I hit the bank and took out four thousand dollars in cash. The window teller had to get permission from the head teller, who had to find the bank manager. I tried to remember the last time I had used a bank teller rather than the ATM, but I couldn’t dredge up the memory.
I stopped at CVS and bought two disposable phones. Knowing that the cops could trace your phone anytime it was on, I powered down my iPhone and stuck it back in my pocket. If I needed to make calls, I’d use the disposables and keep them off as much as possible. If the cops could trace these phones, so, I figured, might a guy like Danny Zuker. I didn’t know this for a fact, but my paranoia level was justifiably at an all-time high.
I might not be able to stay off the grid long, but if I could for a few days, that would be all I’d need.
First things first. Benedict said that no one involved with Fresh Start knew where Natalie was. I wasn’t so sure. The organization had started at Lanford at the behest, in part anyway, of one Professor Malcolm Hume.
It was time to call my old mentor.
The last time I saw the man whose office I now inhabit was two years ago at a poly-sci seminar on Constitutional abuses. He flew up from Florida looking robust and tan. His teeth were shockingly white. Like many retired Floridians, he appeared rested and happy and very old. We had a nice time, but there was a distance between us now. Malcolm Hume could be like that. I loved the man. Aside from my own father, he was the closest thing I had to a role model. But he had made it clear that retirement was an ending. He had always detested the academic hangers-on, those elderly professors and administrators who stayed on well past their expiration date, like aging ballplayers who won’t face the inevitable. Once he left our hallowed halls, Professor Hume didn’t enjoy returning. He didn’t buy into nostalgia or living off past laurels. Even at the age of eighty, Malcolm Hume was a forward-looking guy. The past was just that to him. The past.
So despite what I considered our rich history, we didn’t speak regularly. This part of his life was over. Malcolm Hume now enjoyed golf and his mystery book club and his bridge group down in Florida. Fresh Start, too, might have been something he put behind him. I didn’t know how he’d respond to my call—if it would agitate him or not. I didn’t much care either.
I needed answers.
I dialed his phone number down in Vero Beach. After five rings his machine picked up. Malcolm’s booming recorded voice, graveled a bit with age, invited me to leave a message. I was about to, but then I realized that I didn’t really have a callback number, what with my phone off most of the time. I would try him again later.
Now what?
My brain started buzzing again, settling for the umpteenth time on Natalie’s father. He was the key here. Who, I wondered, could possibly shine some light on what happened to him? The answer was fairly obvious: Natalie’s mom.
I considered calling Julie Pottham and asking her if I could speak to her mother, but again that felt like a complete waste of time. I headed to the local library and signed in to use the Internet. I searched for Sylvia Avery. The address listed was Julie Pottham’s in Ramsey, New Jersey. I leaned back for a second and considered that. I brought up the Yellow Pages website and asked for all assisted-living facilities in the Ramsey area. Three came up. I called them and asked to speak to Sylvia Avery. All three said that they had no “resident” (they all used that term) with that name. I headed back to the computer and spread out the search to Bergen County, New Jersey. Too many came up. I brought up the map and started calling the ones closest to Ramsey. On the sixth call, the operator at Hyde Park Assisted Living said, “Sylvia? I believe she’s doing crafts with Louise. Would you like to leave a message?”
Crafts with Louise. Like she was a child at summer camp. “No, I’ll call back, thanks. Do you have visiting hours?”
“We prefer that guests come between eight A.M. and eight P.M.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up. I checked the Hyde Park Assisted Living website. They had a daily schedule online. Crafts with Louise was listed. According to the itinerary, Scrabble Club was next, followed by Armchair Travel Social—I had no idea what that meant—and then Baking Memories. Tomorrow, there would be a three-hour outing to the Paramus Park Mall, but today, nope, everything was in house. Good.
I headed over to the rent-a-car dealership and asked for a midsize. I got a Ford Fusion. I had to use a credit card, but that couldn’t be helped. Time for another road trip—this time to visit Natalie’s mother. I wasn’t too worried about her not being there when I arrived. Residents in assisted living rarely take unscheduled trips. If by some chance she did, it would be brief. I could wait. I had nowhere else to go anyway. Who knows? Maybe another delightful evening with Mabel at the Fair Motel was in the cards.
