False Impression

“Saved having to do it ourselves,” was Leapman’s only comment.

“What’s the latest from JFK?” Fenston asked.

“They’re allowing a few flights out tomorrow,” said Leapman, “visiting diplomats, hospital emergencies, and some senior politicians vetted by the State Department. But I’ve managed to secure us an early slot for Friday morning.” He paused. “Someone wanted a new car.”

“Which model?” asked Fenston.

“A Ford Mustang,” replied Leapman.

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“I would have agreed to a Cadillac.”

Anna had reached the outskirts of Scranton by three thirty that afternoon but decided to press on for a couple more hours. The weather was clear and crisp and the three-lane highway crowded with cars heading north, almost all of them overtaking her. Anna relaxed a little once tall trees replaced skyscrapers on both sides. Most of the highways had a fifty-five-mile speed limit, which suited her particular mode of transport. But she still had to hold on to the steering wheel firmly to make sure the van didn’t drift into another lane. Anna glanced down at the tiny clock on the dashboard. She would try and make Buffalo by seven, and then perhaps take a break.

She checked her rearview mirror, suddenly aware of what it must feel like to be a criminal on the run. You couldn’t use a credit card or a cell phone, and the sound of a distant siren doubled your heartbeat. A life spent wary of strangers, as you looked over your shoulder every few minutes. Anna longed to be back in New York, among her friends, doing the job she loved. Her father once said—“Oh, God,” said Anna out loud. Did her mother think she was dead? What about Uncle George and the rest of the family in Danville? Could she risk a phone call? Hell, she wasn’t very good at thinking like a criminal.

__________

Leapman walked into Tina’s office unannounced. She quickly flicked off the screen on the side of her desk.

“Wasn’t Anna Petrescu a friend of yours?” Leapman asked without explanation.

“Yes, she is,” said Tina, looking up from her desk.

“Is?” said Leapman.

“Was,” said Tina, quickly correcting herself.

“So you haven’t heard from her?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have left her name on the missing list, would I?”

“Wouldn’t you?” said Leapman.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Tina, looking directly at him. “So perhaps you’ll let me know if she gets in touch with you,” she added.

Leapman frowned and left the room.

Anna pulled off the road and swung into the forecourt of an uninviting-looking diner. She was pleased to see there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot, and when she entered the building just three customers were seated at the counter. Anna took a seat in a booth with her back to the counter, pulled down her baseball cap, and studied the one-sided, greasy plastic menu. She ordered a tomato soup and the chef’s special, grilled chicken.

Ten dollars and thirty minutes later, she was back on the road. Although she’d drunk nothing but coffee since breakfast, it wasn’t long before she began to feel sleepy. She’d covered 310 miles in just over eight hours before stopping to eat, and now she was having to make an effort to keep her eyes open.

FEEL TIRED? TAKE A BREAK, advised a bold sign on the side of the highway, which only caused her to yawn again. Ahead of her, she spotted a twelve-wheeler truck turning off the road into a rest stop. Anna glanced at the clock on the dashboard—just after eleven. She’d been on the road for nearly nine hours. She decided to catch a couple of hours’ rest before tackling the rest of the journey. After all, she could always sleep on the plane.

Anna followed the articulated truck into the rest stop and then drove across to the farthest corner. She parked behind a large stationary vehicle. She jumped out of the van and made sure all the doors were locked before climbing into the back, relieved that there was no other vehicle nearby. Anna tried to make herself comfortable, using her laptop bag as a pillow. She couldn’t have been more uncomfortable but fell asleep within minutes.

“Petrescu still worries me,” said Leapman.

“Why should a dead woman worry you?” asked Fenston.

“Because I’m not convinced she’s dead.”

“How could she have survived that?” asked Fenston, looking out of the window at the black shroud that refused to lift its veil from the face of the World Trade Center.

“We did.”

“But we left the building early,” said Fenston.