
It was barely four as I drove past the forest preserve, but daylight was already fading. It had snowed again last night, and the tree branches were bowed out with a ribbon of white. The coating was so thick that the skinny dark edges of the branches underneath looked like a drop shadow. Still, there was something soothing—almost elemental—about the combination of brown branch, white mantle, and pale sky.
By the time I turned onto our street, the heater finally kicked in, and I made it to the house in relative comfort. I live in a small three-bedroom colonial which I struggled to hang onto after the divorce. It’s not new or plush, but they’ll have to carry me out feet first. I pulled into the garage and went inside.
“Rachel?”
No reply. I ran upstairs and changed into a pair of sweats, and went into the bathroom. The mascara I put on this morning was still there; gray eyes fringed with clumpy black lashes stared back at me in the mirror. I ran a brush through my hair, which used to be black but is increasingly streaked with gray. I sighed. I’d never be as well preserved as the Women Who Lunch. They could afford plastic surgeons and exotic beauty treatments. The best I could do was a fresh application of concealer. Still, I hang on to the fact that a guy once told me I could pass for Grace Slick. Never mind that it was thirty years ago, and we’d been in a dark room smoking weed.
I was downstairs chopping tomatoes for a batch of chili—this was turning out to be a day of continuous meals—when the kitchen door flew open.
“Hi, Mom.” Rachel bounded in, accompanied by a gust of frigid air. “What’s for dinner? I’m starved!”
I shivered.
“Oh. Sorry.” Rachel slammed the door and sniffed her way to the stove. Her cheeks were flushed, and despite the weather, her blond curls were damp.
“Were you running?”
She nodded. She’d been trying to stay in shape for her newly discovered passion, field hockey. Soccer with a stick, she called it. Even though it was a fall sport, she was thinking ahead to next season—a significant feat for a fourteen-year-old. Not only was she jogging regularly, but she was also exercising with a huge rubber ball.
I wouldn’t admit it, but I was thrilled. Her keen interest in the sporting life—regardless of how long it lasted—was an sign that our troubles of last fall had abated. That, for the moment, she was navigating the sturm and drang of adolescence smoothly. The best part was the occasional flash of maturity that hinted at the magnificent adult she would become. I kissed the top of her head, not an easy task, since she’s only two inches shorter than me.
“It’s chili.”
“No kidding. It took almost a mile to warm up.”
When I gestured to the package of chili seasoning, she shot me one of those exasperated teenage expressions that says for all her adult ways she still has a few years to go.
“And bread and salad. But it’s going to be a while.”
“No prob.” She headed out of the kitchen. “I’ll do some rotation exercises.” She’d made me buy her one of those huge rubber balls for Hanukah and was doing all sorts of twists, contortions, and stretching. To increase flexibility, she claimed.
We didn’t eat until seven, and we were finished by seven-ten. I was stacking plates in the plates in the dishwasher when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Rachel said.
The front door groaned as she opened it. The car wasn’t the only thing feeling its age.
“No one’s here.” Then, “Oh.” The whine of a vehicle pulling away floated through the door. “It’s a package.”
I wiped my hands on a towel. I couldn’t remember ordering anything that would bring UPS to the house. Especially after the holidays when I’m at my most parsimonious.
Rachel came into the kitchen carrying a lumpy manila envelope. She flipped it over, shrugged, then handed it to me. There was no label on the package, and my name, the “e” in Foreman missing, was scrawled in formal cursive. The handwriting, filled with swirls and curlicues, leaned left, not right.
There was nothing else on the envelope. No markings. No UPC code. I chewed on a nail. The anthrax scare might be over, but once my confidence in public institutions has been shaken, it never rebounds to the same level. And I have a history of mistrust toward institutions. “I’m guessing it wasn’t UPS.”
Rachel shook her head. “Some kind of van dropped it off.”
“A minivan?”
“No. Bigger. Well, boxier, I think. I only saw it from the back.”
I studied the envelope. Except for the lump, it looked innocuous. I didn’t hear any ticking or smell anything unusual. It crossed my mind to call the police, but village Detective Dan O’Malley has had enough of me for a lifetime. What would I say, anyway? A package came, and I’m afraid to open it?
Still.
I looked up at Rachel, then headed toward the steps.
“Where are you going?” She asked.
“I’m taking it down to the garage.”
“Mom, it’s just an envelope.”
“I realize that. I want to check it out.”
“You’re being really paranoid, you know.” She took a step forward as if she might snatch it from me.
“Young lady, don’t you dare.”
She stopped and shook her head. “You’re nuts.”
I hesitated. She had a point. If something untoward was going to happen, it probably would have occurred by now. I went to the cleaning supply cabinet and took out a pair of yellow rubber gloves.
“Now what are you doing?”
I slipped the gloves over my hands. “You have my permission to go upstairs anytime you want.”
She raised her chin. A defiant silence caromed around the room.
I backtracked to a drawer and took out my Cutco knife. A neighbor’s son sold it to me two summers ago, and it’s the sharpest knife I own. Brandishing it in one hand, I edged up to the table, bent over, and slit the envelope at one end.
