Sanctuary (5 page)

Melissa finished her snack and soda, making an attempt to stay focused, to keep her mind on her driving. A tug-of-war ensued. Wanting,
needing
to concentrate on the road and the types of cars around her, she found that her unruly mind wandered far a field. The struggle was in the way of a dream, a vision of sorts. A fanciful scenario of “what ifs” and tenuous “if onlys.” In truth, nothing she could have done would have altered the outcome of this day. Or of her life, really.

Indulging in imaginary games would easily take up a good portion of the trip. If she chose to go beyond Manhattan for the night, that is. New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland … where would she stop? When she tired of the driving, as well as her over-scrutiny of the past, present, and future—she might put on one soothing CD after another, humming all the while, just as she often had while traveling by car with her father.

The closer she came to New York’s magnificent skyline, etched against the gray of smog and humidity and accompanied by millions of twinkling lights, the more she was tempted to check in at one of the Times Square hotels. Overnight, perhaps. Long enough to make her next phone call and get some much needed rest.

She glanced at the corridor of trees lining the highway in the fading light. Was it her imagination? Were the leaves beginning to turn slightly? She fought the urge to stare at their beauty.

For the first time, she was going to miss the autumn glories of New England. Thinking ahead to the annual harvest time festivities, she caught her breath, recalling Ryan’s suggestion that they drive up to Vermont in mid-October. “We’ll make a three-day weekend of it … over Columbus Day,” he’d said just last week, paging through the current Innkeepers’ Register. And together they had decided on an elegant village inn at Orms by Hill in Manchester, former residence of Robert Todd Lincoln’s friend and law partner.

They wouldn’t be going together … or at all now. Another disappointment for Ryan.

She choked back tears, struggling to see the road. How could he forgive her, spoiling their romantic plans this way? Destroying their Camelot?

Her idea to “get lost” in the teeming masses of Manhattan seemed perfect as she drove south toward the Whitestone Expressway, keeping her eyes peeled for the turnoff to west I-495. Halfway through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, she spotted the gray sedan again. A Buick. Trailing her by a distance of three vehicles, the car was nearly out of the perimeter of her rearview mirror. She was conscious of the lane changes the driver continued to make nearly every time
she
negotiated a turn.

Don’t panic …

Resolving to remain composed, she purposely shifted lanes once the tunnel dumped out to East 36th Street, though she was cautious, mindful of the heavy traffic. The gray car slowed, but seconds later, blinked over and merged into the right lane, on her tail.

Several blocks later, traffic came to a full stop. Unable to accelerate, she was paralyzed in her lane;
all
options were blocked. The gray Buick, only two cars away, was too close for comfort.

At Madison Avenue, the Pierpont Morgan Library—an Italian Renaissance-style palazzo—seemed even more imposing than she remembered, with its pair of identical stone lionesses guarding the grand gated entrance. She shuddered as she stared at them and the monstrous building behind. But in doing so she was able to steal a glance in the vicinity of the silvery car through her outside mirror.

Melissa gasped. She recognized the square face, the man’s fierce, raptorial eye. The familiar white tuft of hair on the left side of his otherwise thick head of dark brown hair—his peculiar trademark—confirmed her worst fear. The same man she had seen earlier today had followed her all the way from Mystic.

She fought to think clearly as she drove. The pulse in her chest and the heat surge to her head made planning difficult. Though she knew her way through Midtown well, making a decision under this kind of pressure—where and how to make the slip, get out of sight, even make a run for it—was beyond her ability at the moment. Penn Station was within five miles, but to get there she’d have to abandon her car and get away on foot, then catch a train out of town. She didn’t trust herself on the street, not this far from the train station. The possibility of flagging down a cab occurred to her as the cars began to move again. Out of the question on a Friday night. No, she’d sit tight, hang on to the vehicle she so desperately needed to take her to safety.

Call the minute you get to a safe place
, the whispered phone warning rang in her ear.

The Buick sedan signaled to change lanes, passing the car behind her. It crept up, now side by side with hers. She dared not glance to her left, dared not look. Not now.

Mellie, watch yourself
, her father’s voice echoed from the grave.

The light turned abruptly red at the next intersection. Tires screeched, horns blared. What would she do if he forced her over?

She opened the glove box, eying the small black container of Mace, a disabling liquid. If necessary, she wouldn’t hesitate to use it. But she did not want to allow the man to get
that
close.

Caught in a gridlock of taxis, cars, and limos, she strained to see if the street was marked one-way. The minivan in front of her blocked her view. She thought of turning the wrong way, or even running a red light at some point. Maybe she’d try to get stopped by the police. But no matter what happened to her, no matter how many police she encountered, the gray sedan would keep showing up. The driver would merely circle the block and pick up her trail eventually.

To her right, the gaping mouth of an underground parking garage enticed her, wooed her into its depths. Momentarily, she considered the possible escape route. But no, it was too constrained and concealed. She must stay out of dark places, remain in the open, where people were near. Where the populace could be witnesses …

  
Chapter Six
  

LELA DENLINGER looked out the window as she finished her supper. She enjoyed the last few crumbs of apple pie, then drank the remaining sips of her coffee. A bit more lonely than she’d felt in ever so long a time, she stared out across the meadow at the neighbor’s barn, a lantern light a-shining for all its worth from an open door at its east end.

Her brother and his wife and their baby had come for a three-day outing from Virginia, leaving just after breakfast this morning. She’d spent the morning redding up after them—washing sheets, dusting, and whatnot. After such a lovely visit with her dear ones, the house seemed almost too quiet.

“What’ll you have me do now, Lord?” she whispered in reverence, trusting her heavenly Father’s ability to provide for her every need. But, being the sort of woman she was, she liked to offer a helping hand. ‘Course, the Creator of the universe didn’t need her assistance—any child of God knew that. Still, she wanted to be available, put herself on the altar of sacrifice, if that was what the Lord might indeed have in mind.

Clearing off the kitchen table, she set about carefully washing and drying each dish. As she wiped each of the counter tops and the table clean, she began to sing. “O Master, let me walk with thee, in lowly paths of service free….”

Eager for a bit of cheer to fill the empty house, she put one of her favorite praise and worship CDs into the stereo and sat down with her Bible, devotional book in hand. She liked to read in the early morning, upon first awakening, feeding her heart and mind on God’s Word. But today, as gloomy as she felt, she decided she’d have her quiet time twice. Nothing at all wrong with that. Why, her own sister, who was church-Amish and lived down the road apiece, often did the same thing. “‘Tisn’t a thing to boast about,” Elizabeth would say, just a-smiling and as merry as you please. “Reading what God has to say, no matter what time of day or how often, is a blessed thing, Lela.”

And of course she agreed. Far be it for her to argue such a fact. She and Elizabeth were as close as any two sisters could be, though they didn’t entirely see eye to eye on church membership, she being Mennonite and Elizabeth embracing the Amish tradition of her husband. Yet both were “homegrown” Pennsylvania Dutch girls, lived so close they could run barefoot back and forth between each other’s houses, helped each other do spring and fall cleaning, and most everything else a body needed. The biggest difference between them was that Elizabeth married young, at nineteen, and had herself a fine, growing family already at twenty-seven. Lela was nearly thirty-one, come next week. Never married. ‘Course, if the Lord brought someone along who loved her just for who she was, well … then, she wouldn’t have to think twice ‘bout that.

She’d heard the whispers—“maiden lady”—already at church and family gatherings but wouldn’t let on that it bothered her. Though, of course, she was becoming just that in the eyes of her community. Still, she held on to a glimmer of hope that someday, in God’s perfect timing and will, a godly man might come into her life.

Turning her attention to the devotional book, she found cheer and comfort in the verses found in chapter four of First Peter. “And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.” Reading on, she was unusually moved by the words: “Use hospitality one to another without grudging. As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.”

Hospitality …

Lela had never been one to show the slightest hesitation when it came to opening either her home or heart to family and friends. Even strangers. Habits of generosity were learned early among her people. She, along with her six brothers and sisters, had been taught that the importance of giving comes not from having much or little, but whether one’s spirit is at home in community. She recalled Papa loaning his farm equipment to anyone who asked, Mama taking plates of hot food out to the hobos who stopped by. Best she could remember, they always chopped wood in exchange for the meal. Yet Mama liked to go all out, baking her best buttermilk biscuits, hot dumplings, and gravy to satisfy their hefty appetites. ’Course, she and Papa always kept Scripture tracts on hand to pass out, too, along with the food.

Lela’s older brothers exhibited generosity in many ways. Often they helped, whether called upon or not, to raise a barn alongside their Amish neighbors. Her sisters were both willing to baby-sit free of charge, least till their own babies came along.

What really bighearted thing had she done lately? Closing her Bible, she felt led to pray about possibly opening her home, maybe renting out her spare room for a little bit of nothing, so eager she was to be a blessing to someone in need.

“Lord, I trust you to handpick the very soul you would send my way,” she prayed in the stillness of the house.

Tired and scared, Melissa searched for a way to make the break. With her heart racing, she had difficulty considering what to do next. The gray car was parallel to hers.

What do I do now?

Anything to stop this madness.

The light turned green at last, but she must continue to wait while the cars in front of her inched ahead.

Move!
She wanted to scream at them.
Just please move!

At last the intersection gave way, and the cross street was in full view. All clear. She gunned the accelerator, turning a screeching hard right. As she did so, perspiration broke out, dampening her hair on the back of her neck. She heard honking and assumed the Buick was attempting a right-hand turn in the wrong lane, but she kept her attention on the cars ahead of her. No time to look. She must keep moving. Quickly.

At the very next street she made another fast right, onto another one-way street, now heading east. She was going in circles, but she didn’t care. She would drive recklessly if necessary. She would escape the man. In order to survive, she
had
to. History was not going to repeat itself. Not this day.

Melissa looked back over her shoulder, saw a glimpse of gray, and realized the stalker had somehow made the turn. Angry and frightened, she wondered why he hadn’t leaped out of the car, tried to drag her away when he had the chance. What was stopping him?

Keep moving
, something in her head prompted her.

But where to go?
She didn’t care to be followed all night. And there was the matter of fuel. When would either of them run low on gas and need to make a stop?

What bizarre maneuverings, either in heaven or on earth, had transpired to put the two of them together in the same restaurant earlier today? What had brought him to the small town of Mystic? Was it just a coincidence? Or had it taken him literally three years to catch up with her again?

She could kick herself, thinking back on her suggestion to go to S&P Oyster Company, a restaurant overlooking the Mystic River and drawbridge downtown.

Ali had other ideas. She wanted to grab a sandwich and soda at a deli or pop in and out of Bee Bee’s Dairy. “That way we can stroll past the boats along the river walk while we eat,” Ali had said. But, no, Melissa had insisted they go “somewhere and sit with a view of the water.”

Forcing herself to concentrate, Melissa saw that Lexington Avenue was coming up ahead. Suddenly a middle lane opened. Melissa’s car shot forward, securing the position. Then she spied a police officer directing traffic at the intersection. His presence did nothing to alleviate her fears. The lights were out, and only a few cars were being allowed through at a time.

Just great
, she thought, her hopes for making a break dashed. Frustrated, she pulled her hair back away from her face. The officer stood tall and lean in the middle of the busy junction, sporting a navy blue uniform, matching hat, and pristine white gloves. His shoes appeared to have been spit-shined. He was methodical in his approach to directing traffic, motioning only five or six cars through the intersection at a time; turning, moving, arms at a perfect right angle, as though performing a ballet. The man’s precise attire and movements fleetingly reminded her of her father and some of his colleagues from the past.

Marking time, she glanced at the gas gauge. She had enough to get her a long, long way from here. If she could just move.

What had possessed her to come this way, through Manhattan on a Friday night? What had she been thinking?

A few more minutes of waiting, and at last it was her turn. She was relieved when the gray sedan was held back, not permitted to go through.

Now’s your chance. Go!

Keeping her momentum, she floored it and turned right, past numerous skyscrapers, heading south now. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw a large service truck blocking the previous intersection.

Yes!
She laughed out loud. From here, it was a straight shot to East 32nd Street and the Empire State Building. This wide street would lead her to the Lincoln Tunnel eventually. Certainly, it was the long way around, but, hey, this was freedom’s way!

High with exhilaration, Melissa had a strong feeling she was home free. Well, not home exactly. Never home … maybe never again.