The Reunion (22 page)

39

The
Westerly Sun
occupied a large concrete building on Main Street, a structure most certainly not designed to house a daily newspaper. At first glance, Carolyn was convinced it had been a bank at one time. Not today's fast-food style of financial institution, but an old, impenetrable downtown national bank with two intimidating Greek columns that dwarfed the vintage, brass-plated revolving door.

Inside, years of remodeling to accommodate the ever-changing specifications of a growing news division could not shake the feel of old money. The ceiling was at least twenty-five feet high, the floors tiled in Italian marble. The ornate trim around the ceiling and light fixtures also gave away the building's true identity.

The first room she encountered was cavernous, yet partitioned off into cubicles by department. Carolyn drifted to the news area, where she approached a young man at the first desk she came to. She stood directly in his view. Her hand clutched the handle of the heavy carrier in which Kenny lay sleeping, his chubby legs extending far beyond the flimsy transport he had long outgrown.

“Do you think you can help me?” she asked the man softly, trying not to wake the baby.

The desk jockey looked up and eyed her admiringly. “What is it I can do for you?” he asked.

“Do you have a photo archive?”

“That we do.”

“I'm trying to locate a picture from the late forties, early fifties.”

His leering smile seemed to fade. “That might be a tough one. Everything from 1980 on can be accessed on computer. 1969 to 1979 is on microfilm. And anything before that can most likely be found in a filing cabinet in the basement.”

“Can I go look?” she asked eagerly.

The twenty-something cub reporter did a quick scan to see if anyone was in earshot. He was less than discreet as his eyes meandered from her chest to her bare ring finger. “We're not supposed to let anyone down there unescorted, but I've got a few extra minutes. I'm Barry, by the way,” he said, offering his hand.

“Carolyn,” she replied, juggling the carrier to return his shake.

The boy continued to gawk during the elevator ride. “A freelancer, huh?”

“Sort of.”

“You looking for a picture of anyone special?”

“Mary Margaret Vocatura.”

“Nana,” he snickered. “I guess a little family feature on the matriarch of the Vocatura clan would make a nice piece—that is, if he wins tomorrow.”

She felt claustrophobic in the antiquated elevator. “What did you call her?” she asked, wanting badly to be released from the small, confining space.

“Nana. That's what the Vocatura brothers call their grandmother, and now I guess just about everyone else calls her that too.”

The elevator doors opened to reveal a large, disagreeably damp space. Like the lobby, it too was broken up into sections, but here they used what seemed to be a rusting chain-link fence. She knowingly smiled to herself. The building had been a bank.

She surveyed the basement but saw no other people. “Are we the only ones down here?” she asked incredulously, trying to hide a sudden pang of fear.

“Yeah, it's after four,” Barry said matter-of-factly. He stopped abruptly, directing her to a wall of old filing cabinets in what seemed to be the darkest corner of the basement. “Have at it,” he said, pointing to the black cabinets. “The three-ring binders on the shelf are what's left of our original photo index. They're divided by year. You should be able to find what you want in there.”

“Thanks,” she said, the dread evident on her face.

He felt her discomfort. “If you wanted current pics, I could do a wire search on the computer for you,” he offered. “But since you're after ancient history, you'll have to do it by hand.”

She set the child carrier on a long, sturdy library-style table. “Thanks for your help.”

“I'm only here until seven thirty tonight. I'm afraid you'll have to leave when I do. I'm really not supposed to leave you alone. It's got to be our little secret, okay?” he smirked, using the occasion to lewdly scan her body one more time.

She felt his eyes stripping her. “Okay, I'll come find you when I'm done.”

Carolyn lugged the first of five heavy, dust-laden books over to the table where Kenny slept soundly. She searched the plastic tabs, stopping at the binder marked 1940. There were rows of names in an odd-style print—the hand-pecked, primitive characters of a manual typewriter that would probably be a valuable antique by now. Smudges and scribblings from reporters of days gone by littered the margins. “Vocatura, Vocatura,” she said aloud, her finger scrolling down the old, yellow pages.

Four binders and two hours later, Carolyn still hadn't found what she was looking for. From 1940 to 1947 there was no mention of Mary Vocatura. In 1948 there was a log entry that read, “Vocatura family photo-Hobart Street store opening,” but the corresponding file in the cabinet was empty. A dozen other log entries marked “Vocatura” sent her scurrying to the cabinets, but all of those photos were of her late husband, Anthony, in various poses with business associates at one of the family's many grocery stores. Just before seven, she came across an entry dated September 13, 1968—“Vocatura Funeral.” Amazingly, the picture was right where the index said it would be.

Although she had hoped for a younger image of Mary Vocatura, the photo was striking. There was no pretense, no posing, like so many newspaper pictures of the day. The photographer managed to capture the core of what Carolyn assumed must have been the most traumatic day of her life. The woman had just buried her husband, a son, and daughter-in-law, and, in that same instant, taken on the responsibility of the family business and her son's surviving children. She couldn't help but feel a certain amount of admiration for this woman she had grown to hate.

She wasn't an attractive woman. Still, there was something there. “Handsome” might be the word people would use today. She wore no makeup as far as Carolyn could tell. She held her head high. The muscles in her face were clenched and the puffiness around her eyes evident. If Mary Margaret Vocatura truly had been Gerhard Reussel's contact during the war, he would certainly recognize her in this photograph.

Two steps behind, an equally sorrowful middle-aged woman held the Vocatura boys by the hand. The older brother, Manny, seemed to understand the gravity of the moment. But the picture made clear it would be years before little Vinny would grasp the breadth of what he lost that day. The boy smiled at the camera, unfazed by the events around him.

She flipped over the eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph to read the hand-scrawled caption: Church of the Immaculate Conception, Mrs. Vocatura leaving the church, followed by housekeeper Evelyn Caccione and the Vocatura grandchildren—Manfred, age five, Vincent, age three.

She placed the photo back in the folder and gathered up her son for the trip to the main floor.

When the elevator opened, she worked her way through the maze of cubicles to find Barry's desk. She tucked the V-neck tee shirt a little deeper into her jeans, making her cleavage more prominent. “I found what I needed,” she announced.

He smiled. She was a pleasant distraction. “Good for you. Leave the picture and we can duplicate it for you for five bucks. The girl that does that will be back in the morning.”

“Barry,” she pouted, bending over the desk to give him a better view. “I don't have that kind of time. I hate to impose, but is there any way you can scan this picture for me and put it on a disc? I'd owe you one,” she promised. She dropped the photo on his desk and flashed him a seductive little grin.

Barry squirmed in his seat. “I guess I could, as long as it's just one pic.”

“Just one.”

“Wait here,” he said as he snatched up the old black-and-white and scurried off toward a cubicle in the far corner of the news department. Carolyn sat Kenny on the floor with his fire truck and his set of giant, plastic keys. Two minutes later Barry was back, flipping a red computer disc between his fingers. “You're not from here,” he stated, picking up on her Oklahoma twang. “Are you going to be around long?”

An eyebrow went up. “It's possible. My plans are kind of up in the air at the moment,” she said truthfully.

“Well, you picked a good time to visit. I could show you around, if you want.”

“I'd like that.”

He opened his top desk drawer, pulled out one of his business cards, and penned his home phone number on the back. “Here, you never know when you're gonna need a tour guide.”

She laughed. “Right now, I need Internet access. But I hate to impose on you any more,” she said devilishly.

He stood and threw up his arms in mock exasperation, then pointed to the terminal at his desk. “What the hell. Go for it. I've got to go to the bathroom. But when I get back, we've both got to go. Make it quick, okay?”

She blew him a kiss. “You're a sweetheart. I won't be long,” she promised as she settled into his chair.

She waited for him to leave before directing the browser to hotmail.com and punching in her screen name and password to log into her e-mail. Carolyn hit the new message bar and furiously began typing.

She hit the send button, logged off, and was gone before Barry returned from the bathroom.

40

Carolyn didn't recognize any of the street signs but she knew she could find her way back to Watch Hill by following the Pawcatuck River. It was dusk, and a light fog had just started rolling up from its banks. Kenny chattered to no one as he amused himself with his Power Ranger action figure. This was usually the time the baby started winding down, but to finish her work without interruption she had allowed Kenny the luxury of an unusually long nap. She now began to wonder just how late he would stay up.

She was about a mile out of town when she caught a glimpse of the innocuous lights in the rear view mirror. The car was about a tenth of a mile behind her. It struck her as odd that someone had their lights on so early; there were still at least twenty minutes of daylight left. She fumbled around the dash of the borrowed car to turn on her own. Maybe the driver knew something she didn't.
The fog does seem to be getting heavier,
she told herself.

Carolyn was feeling good about what she had accomplished, and hoped Dunlevy and Franklin were in their rooms when she got back so she could show off the fruits of her research. She also hoped for a phone message from Reussel but she realized that was probably too much to hope for. Even if the old man did recognize the woman in the photograph, she had no way of knowing if he'd even answer the e-mail, let alone call. Granted, on the phone he had agreed to examine the photograph, but now she was beginning to chalk that up to the involuntary politeness of a forgotten generation of men. She knew from experience that, when pressed, most older men had a hard time saying no to a lady.

The first impact seemed more like a tap. She hadn't noticed the lights gaining on her and, for a second, wondered if she had imagined the bump.

Before she could take evasive action, the second strike hit, this one more like a furious smack to the back of the head. Its force snapped her neck back and then propelled her body forward against the wheel in one swift, continuous motion. Kenny was tightly strapped into the car seat, yet the jolt rattled him. His toy and juice box flew out of his hands, prompting a ferocious wail.

At that moment, an overpowering rush of maternal instinct mandated she turn around to check on the child. “It's okay. Hold tight, baby,” she cooed, trying not to let him hear the fear in her voice. Satisfied he wasn't hurt, she grabbed the wheel tautly and buckled in.

DeMichael grinned to himself when he saw her head drift toward the back seat. Precious seconds spent checking on the little brat would give him the upper hand. He stepped up the gas again, this time plowing the late model van squarely against the bumper. The car seemed to swerve in a tight yet violent sweep back and forth across the yellow line. The fury of the crash popped the lock on the trunk, causing it to fling open. A box of Dunlevy's reports and several newspapers now littered the road.

Without thinking, she slammed her foot on the accelerator. “He's trying to run me off the fucking road!” she yelled to no one. Frantic, Carolyn dumped the contents of her purse onto the passenger seat. Without looking, she ran her hand across the assemblage of junk. She seized the cell phone, holding it high to use the glow from DeMichael's headlights to illuminate the numbers.

“Star three-three-three!” she shouted to herself. “Come on, come on!”

When she heard the line connecting, she wedged the phone between the windshield and the dash directly in front of her.

He picked up on the third ring. “Martin Dunlevy.”

“He's right behind me! The crazy fucker is trying kill us!” she yelled.

Dunlevy could hear the child's shrieks in the background.

“Where are you?” he coolly demanded.

She couldn't think and began to cry. “I don't know! I don't know!” she sobbed. “Along the river, on my way back there. He's ramming the…” The rest of the thought left her after another powerful blow from behind.

He could hear the crunch of metal on the line, causing him to lose all pretense of composure. “Carolyn, Carolyn! Goddamn it, answer me!” he shouted into the mouthpiece. She didn't answer, but he could still hear Kenny's howls. They were still alive.

His cell phone still to his ear, Dunlevy grabbed his keys and wallet and ran out of his room. He rapped violently on the door next to his. When Franklin opened it, he tossed him the keys and pointed toward the parking lot. He continued to scream into the receiver for her to pick up, but his pleas went unanswered.

Carolyn knew she had to pull herself together. She took a series of deep breaths to help block out the cries of her child and the unintelligible shouting from the cell phone.
We're not going to die,
she assured herself.

Convinced a moving target would be harder to hit, Carolyn spun the wheel sharply to the left and then to the right. Her swerves utilized the full expanse of the road. The abrupt movement of the car somehow managed to shake loose the last stranglehold of fright. Maybe he would kill them, but she vowed to herself not to make it easy.

He accelerated to collide with her again, but missed this time. She looked in the rear view mirror and cursed him. “Fuck you!” she shouted.

The swelling bank of fog made it harder to see the road, and flipping on the high beams only made it worse. Her eyes darted between the growing blur of asphalt and the lights of her faceless attacker in the rear view mirror.

She gasped a second after turning her attention back to the road. There was a sharp bend in the road, one she was unprepared to navigate. A cemetery, surrounded by a waist-high fieldstone wall, was just yards in front of her. She swerved the car hard to miss the wall, instead striking the locked wrought iron cemetery gate head-on.

She closed her eyes as she braced for the jolt of impact, but there was none. The hinges of the aging barrier had corroded in the salt air. The gate dropped the instant she struck it, causing only minimal damage to the car.

The sound of the metal bars scraping the undercarriage of the vehicle made her wince, but it was the loud screech of wheels behind her that forced her eyes to the mirror once more. She gaped in shock as DeMichael careened into the wall. The nose of the van seemed to wedge in the fieldstone, but the back tires lifted into the air, flipping the vehicle upside down in an exquisitely brutal somersault. She didn't see any flames at first, but the smell of burning oil assaulted her nose. She couldn't tell if the cloud in front of the van's still-burning headlights was smoke or dust from the splintered rock.

She felt an enormous sense of relief as she examined the wreckage in the mirror. “I hope you're dead, you piece of shit.”

Carolyn was still moving at a good rate of speed along the pebble trail of the dark cemetery. She attempted to brake but, when she did, the driver's side front wheel clipped the corner of a stout, granite grave marker, catapulting the car into the air. The vehicle hit the apex of its flight in a matter of seconds. The young mother sucked in what she thought was her last breath and watched in horror as the headlights now illuminated the car's narrow trajectory downward.

The path was cluttered with headstones and other large quarry-chiseled icons. In the glare of the high beams, she could see the car hurtling towards a tall stone sculpture of the virgin mother, the virgin's arms open as if to welcome her and her son into perpetuity. It was the last thing she remembered before her head slammed into the windshield, knocking her out cold.