could only imagine what anyone reading this would now think of me. What my own children would think.
That I was a loose cannon. Of questionable moral character. That I had done this kind of thing before. That I had killed their father. With the same gun I had taken after panicking and killing a federal agent.
After sleeping with someone I had met at a bar just an hour before!
You have to believe me, I had begged them last night on the phone. You’re going to hear some things . . .
Not to mention that the very people now in charge of trying to apprehend me were the ones who had set it all in motion. Who had the most to gain by keeping me silent.
The most nerve-racking, sickening feeling knotted up in me. If I ended up in their hands, I didn’t know what would happen. These agents had already tried to kill me. Twice. And here I was at our house in Vermont, which was easily traceable. The news report had been posted only ten minutes ago.
I had to get out of here now!
I threw on some new clothes, a T-shirt and a blue Patagonia pullover over my jeans. I bundled a few other things together—clothes, toiletries, the laptop—and hurled them into a duffel bag from the ski room, grabbed a parka, and ran downstairs. I was about to toss them into the Range Rover when I realized my car was no longer safe to be driving now. An idea hit me. Our neighbor across the street, Jim Toby, was a New Yorker who kept an Expedition in his garage up here. It was a Thursday. He and Cindy wouldn’t be up. I knew the security code. We’d been watching over each other’s ski houses for years.
I started up the Range Rover and drove it around the back of the house, under the deck, so it was out of sight. Anyone who searched the house would easily find it, but at least someone just passing by wouldn’t realize I’d been there.
I lugged the duffel and my jacket across the street to Jim’s, a modernized A-frame from back in the sixties. I punched the security code—his and Cindy’s wedding anniversary, 7385—into his garage panel. The door slid up, and the familiar navy SUV was parked there just as I’d hoped. I tossed the duffel into the backseat and hopped behind the wheel. The keys were in the well; I drove out, closing the garage door behind me. I headed straight down the hill, my heart pounding insanely inside me, not a clue in the world where I would head. Suddenly I saw flashing lights appear ahead of me; two state police cars sped up the hill. I held my breath. My rational side told me I was safe in this car; no one would stop me. But my nerves jumped out of control. I closed my eyes and averted my face as they shot by.
I blew out a relieved but anxious breath. It was clear where they were heading.
If I’d only left five minutes later, I would have been caught.
I knew I couldn’t do this forever. I had one chance, and that was to turn myself in to someone who would hear my story first. I drove down the hill toward West Dover, the realization beating through me that I was a fugitive in three murders now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I t’s funny, how you might not speak to a person for years, someone who was once a key part of your life. But then, when you need someone in a moment of crisis, theirs is the one name that comes to mind.
In my case, that was Joe Esterhaus.
Joe took me under his wing when I was a rookie on the Nassau County police force, and I guess he caused me to leave it too. I come from a family of cops. My father was one. He and Joe came up together. My older brother too, out of the One Hundred and Fifth Precinct in Queens, and he happened to be on assignment in lower Manhattan and rushed into the South Tower on his twenty-eighth birthday when it was hit by a plane the morning of September 11. It was why I signed up, as a twenty-four-year-old bond salesperson on Wall Street, trying to give some honor to his life. I never really wanted to be a cop. I wanted to be a soccer player. I’d played left wing on the soccer
That I was a loose cannon. Of questionable moral character. That I had done this kind of thing before. That I had killed their father. With the same gun I had taken after panicking and killing a federal agent.
After sleeping with someone I had met at a bar just an hour before!
You have to believe me, I had begged them last night on the phone. You’re going to hear some things . . .
Not to mention that the very people now in charge of trying to apprehend me were the ones who had set it all in motion. Who had the most to gain by keeping me silent.
The most nerve-racking, sickening feeling knotted up in me. If I ended up in their hands, I didn’t know what would happen. These agents had already tried to kill me. Twice. And here I was at our house in Vermont, which was easily traceable. The news report had been posted only ten minutes ago.
I had to get out of here now!
I threw on some new clothes, a T-shirt and a blue Patagonia pullover over my jeans. I bundled a few other things together—clothes, toiletries, the laptop—and hurled them into a duffel bag from the ski room, grabbed a parka, and ran downstairs. I was about to toss them into the Range Rover when I realized my car was no longer safe to be driving now. An idea hit me. Our neighbor across the street, Jim Toby, was a New Yorker who kept an Expedition in his garage up here. It was a Thursday. He and Cindy wouldn’t be up. I knew the security code. We’d been watching over each other’s ski houses for years.
I started up the Range Rover and drove it around the back of the house, under the deck, so it was out of sight. Anyone who searched the house would easily find it, but at least someone just passing by wouldn’t realize I’d been there.
I lugged the duffel and my jacket across the street to Jim’s, a modernized A-frame from back in the sixties. I punched the security code—his and Cindy’s wedding anniversary, 7385—into his garage panel. The door slid up, and the familiar navy SUV was parked there just as I’d hoped. I tossed the duffel into the backseat and hopped behind the wheel. The keys were in the well; I drove out, closing the garage door behind me. I headed straight down the hill, my heart pounding insanely inside me, not a clue in the world where I would head. Suddenly I saw flashing lights appear ahead of me; two state police cars sped up the hill. I held my breath. My rational side told me I was safe in this car; no one would stop me. But my nerves jumped out of control. I closed my eyes and averted my face as they shot by.
I blew out a relieved but anxious breath. It was clear where they were heading.
If I’d only left five minutes later, I would have been caught.
I knew I couldn’t do this forever. I had one chance, and that was to turn myself in to someone who would hear my story first. I drove down the hill toward West Dover, the realization beating through me that I was a fugitive in three murders now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I t’s funny, how you might not speak to a person for years, someone who was once a key part of your life. But then, when you need someone in a moment of crisis, theirs is the one name that comes to mind.
In my case, that was Joe Esterhaus.
Joe took me under his wing when I was a rookie on the Nassau County police force, and I guess he caused me to leave it too. I come from a family of cops. My father was one. He and Joe came up together. My older brother too, out of the One Hundred and Fifth Precinct in Queens, and he happened to be on assignment in lower Manhattan and rushed into the South Tower on his twenty-eighth birthday when it was hit by a plane the morning of September 11. It was why I signed up, as a twenty-four-year-old bond salesperson on Wall Street, trying to give some honor to his life. I never really wanted to be a cop. I wanted to be a soccer player. I’d played left wing on the soccer
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