Don't Look Behind You Page 6

  “What about the rest of the family?” Dad asked her. “They’re going to have to have the same last name I do.”

  “Since it makes no difference what your wife’s maiden name was, we’ll obtain her birth certificate the way we do yours,” Rita said. “Then we can have a marriage certificate made out in your new names and planted at a bureau of public records. Of course, in the case of the children, the birth certificates will need to be falsified so their last names will be the same as yours and their mother’s. Once you have your birth records, we’ll create passports too so you can travel. Then you can apply for other forms of identification like voter registrations under your new identities. After that it’s a simple matter to get a driver’s license.”

  “What about putting the children in school?” asked Mom. “Won’t they need to have transcripts and vaccination records?”

  “We’ll falsify those as we do the marriage certificate and have them mailed directly to your children’s new schools from a small private school in Vermont that we use for that purpose. There are people there who work with us on school transcripts. They have more ‘former students’ than any other school in the country.”

  “You mean our grades won’t count anymore?” Bram asked hopefully. “Can all my ‘Needs Improvements’ be changed into ‘Excellents’?”

  “That’s the sort of thing we try not to do,” Rita said. “The transcripts should be a true reflection of your abilities. If your sister is poor in math, for example, and the math teacher at her new school decides to look up the grades she was making at her old school, we don’t want her transcripts to make her out to be a math whiz. The less attention you draw to yourselves, the better. You don’t want anything that’s going to make people suspicious.”

  “Where are you going to be sending us?” Dad asked her.

  “That hasn’t been decided yet,” Rita told him. “In fact, that’s the principal reason I’m here today. We want to put you someplace where there’s as little chance as possible of your running into people who knew you before. Because of that, I need to know something about your backgrounds.”

  “I was born and grew up in Pittsburgh,” Dad said obligingly. “That’s where my relatives live, what there are left of them. By that I mean there’s an aunt and some cousins. My parents and brother were killed in a car wreck the summer after I graduated from high school. For the next few years I drifted, not caring much what I did, trying one job after another, the way kids do. When Liz and I met, I was working at a resort in the Catskills. I’ve never been west of the Mississippi River, and I’ve never been farther south than we are right now.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Corrigan?” asked Rita.

  “I’m an only child and grew up in Norwood,” Mom said. “My mother still lives there and is very active in social and civic affairs. Apart from her, I don’t have any close relatives, and except for the years I spent at Duke University, I’ve never lived anyplace other than Virginia.”

  “It sounds as though the West Coast might be a good location for you,” Rita said. “It’s easy for people to lose themselves in California. It’s such a big state, and people keep coming and going there, so nobody bothers to question where anybody comes from.”

  “I don’t really think that’s a good idea,” Mom said. “I might be recognized by librarians and English teachers.”

  Rita seemed disconcerted. “Do you have some connection with the California school system?”

  “Liz is an author,” Dad explained. “She writes books for children. Last year she won the California Young Readers Medal and made an acceptance speech at a state librarians’ convention.”

  “Do you make many such appearances?” Rita asked Mom.

  “Only at conferences of educators,” Mom told her.

  “That’s a dangerous kind of exposure,” Rita said, frowning. “No matter where we place you, your kids will be in school. All it takes is one teacher who’s heard you speak, and word will be out that you’re not the person you’re supposed to be.”

  “I’m supposed to be giving a talk next month,” Mom said. “How can I let the conference people know I won’t be there?”

  “We’ll take care of that. Just give us a name and phone number.” Rita turned to Dad. “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Where will we get the money to live on?” Dad asked her. “How can I get a job if I don’t have references?”

  “We’ll try to fix you up with something,” said Rita. “We keep on the lookout for businesses that can be bought up inexpensively for our witnesses to operate. If you’re the owner and manager of your own small business, nobody will have any reason to ask you for credentials.”

  “You mean I have no choice about what line of work I’m in?” Dad sounded as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Not much of one, I’m afraid. It depends on what’s available.”

  “That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” Dad said grimly. “Any business that people are selling for peanuts isn’t too likely to have much potential as a moneymaker.”

  “We’ll give you some cash to tide you over,” Rita said. “In the meantime we’ll see about liquidating your assets. I’ll have papers drawn up for you to sign that will give our department the authority to handle the legalities. What do you own besides your house and furniture?”

  “Two cars,” Dad said. “An SUV registered in Liz’s name and a Volvo sedan registered in mine. Jointly we own some shares of a mutual fund, an income-producing utility stock, and a batch of CD’s. My broker, John Scarbrough, is with Morgan Stanley. I also have retirement plan holdings built up at Southern Skyways, but I guess it’s too much to hope I can get my hands on those.”

  “We’ll have an attorney file papers to claim them,” said Rita. She paused. “Are we set, or do you have more questions?”

  “I have one,” Mom told her. “What about my mother? I haven’t had any contact with her for weeks now.”

  “Max told me he’s been in touch with Mrs. Gilbert,” Rita said. “He offered her the option of making this move with you. She said she didn’t feel she was in any danger and didn’t want to leave her friends and activities.”

  “But we can’t just disappear from her life!” exclaimed Mom. “She’s stubborn and independent, but we’re her family! What if she were to get sick or be hurt in an accident? She has to know how to reach us in an emergency.”

  “You’ll just have to trust there won’t be an emergency,” Rita said. “As things stand now, you’re the ones in danger, not your mother. You can’t go into this program without breaking ties with people back home. It’s hard, I know, but there isn’t any alternative.”

  Bram spoke up suddenly. “What will happen to Porky?”

  “Porky?” Rita repeated, regarding him blankly.

  “My dog,” Bram said. “My grandmother put him in a kennel. By now he’s probably scared I’m not coming back for him.”

  “I’m sure your grandmother will take care of your dog,” Rita said. She started to look away and then turned back again. “Is it a trick of the light, or are this child’s eyes different colors?”

  “It runs in the family,” said Mom, immediately defensive. “My father had one blue eye and one brown eye.”

  “I’m afraid this is going to create a problem,” said Rita. “Something this unusual will attract attention.”

  “Maybe I can wear dark glasses?” Bram suggested, sidetracked momentarily from the subject of Porky.

  “Yes, for the present that’s the best we can do,” Rita said. “As soon as possible, though, you’ll need to get contacts.”

  “Contacts!” Bram squeaked in horror. “I don’t want contacts!”

  “You won’t have to wear them forever,” Mom consoled him.

  “How long?” I asked. “How long are we going to be gone?” The talk about Dad going into business and Bram and me starting new schools had been very disturbing. Why should we have to consider such unlikely possibilities? I’
d assumed that the appellate court hearings would take place that summer. Surely that meant we’d be back in Norwood before school started.

  Before Rita could respond, Bram exploded into tears. “Iwon’t wear contacts!” he shouted, going suddenly hysterical. “I don’t want things stuck in my eyes, and Lorelei can’t have Porky! He’s my dog, not her dog! She doesn’t even likehim!”

  The scene that followed was one of such emotional chaos that there was no more opportunity for sensible discussion. That night, however, after Bram had wept himself dry, after Rita had left to go back to Washington, after a dinner of takeout Chinese food and an evening spent watching sitcoms—I lay in bed, surrounded by my sleeping family, watching the play of lights on the wall across from me as cars sped along the highway in front of our motel. It was only then, thinking back on that strange conversation, that I realized the question I’d asked had never been answered.

  CHAPTER 7

  Rita was back again in five days. This time she brought official-looking papers in a folder that contained, among other things, four birth certificates, four passports and a marriage certificate.

  The name on my father’s birth certificate was “Philip Weber,” and my Mom’s was “Ellen Paul.” The marriage certificate was made out to show their true wedding date.

  “At least we can celebrate our real anniversary,” Mom said.

  Bram’s new birth certificate gave his name as “ Jason Weber,” and mine showed me to be “Valerie Weber,” a name that I instantly hated. Not that I had ever been too crazy about my real name. I’d always thought it sounded like an ingenue on a soap opera. But I knew there was no way I could ever be comfortable as “Valerie.” When I heard that name the picture that leapt into my mind was of Steve’s old girlfriend draped all over my own date, Bobby Charo, at Sherry’s Christmas party.

  “I will not be a ‘Valerie,’” I said. “That name has bad vibes for me. Why can’t we choose our own names?”

  “Names are the least of our worries,” Rita said shortly. “Our main concern is to get you people relocated. A major effort is being made to find you, and we want to get you transferred as quickly as possible.”

  “What’s happened now?” Dad asked warily.

  “Your mother-in-law had a phone call. The man identified himself as Mrs. Corrigan’s editor. He told Mrs. Gilbert a movie producer wanted to buy the film rights to one of her daughter’s books.”

  Mom’s face lit up with the first real smile in weeks. “Did he say which book they want? What studio is it?”

  When Rita didn’t reply, her excitement faded. “I take it you don’t believe the call was legitimate.”

  “We know it wasn’t,” Rita said. “We called your publisher. The editor who was supposed to be trying to reach you was away on vacation. Nobody in the office knew a thing about a movie offer.”

  “Of course not,” Mom said with quiet acceptance. “Now that I think about it, a movie offer would have come through my agent, not my publisher, and neither of them would have tried to reach me through Lorelei. I don’t think they even know what my mother’s name is.”

  “A man like Vamp knows all the angles,” Rita said.

  “I don’t like this,” Dad said. “How soon can we get out of here?”

  “You leave tonight,” Rita told him. “It’s all taken care of. I have you booked on a six p.m. flight to Florida.”

  “Florida!” Dad exclaimed. “That doesn’t make sense. The drug trade in that state is the highest in the country.”

  “Vamp knows that too,” said Rita. “It will work in your favor, because it will be the last place he’ll expect us to send you. You’ll land at the Sarasota Bradenton Airport, but your final destination will be Grove City, fifty miles east of there. You’re to travel in pairs, and your reservations have been made under your new names. That way, your tracks will be covered.”

  Up until then, life had seemed to be stopped in a holding pattern like a frame of a broken movie reel. Now, abruptly, the film was running at triple speed, and in one brief moment we were jerked into frantic motion. For the next ten minutes we dashed about, grabbing clothing and tossing our scattered belongings into suitcases.

  We were ready to walk out the door when Rita said, “Wait a minute. Something has to be done about Valerie’s hair.”

  At first I didn’t take in who it was she was talking about. Then, with a start, I remembered that I was Valerie.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” I asked nervously.

  “It’s much too eye-catching. The color and length will make you stand out in a crowd. We’re going to have to cut it before we leave here.”

  “No!” I cried. “I’ve been growing my hair for years!” My hands flew up protectively to cover my head. “I’ll wear a wig or a scarf, but I’m not going to cut it!”

  “It’s much too long to fit under a wig,” Rita said. “As for a scarf, nobody wears scarves in the summertime. Most physical characteristics can’t be changed, but we can change the length of your hair, and it’s important we do it.”

  “Mom!” I cried in anguish. “You aren’t going to let her?”

  But even as I spoke, I knew it was hopeless. Mom had never worried about appearances, and her own short hair was cut in a blow-dry style that Lorelei and I had always agreed looked terrible.

  I wasn’t given time to argue my case. Within minutes I was standing in the bathroom with a towel draped over my shoulders and my eyes screwed shut so I wouldn’t have to watch in the mirror as Rita hacked off my beautiful hair with fingernail scissors and Mom gathered it up and put it in the wastebasket. Then we piled into Rita’s car, a compact too small for five people, and sped back along the freeway toward the Richmond airport. The wind stroked the back of my neck with alien fingers, and despite the heat of the day, I found myself shivering.

  During the drive, Rita issued a string of admonishments about what we were to do once we arrived in Grove City. When we reached the airport, she pulled into a loading zone and kept the engine running while she distributed our plane tickets and handed Dad the folder of official documents. Then she wished us luck and drove away quickly, leaving me with the feeling that she was grateful to be done with us. Once inside the airport, we paired off and proceeded on to the gate as we had been instructed.

  Mom and I entered the metal detector through one doorway, and Dad and Bram through another, and we sat at opposite ends of the waiting area, counting the minutes until flight time and trying to behave as though we didn’t know each other. When the boarding call came, Dad and Bram went first, jumping up from their chairs and hurrying to the front of the line. Bram was having one of his hyper spells, hanging on to Dad’s hand and bouncing along excitedly like a rubber ball on the end of an elastic band.

  Mom and I hung back and fell into line with some late- arriving passengers. When we reached the door to the ramp we displayed our boarding passes and new passports and waited while the attendant examined them. He seemed to be taking a great deal longer than necessary, and I felt a sudden chill of apprehension. What do we do, I asked myself, if there is a problem with our tickets? What if they want more identification?

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry, for there wasn’t a problem. The attendant tore off the tops of our tickets and handed back the stubs.

  “Enjoy your flight,” he said with a friendly smile and waved us down the ramp and onto the plane.

  By the time we entered the cabin, Dad and Bram were nowhere in sight, having taken seats at the back of the aircraft. Our seat assignments were toward the front, and we stashed our luggage in the overhead compartment and settled ourselves into the middle and window seats in the seventh row. Several more last-minute passengers hurried on board, flushed and breathless as though they had just run a marathon, and then the doors were closed and the flight attendants cruised the aisles, checking to see that everyone was wearing a seat belt.

  A few minutes later Richmond lay far below us, a mosaic of rooftops, punctuated by brilliant
blue swimming pools. The plane continued to climb until the city’s highways had been reduced to a network of overlapping lines with black dots creeping along them like sluggish ants. Then, in an instant’s time, the earth vanished completely, buried beneath a layer of marshmallow clouds, and we and our fellow passengers were alone together in an infinite expanse of open sky.

  Mom reached over and gave my hand a squeeze.

  “We’ve made it, honey,” she whispered. “We’re safe at last.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I returned the squeeze, momentarily forgetting that I was mad at her.

  “Of course,” she said reassuringly. “And just think, we’re going to Florida! What a wonderful place to take an extended ‘maxi-vay’!”

  She was making such an effort to act lighthearted that I tried my best to respond with the same sort of cheerfulness.

  “I wonder if it’s like the TV commercials, beaches and palm trees and everybody gulping orange juice.”

  “That sounds good,” Mom said. “I wouldn’t mind a glass right now. Here comes the girl with the drink cart, maybe I’ll get some.”

  When the flight attendant reached us, Mom ordered her orange juice spiked with vodka, which was something I had never known her to do before. I asked for a Coke, and the freckle-faced girl who sat next to me in the aisle seat ordered a Sprite.

  “I like Coke better,” she confided, wrinkling her nose. “I’m scared, though, of what might happen if we hit rough air. My mom bought me this dress just to make the trip in, and Coke’s so hard to wash out if it spills on your clothes.”

  “I’m not wearing anything elegant enough to worry about,” I said, having had no time to change out of my jeans and T-shirt.