Maybe, if he caught Grace and became a national hero, Helen would take him back. Was that what he really wanted? He didn't know anymore. Maybe he wasn't cut out for marriage.
It was time to get to work.
Chapter Sixteen
AS SHE CLIMBED INTO THE VAN, the warm air hit Grace like a punch.
Her fingers and toes throbbed painfully as her circulation began to return. It was good to be off the road, but she knew she could trust no one. How long till the news of her escape became public knowledge? Hours? A day at most. Perhaps it was on the radio already? They would issue a new Photofit...
"Where you headed?"
It was a good question. Where was she headed?
Grace looked at the compass on the dashboard. "North."
Her "plan," if you could call it that, was to meet up with Davey Buccola in three weeks' time. They had a rendezvous arranged in Manhattan - Times Square. It was Davey who had convinced Grace not to go after John Merrivale as soon as she got out. "Don't risk blowing your cover till we know all there is to know." Davey was convinced he was close to proving who had killed Lenny. "Just a few more weeks. Trust me." He'd proposed both the time and the place of their meeting. His theory was that Times Square was so public, so obvious, no one would think to look for Grace there. "Even if someone were to recognize you, they'll assume they made a mistake. And hopefully by then, they won't recognize you. You'll have had time to work on how you look."
Grace would have liked to meet sooner, but Davey was adamant. "Not till I have more to tell you. Till I'm certain. Every meeting's a risk. We need to make it count."
In the meantime, Grace would find a safe place to lie low, get her head together and, of course, start working on a decent disguise. She already looked completely different from the woman America remembered from her trial. No one who knew Grace in her glory days as the queen of Wall Street would have recognized her now. The broken nose, the dull complexion, the short, lank hair and pain-deadened eyes; they would all help protect her in the first few hours and days. But ultimately, Grace knew, they wouldn't be enough. She would have to keep changing, daily, weekly, like a chameleon.
It wasn't just her looks that had to evolve. I'll have to change on the inside, too. Successful con artists, like successful actors, learned how to become someone else. They projected a confidence, a believability, that worked better than any mask or wig or hair dye. Grace had repeated the mantra endlessly in the days leading up to her escape:
Grace Brookstein is dead.
My name is Lizzie Woolley.
I'm a twenty-eight-year-old architect from Wisconsin.
"North, huh?"
The driver's voice brought Grace back to reality. "How far north?"
Grace hesitated.
"I only ask because you ain't got no case or nothing. And you look like you're dressed for Florida." He chuckled. Grace noticed the way he stared at her bare legs. Instinctively she crossed them, pulling her skirt lower.
"I left in a hurry. My...my sister's been taken ill."
It was such an obvious lie, Grace blushed. The driver didn't seem to notice. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Lizzie."
"Pretty name. You're a real pretty girl, Lizzie. I guess you already know that, huh?"
Grace pulled at the top of her blouse, looking for another button to do up, but there wasn't one. This guy was giving her the creeps.
Without warning, he swerved to the side of the road, bringing the van to a sudden halt. Grace jumped.
"Sorry. I gotta take a leak." Unclicking his seat belt, he jumped out.
Grace watched him disappear behind the back of the van. Her mind was racing.
Should I get out? Run? No, that was crazy. She needed a ride and she'd gotten one. She'd let him take her fifty miles or so, then get out near a small town somewhere. I can't afford to get spooked by every guy who hits on me. That's what men do, right? He's okay.
Two minutes later, the driver returned. He was carrying a thermos and a Tupperware container full of sandwiches. He must have gotten them from the back of the van.
"Hungry?"
Grace's stomach gave an audible rumble. She was starving.
"Yes."
He turned on the ignition and pulled back onto the road. "Well, go on, then, Lizzie. Knock yourself out. I already ate, but my wife always packs me extra."
So he's married. Instantly, Grace relaxed.
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
She started to eat.
GRACE WOKE UP IN THE BACK of the van with her face pressed to the floor. Her wool skirt had been pushed up around her hips and her panties yanked down around her ankles. The driver was on top of her. His hand was between her legs.
"That's right, Lizzie. Nice and wide now. Open up for Daddy."
Grace groaned. She tried to move, but her body felt as if it were made of lead. With the added weight of the driver on top of her, it was impossible. With his free hand he forced his swollen penis inside her.
"No!" Grace didn't know if she'd said the word aloud or in her head. It made no difference. The man kept thrusting, deeper, harder. There was nothing frenzied about his movements, though. He was taking things slow. Enjoying himself. Grace felt his hands move upward, clawing under her bra until he found her breasts.
"How about those titties?" He was whispering in her ear, taunting her. Grace could feel the prickle of his mustache against her cheek. "You awake now, Lizzie, are you? I feel you stirring down there." Another thrust. "How does it feel, baby? Is it good to get fucked? I'll bet it is. Well, don't worry, Lizzie. We got all night."
He continued to rape her. Unable to move, Grace tried to think. He must have drugged me. The flask. He must have slipped something into the tea. She wondered how late it was and where they were now. Were they still near Bedford, or had hours passed? She couldn't hear any traffic.