by the look of her, a dumbbell, launched into strenuous apology, at the same time trying not to drop the teetering tower of folders she was carrying. ‘Oh Mr Rineman, oh I’m so—’
He had stepped away from the door willy-nilly, and was now stretching out both hands to catch some of the folders as they began to spill onto the floor, scattering loose pages. Marisa darted behind the girl’s back into a corridor, into the vast atrium. Things then happened very quickly and in no recognizable order. Mr Rineman was undoubtedly shouting somewhere behind her, maybe Greedy-lips as well. A few passers-by gaped, others passed hurriedly by. The lady at Information was staring, brows raised. Marisa ran as fast as she could towards the heavy steel doors, sure that she’d find them electronically locked. Not so – they even opened for her as she approached. A man in uniform, Security, no doubt, was by then turning towards her, but she was already at the top of the steps; went leaping down them; saw a gap in the traffic and darted across the street to a fanfare of horns.
Nick had seen her and was staring open-mouthed. He flung himself into her Subaru station wagon as she reached it; a second later she was beside him and they were moving; and – oh God! – lights at the end of the block were changing to red. Looking in the mirror she saw, as Nick had evidently also seen, a couple of Hartman security men closing in on them.
Nick said, ‘Oh Christ!’ as Marisa shot the lights. More horns, a screech of burning rubber. But they’d made it.
‘Hm!’ was all I could say when she’d finished. I was thinking that none of it had been exactly clever, but on the other hand I found her devil-may-care courage rather endearing.
Nick said, ‘“Hm!” just about nails it.’
‘And after this …’ I was aware of sounding like a prosecuting attorney. ‘After this you were forced off the road.’
Marisa was sure it had nothing to do with the drama at Hartman. ‘How could it, Will? I mean, this guy suddenly appears out of left-field …’
‘Like,’ I said, ‘Mr Rineman.’
She stared at me. ‘Nobody could have picked up on us that quick.’
‘I go with Will – Mr Rineman did.’ Nick was cutting himself another chunk of French bread and buttering it. Marisa looked at it longingly. He divided it and gave her half.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The guy was smashed, he was making a pass at me, you know how they are.’
It seems that this big pick-up, towering on mountain wheels, materialized in the fast lane, swerving in towards the Subaru. ‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘it looked a mile high, I could hardly see the driver.’ A second later the pick-up had closed again, and there was a scream of metal as it sheared along the side of the station wagon. No one else paid any attention: minding their own business, the modern virtue.
Nick said, ‘Jesus it was scary, those huge tires!’
By this time Marisa’s offside wheels were scrabbling along the rough shoulder, and her car was yawing to and fro, gravel flying.
‘She was great,’ said Nick. ‘I saw the turn-off coming before she did, and I was pointing and yelling – and just as the bastard came swerving in again she wrenched the wheel over and zing, he was gone. Trapped on the freeway, see, while we shot off into Something-or-other Avenue.’
They were completely lost, but at least they were free of the maniac’s attentions. How far it was to the next turn-off was anyone’s guess, but by then he might have forgotten them, if he was indeed drunk; if on the other hand he was still interested it would take him a long time to reach the spot where they’d evaded him, whether he rejoined the freeway in the opposite direction or tried to make his way back by residential side streets. They drove off into the hinterland, found a mini-market and bought themselves a much-needed Coke. Half an hour later they returned to the freeway, via another entrance.
Once or twice during the next hour they were sure they were being followed – which was why Nick had taken so long parking when they finally reached Astoria; he wanted to make sure it had only been their imagination.
Well, I thought, there were plenty of good reasons for all that nervous tension; some kids I’d known would have been in need of first aid. I said, ‘Hartman. I wonder why they were so touchy.’
‘They thought I was a media person.’
‘OK. Why so touchy about the media? And how about the guy in the pick-up?’
‘I still don’t think he was anything to do with them.’
‘Coincidence, eh?’
Nick shook his head; clearly he didn’t believe in coincidence either. We all considered the situation in silence. Then I said, ‘What do you want to do next, Marisa?’
‘I just have this feeling he’s it, I don’t know why.’
Nick added, ‘I just have this feeling we could do with some help from not-Uncle Will.’
‘We might dream up a more subtle way of going about it.’ I smiled to blunt the sharp adult edge. ‘For a start it may be true he’s never in that office; I think we have to find out where he lives. And even if Ms Julie Wrenn was right, we’d better make sure he wasn’t just a boyfriend. He doesn’t have to be biological Dad.’
She nodded, accepting this. Nick relaxed a little; it was obviously what he’d been hoping I’d say. I could understand that being the sole curb on Marisa’s impulses might well be exhausting, particularly if you were no older than she was.
The blue eyes were very direct. ‘Are you going to help me?’
‘How, is the question. Let me think it over.’
The wind blustered and hurled buckets of Oregon rain at the windows, a cozy sound as long as you’re safe indoors. I could see that their heroic day, not to mention the thousand-mile drive preceding it, not to mention the large meal they’d just consumed, were all taking their toll; they were only managing to keep their eyes open because it would have been impolite to let them close. I suggested we make up the bed; we could talk some more in the morning, and by then I might have come up with an idea. There were no disagreements. As a matter of fact I’d already had the idea, but sudden inspiration should never be voiced until it’s been allowed to marinate for a while, preferably overnight; ideas often lead to further ideas.
Bed-making was weird and wonderful; they preferred to sleep head to toe. ‘In case,’ she said, ‘he kind of half wakes up and thinks I’m a boy.’
‘Nobody,’ replied her best friend, taking the words out of my mouth, ‘could possibly mistake you for a boy.’
Myself, I didn’t feel sleepy: too many questions weaving around in my mind, most of them requiring answers from Ruth, some from my brother Jack. What worried me most was the thought of their gnawing anxiety. Would they have put the police onto their daughter? Probably not yet, possibly not ever, even if they wanted to: there were enough wounds to be healed without that one. Did they know that she’d taken off with Nick? He was only a youngster but evidently a prudent and resourceful youngster, and that would be some comfort.
My first loyalty was to Jack and Ruth of course, and yet there was something about their daughter’s dogged independence which also demanded loyalty. I would have to tell them she was with me and safe (relatively speaking) but I could only do so after she’d agreed that it must be done: a weak decision certainly, but what in life is weaker than divided loyalty, and what more common?
Had anyone asked me earlier that evening if I loved my brother I would have replied, ‘No, not really.’ I admired him, yes, and occasionally enjoyed his company, in small doses; but sibling love has always struck me as being either a very strong emotion, or a thing you take for granted and ignore. So I was surprised to find that now, a few hours later, my answer would have been different; perhaps there’s more feeling between us than I’ve ever supposed.
The fact is he’d become remote: a noted figure occasionally seen on television,