He hadn’t given me one smidgen of information, but he had pumped me for what I knew. In the end it had been a standoff, but he had my name and number and I didn’t have his. And the likelihood was, he knew where I lived. Jack wouldn’t be any happier about that than I was. My only comfort was that the streets here were empty overnight by law and any car parked on the street in daylight would be visible and raise questions. It was a lot easier to hide in the jumble of the city than in a quiet town.

23

Jack was concerned enough about my being followed on Wednesday morning that he scouted the area before I left and followed me several miles to where I picked up the highway. He was becoming distinctly unhappy about my involvement in this, his other persona emerging, the tough, morose one that saw the black side of life and wanted to keep it from encroaching on ours.

I worked my way west and north and picked up Route 17, passing old towns that had become familiar to me on earlier trips: Goshen, Monticello, Liberty, Roscoe, and my favorite, Fishs Eddy. There was new snow on the fields, but the road was clean as summer and I made good time to Binghamton, where I got off and followed the handwritten directions once again.

Although New York is such a populous state, I have often thought that you could drop a stranger into any number of parts of it and have him believe he was in the heartland of this country. There are miles of forest and fields, an abundance of tiny dwellings and great estates. What one sees nowadays rather ubiquitously is the satellite dish that carries television to areas outside the heavily populated metropolitan ones. As I passed one after the other, I found myself wishing there were a way to disguise them, to preserve the rustic nature of the land, but I guess it’s too late for that. They give a high-tech look to what ought to be the lowest-tech-looking area of the state.

I stopped before the last leg and had some lunch, then, refreshed, continued. Before reaching the orchard, I noticed a car pulled off to the side of the road, apparently empty, a bad place, I thought, to run out of gas or develop car trouble. At the orchard, I slowed, turned, and bumped my way to Al DiMartino’s half-hidden driveway.

His carport was empty, so I pulled over in the tracks I had made last week, noticing how fresh they still looked. There hadn’t been any snow. I hoped it would hold off another few hours. I had no plans to spend a lot of time here, although I had brought an overnight bag along in case the weather made the return trip look difficult.

I got out of the car and walked around a little, hoping he would return quickly. He had to know I was on my way since he had left the message yesterday morning. But half an hour passed and he wasn’t there. I didn’t like the feeling of déjà vu, the memory of last week’s ordeal before he let me in. It was just as cold this week and I wanted to get home tonight.

Forty-five minutes and still no sign of him. And then it struck me. The car I had passed before reaching the orchard. It could have been DiMartino’s car. I am notoriously poor at recognizing automobiles. I am probably one of only a handful of Americans for whom a car is transportation, the cheaper and longer lasting the better. I don’t even admit how old my own car is for fear of putting a jinx on it. But if that car had been his, he had had some trouble and might be almost anywhere looking for help.

I got in my car and backed into the garage, then pulled out forward and drove through the trees to the road. I kept my eyes peeled as I went, but there was no one either on foot or in a vehicle. At the crossroad, I turned right and drove past the orchard. I remembered I had spotted the car before I reached the orchard, and as I looked, I saw it, still off the road on my left. I made a U-turn and parked behind it, getting out to see if he had left any kind of note in the windshield.

There was no note, but there was someone inside stretched out on the front seat and it was Al. I caught my breath and told myself this was not the time to panic. The driver’s door was unlocked and I opened it, saying, “Sergeant? Sergeant DiMartino?” as I leaned in.

“Chris,” a whispered sound came. “Chris, Chris.” He had been sitting behind the wheel when he had been stricken, probably with just enough time to pull off the road. Then he had lain or fallen to his right so that his head was near the passenger door. He said something, but I couldn’t understand it.

“What?” I asked, knowing I should be getting help, not wasting time talking.

He said it again, then once more, and I realized he was saying “heart.” He’d had a heart attack, or at least he thought so.

For a moment I felt utter confusion, not sure whether I should take my car to the orchard and call an ambulance, push DiMartino over and drive his car there, or drive him to a hospital myself. When I made a decision, it was more to get things moving than to do what was right.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I said. “I’ll help you move over and then I’ll drive into town.” I reached over while I was talking and unlocked the far door. Then I ran around to the other side, opened the door, and got him into the passenger seat with a lot of help from him. When he was sitting, I fastened the seat belt, let the back of his seat down just a little so he would incline backward, and then I ran back and got the car started.

Luckily, I ran into a policeman as I entered town and he not only directed me, he led me, lights and siren going, to the small hospital a few miles away. He must have radioed ahead because they were waiting for us and got DiMartino inside in record time.

Officer Tallman sat with me for a few minutes, getting details about DiMartino. I told him the sergeant was a retired policeman and I saw the subtle change. Officer Tallman was not just doing his duty; now he was helping one of his own.

“He has a wife or ex-wife somewhere,” I said.

“I’ll get hold of his wallet and have a look. You have any idea how long he was in that car before you found him?”

“No idea at all. I don’t even know if it’s since this morning or yesterday.”

“Poor guy.”

An aide came into the waiting room at that moment, saw me, and asked if I was Mrs. Brooks.

“I am. How is he?”

“It doesn’t look good, but we have a fine cardiologist here and they’re doing the best they can. He wants you to have his house keys. I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying.”

“I came to collect something he made for me.”

“I’ll drive you over,” the cop said. “You can pick up your car on the way.”

At the house I let us in. The place looked neater than last week, the bed made, the sink almost empty. He had worked at cleaning up for company. I felt terrible. This was a man with talent and energy, condemned to disgrace and a lonely life because a system he had loved and served well had been turned inside out to hurt him.

“He’s an artist,” the cop said, amazement in his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“He was a forensic sculptor for the New York Police Department. He did something for me.” I turned to find Natalie and saw her near the woodstove. Next to her was a girl with a lopsided nose and a quirky face, Natalie in her late teens. I walked toward the sculptures holding my breath.

“Musta been in that car a long time,” Officer Tallman said, his hand on the stove. “Stove’s cold.”

“Here she is.”

“Who?”

“The woman I’m looking for twenty years ago.”

“How’d he do that?”

“It’s his genius. This is how she looked when she disappeared.”