Nowhere to Run Read online

  And again, for Elizabeth and David

  and

  for the achievable dream of finding a treatment or cure

  for the most common inherited form of mental impairment,

  Fragile X syndrome.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Thursday: November 20

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Friday: November 21

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Saturday: November 22

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Sunday: November 23

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Monday: November 24

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Tuesday: November 25

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Wednesday: November 26

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Chapter 142

  Chapter 143

  Chapter 144

  Chapter 145

  Chapter 146

  Chapter 147

  Chapter 148

  Chapter 149

  Chapter 150

  Chapter 151

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Friday, November 14

  The silver New Jersey Transit commuter train slid to a stop at the red brick station. Only one passenger alighted. Pulling the overcoat collar up against the brisk night wind, the passenger stood on the platform, trying to get some bearings. The passenger pulled a folded piece of paper from a coat pocket and opened the computer-printed directions.

  On the walk to the stairwell, images of the friendly cohosts of KEY to America smiled from a billboard illuminated by the station lights. There was no escaping those two. Constance Young and Harry Granger. They were everywhere.

  Down the concrete stairs and through the spray-painted tunnel beneath the railroad tracks, past the graffitied messages. A hand-drawn eyeball wept from the cement wall with tears marked FEAR, ANGER, ANGUISH, and TERROR, as if the artist had somehow known that those emotions were the very ones to bring the traveler to this comfortable town tonight.

  Another set of stairs led up to the main street. Friday night moviegoers were filing out of the old Maplewood Theatre. It was easy to mingle among them, eavesdropping on their critiques of the film that was setting box-office records.

  The post office sat across the street. It would have been so easy to go that route instead of hand-delivering the envelope that lay triple-wrapped in plastic inside the coat pocket. But those poor postal workers had already been through enough. The goal tonight was not to reach some random target. This time, the lethal white powder was intended for one very specific person.

  At the first corner, the smell of roasting garlic wafted from the Village Trattoria, inviting passersby to come and enjoy the delectable pleasures that waited inside. But there was no chance for that now, or even for a cup of coffee from the nearby Maple Leaf Diner. It was important to stick to the plan and return to the station in time to make the 12:39 back to Manhattan.

  Plush stuffed turkeys and overflowing cornucopias decorated the windows of the gift shop on the corner of Highland Place. A baseball cap was donned as the right-hand turn was made, as the map indicated. Past the liquor store and Cent’ Anni and a much-too-quick perusal of its menu. OSSO BUCO MILANESE: VEAL SHANK WITH RISOTTO AND SAFFRON. Mmmm. They were eating well in the ’burbs.

  Out of the business district now, the road began to incline. One wooden Victorian-style house followed another, each nestled behind well-established shrubs and giant old trees. Porch lights revealed the odd numbers on the right-hand side of the street. A teenager walking a dog passed. A double sneeze in the cold night air.

  Straining legs reached the very top of the hill. Number 31 was the last house. The streetlamp cast enough light to see the house number, but there was no light coming from within the house.

  He wasn’t home. Perfect.

  It couldn’t be going better. After a furtive look around the deserted street, it took just a few seconds to unwrap the stamped envelope and stash it in the mailbox on the porch landing.

  Back at the station, with time to spare, the leather gloves were peeled off, along with the nitrile ones beneath them. Both sets were plunked in the deep trash barrel t
hat rested on the platform, just as the city-bound train rumbled into view.

  Saturday, November 15

  The phone rang all morning. Well-wishers celebrating his thirty-sixth birthday. But there was no call from Annabelle.

  He pulled on his sweatpants and tied his running shoes, determined to get some exercise, get those endorphins pulsing and work off that beer he’d guzzled the night before. He was feeling strong and optimistic that in the year to come things were really going to start going his way again. With his manuscript finished and the prospects for selling it good, his spirits were high. He well knew what made a best-seller, and his project had all the earmarks of a hit.

  The fun part was imagining what he was going to do with all that money. Maybe, on his thirty-seventh birthday, he’d fly some friends down to the islands to bask and party in the Caribbean sun. If only Annabelle could come along.

  At first, the cold air shocked him; then he welcomed it as his body temperature rose. The last of the leaves floated from the elms and pin oaks, landing on the pavement beneath his feet. He panted as he hit his stride, soft clouds of white, steamy breath puffing from his nostrils. It was good to be alive.

  After completing his three-mile circuit, he stopped for a cup of coffee and bought a newspaper, walking the rest of the way home, cooling down. By habit, he checked his mailbox, finding only a lone envelope inside. He had expected more on his birthday.

  He went into the house, kicked off his running shoes, and collapsed in his favorite upholstered armchair. Examining the purple envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar hand, he speculated that the sender might be a female and, for an instant, he fantasized that Annabelle had sent it.

  His eyes wandered to the silver-framed picture that he still kept on the mantel. He had taken it at the water’s edge in Bay Head. Annabelle, caught grinning as a wave knocked against her, the sun shining on her brunette head, her white teeth flashing and her blue eyes sparkling against her suntanned face. She’d complained about her freckles and wished for thinner thighs. He’d laughed and teased her. Didn’t she know by now? He liked his women with some meat on their bones.

  The two birthdays he had spent with her had been his happiest by far. But those were years ago. Now, Annabelle had married someone else and mothered two little kids while he lived as a bachelor in this house he had inherited from his parents. He supposed it was an okay life, as lives went. He had an interesting job and was paid well to do it. He had a book that could take off big time, friends to share happy times with, and good health to enjoy it all with. But as the years went by, he doubted more and more that he’d ever find the right mate. None of the women he dated ever seemed able to meet his exacting requirements—the “Annabelle” standard.

  Intrigued, he held the letter to his nose. Musky, almost intoxicating. There was no return address. A stamp was affixed but not postmarked. Maybe the post office had fouled up and hadn’t inked it. Or maybe someone had meant to mail it but decided to drop it off instead. He hoped it was the latter. That would mean the mailman hadn’t delivered the rest of the mail yet.

  He ripped open the flap and pulled out the card. A shower of shiny silver confetti spilled from inside, falling onto his sweatpants and shirt. He brushed the tiny bits of paper away, glad that the cleaning woman had asked if she could come in on Saturday this week.

  It was signed, A SECRET ADMIRER.

  He took another long whiff, trying to conjure up an image of the dream woman who might smell this way. No. He shook himself. He had promised himself to swear off females for a while. They were too much work, and he couldn’t be distracted.

  With resolve, he tossed the card into the trash basket, but not before taking one last, long sniff.

  Thursday

  November 20

  Chapter 1

  As Mike slid back into their bed, Annabelle got out of it, not bothering to ask him where he’d been or what he’d been doing. Another sleepless night for him, another lonely one for her. It was the rhythm of their lives now.

  Closing the bedroom door behind her, she switched on the lamps to brighten the early morning grayness and headed for the kitchen. Two plastic lunch boxes, one red, one blue, lay open on the counter. Annabelle placed a bologna sandwich, a bag of pretzels, and a small box of raisins inside each one and tucked a paper napkin on top. As the kettle whistle began to hiss, she whisked it from the burner, lest its screech wake the kids. She had fifteen minutes before she had to rouse Thomas and Tara to get ready for school. Fifteen minutes of treasured quiet that she was not eager to give up.

  She wrapped her fingers around the warmth of the ceramic mug and took a sip of the steaming green tea, wincing as the scalding liquid hit her tongue. The taste did nothing for her, but she took comfort in the idea that it was good for her, that she was doing something to fortify and cleanse herself. She knew she had to take care of Annabelle. No one else was going to now. With Mike the way he was, if she got sick too, the whole house of cards would come tumbling down.

  In bare feet, she padded across the living room and switched on the television set, making sure to keep the volume down. Her piece was scheduled to air during the first half hour of KEY to America, and she didn’t want to miss it. This one had been a bear. It had entailed doing hours of research on an unfamiliar subject, obtaining the proper permissions to shoot, setting up for interviews and ordering video material, writing the script because her correspondent was too busy and preoccupied to do it himself, and working extra hours to make sure the story was edited on time. Right now, John Lee, M.D., KEY News medical correspondent, would be sitting uptown in the Broadcast Center, having his makeup applied, champing at the bit to go on national television and take all the credit for her hard work.

  But that was what it was to be Lee’s producer. While Annabelle thought Lee was an ambitious horse’s behind, less devoted to the Hippocratic oath than to parlaying his national television visibility into book deals, product endorsements, and an even bigger TV contract the next time around, she accepted her role of making him look good. She wanted to keep this job. She needed it. Mike’s disability payments from the city weren’t enough to keep their family going.

  As the theme music of the morning news program began to play, Annabelle marveled that she was working at KEY News again. When she left after two miscarriages, followed by fertility treatments that led to the birth of the twins, she hadn’t expected to return full-time to the Broadcast Center ever again. She had worked too hard to have her babies, and she wanted to enjoy raising them. Mike’s salary and overtime from the fire department, her occasional freelance producing or writing assignments, and a precious rent-stabilized apartment had allowed them to get by for the last six years.

  It had been a golden time.

  A strong, vital husband, with a great sense of humor and a quick wit, two healthy children, and a home full of warmth and laughter. Annabelle was glad, now, as she pulled her red flannel robe closer around her and gazed out the window, that she had appreciated those days, lived them fully, reveled in them. So oblivious were they of what was to come. Annabelle watched below as a lumbering street-cleaning truck brushed litter and dirt from the Perry Street curb, while a few early risers strode purposefully toward their destinations. A fat black pigeon landed on the railing of the iron fire escape. A morning like so many others in Greenwich Village, before and after everything happened.

  A quick glance at the clock on the bookcase told her that it was time to go in and wake the kids. She turned up the volume on the television set to ensure that she would hear the lead-in to her piece and headed to the twins’ bedroom.

  As she beheld the two little heads that lay cradled against the Barney pillowcases, Annabelle stopped, wondering yet again if she would ever get over the magic of having these fabulous creatures in her life. Rough-and-tumble Thomas, so quick to laugh, so eager to please. Thoughtful and artistic Tara, quieter and more complicated than her brother but, as Annabelle’s mother used to say, “full of the devil.” Tw
o children who were conceived in such love and hope, and whose existence had exceeded their parents’ most cherished dreams.