Cory's Flight Page 19

  He felt a warm liquid running down his arm. He needed stitches. Now what?

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Cory Googled for a hospital or urgent care facility nearby. A Care Well Urgent Clinic was five blocks away on Broadway. He didn’t have insurance. He didn’t want to pay cash but would have to.

  He wrapped a new towel around it and gingerly put his coat on. Cory had his hand on the doorknob and turned around. He put his hat, teeth, and glasses on and stuck the pebble in his shoe. The bottom of his foot hurt like hell and his hand throbbed.

  By the time he got to the strip mall, the towel around his hand was soaked in blood. Cory pushed the clinic’s door open and those in the waiting room trained their eyes on him.

  Exaggerating his limp, he held his arm up. “I need help. I can’t stop the bleeding.”

  “Calm down, sir. We need you to fill out some paperwork—”

  “How do you expect me to write anything with this hand?”

  “I understand. Can we have your insurance card?”

  “I left my wallet home. Take care of my hand! I need stitches.”

  “Follow me.”

  Cory was shown into a closet-sized exam room. A nurse came in, introduced herself, and unwrapped the towel. “That’s some cut. It’s deep. How did you do that?”

  “On a can of soup.”

  “When was your last tetanus shot?

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’ll need one, and this will require stitches. Let me get the doctor.”

  An hour later and four hundred dollars lighter, Cory put a shoulder to the door and stepped outside. His hand and wrist had enough gauze wrapping it to fill a pillow.

  The doctor had given him a prescription for an antibiotic. Cory was considering the risk when he saw them.

  Two police cars had entered the shopping center’s parking lot. Cory turned away from them and limped his way into a 7-Eleven.

  Cory grabbed a bag of pretzels wondering if someone in the clinic had noticed him. They had plenty of time to check on him. He remembered the nurse coming in but leaving immediately. Had she been checking his face?

  Trying to look as casual as he could, Cory looked out the window and dropped the snack. A police officer was headed for the store’s door.

  “Hey, let me get that for you.”

  An older man reached for the pretzels. Cory said, “Thanks.”

  He handed the bag to him. “Do we know each other?”

  Cory shook his head. “No.”

  “You look familiar. Did you go to Somerville High? I taught there for twenty years.”

  “No, I’m from Brook . . . Brookfield.”

  “Oh yeah? My sister lives up there.”

  Cory watched the cop. He was by the door, surveying the store. “Haven’t been there in a long while. I moved to Baltimore as a kid.”

  “Boy, I know you from somewhere.”

  “They say everybody has a double.” Cory looked at his hand. A smidgen of blood was peeking through. “I got to go and get a prescription filled.”

  “Have a good day.”

  The cop was talking to the clerk at the counter. Cory headed to the back. He made it look like he was mulling over soft drinks but was trying to follow the police officer in the reflection off the fridge’s glass door.

  Cory debated how long would be too long to stare at sodas. He had to do something or risk drawing attention. He pulled the door open, propping it with his shoulder and grabbed a Coke.

  He went to the checkout area. The officer was talking to the clerk. Cory put his items down and smiled at the cop, who said, “What happened?”

  As the clerk rang up his items, he replied, “If you can believe it, I cut it on a can of soup.”

  “I did that years ago. The edges are too sharp.”

  “Yeah, I needed stitches.”

  Cory paid and left. “Have a good one.”

  He was tempted to look to see if the police officer was coming after him but kept walking. He began to relax a little as he passed the halfway point. His shoulder was hurting from keeping his arm up, and the shot they’d given him before sewing the cut closed had started to fade.

  The thought of needing aspirin hit him. The doctor had wanted him on antibiotics for five days. Going to a pharmacy was risky. You had to hang around waiting for your pills to be ready. Someone could recognize him. He decided not to chance it. Besides, he needed to conserve the money he had.

  Cold and hurting, Cory couldn’t wait to get back. He rounded the corner onto Lexington Avenue and stopped. A police car was heading down the street. It was moving too slow, Cory thought as he exaggerated his limp.

  He’d slipped up at the clinic giving the Lexington Avenue apartment as his address. Were they onto him? He was only a couple of houses away.

  Cory nodded at the cop behind the wheel, but the officer didn’t acknowledge him as he passed. Cory turned around. The police car was finishing a turn down the street Cory had come up. Cory hustled to his place.

  He locked the door, kicked off his shoes, and went to the front window. The street was empty. Cory checked the medicine cabinet. A bottle of Tylenol was half full. He spilled two out and sucked the faucet.

  Cory was hungry. He eyed the canned food and opted for two energy bars. As he tore the wrapping off with his teeth, he heard a strange sound.

  It was coming from the front of the house. With visions of a SWAT team emptying out of vans, Cory lifted the edge of the blinds off the window and sighed.

  A neighbor was dragging two trash cans to the curb. Cory relaxed. He took his bars to the couch and clicked on the TV. Scrolling through channels, Cory paused and went back one station.

  He stood up. A newscaster was standing in front of the Boston building he’d hidden in. The screen read, “Boston Police Close in on Fugitive Musician.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Cory listened to the reporter. The way he talked, it was only a matter of time before they caught him.

  He had to go. But where? He grabbed the tablet and pulled up a map of the area. He zoomed out. Vermont and New Hampshire were so sparsely populated, he’d stand out. Rhode Island might work, he thought, as he scanned the map. What about Canada?

  He had a fake passport, but did they use facial recognition software at the border? Since he’d fled north, he figured the authorities on both sides of the crossing would be on the lookout, and he put the idea of Canada aside.

  Cory paced the room. No matter where he went, he’d have two problems: how to get there, and where to stay. He stared at the tablet. A memory came to him. It was worth a shot.

  He made a call. “Donny, it’s me.”

  “Cory? Holy shit. Where are you, man?”

  “Have the police been in contact about me?”

  “Some detective came when you first took off, but that was it.”

  “I need help, bro.”

  “Anything, man.”

  “You remember that horse farm your uncle had?”

  “Oh, man, I think about that place a lot. We had such good times working there. What about it?”

  “He still have it?”

  “Yeah, but my uncle is in his eighties and never gets up there. My cousin kind of runs it for him, but they’re getting ready to sell it.”

  “The cops are on my ass. Is anybody staying in the room we used over the carriage house?”

  “I doubt it. They moved the horses out of there because he couldn’t take care of them anymore.”

  “Can I stay there?”

  “Sure. I’ll set it up.”

  “Thanks, man. I hate to hassle you—”

  “It’s not a hassle. You’re gonna need food and stuff.”

  “Yeah, and a phone I can use, and a hot spot to get Wi-Fi for the internet. I got a lead I got to follow to end this mess.”

  “Give me a day.”

  “I can’t wait. The cops are breathing down my neck. I have to take the next train out.”

  “Okay, man. I’
ll get on it now. Call me later.”

  Cory wanted to tell him to let Linda know he was okay. “Hold on.”

  “What else?”

  What Black had said about keeping his plans secret flooded his head. “Nothing. Just wanted to say thanks, brother.”

  “Hey man, you know, you’d do it for me.”

  Cory hung up wondering if he would actually put himself in jeopardy to help a friend. Saying it was one thing, but doing it, especially something as serious as this, was another. Did Donny know helping a fugitive was a crime?

  He looked around the apartment. It was hard to believe he was moving on already. He remembered one of the people on the run had said next to leaving your family behind, constantly being on the move was the worst part of trying to hide.

  Cory dismissed letting Black know he was moving. Tower had his claws in a lot of people, and though he couldn’t see the operative double-crossing him, he couldn’t take the chance.

  He carefully opened two cans of chicken. Having the use of one hand made the simplest things tough. Cory spooned both down and put a couple in his backpack. He remembered how parched he was on his last move, added two bottles of water, and zipped it up.

  He put his fake belly, glasses, and teeth on. He surveyed the room, peeked out the front window and switched a light on for good measure.

  Cory bent down and put the stone in his shoe. He needed to fade into the background, but with his hand bandaged it would be difficult. Cory told himself it was okay, and as he stepped onto the porch, he actually believed it.

  The train station was finally in sight. Cory couldn’t walk much more; both his feet were sore. A handful of people were on the platform. Climbing the stairs, he heard a distant whistle.

  Cory hoped the nearly perfect timing was an omen. He decided to avoid the ticket office and buy one on board. He got on an empty car, took a window seat, and tried to nap.

  The train slowed, waking Cory. A sign read Stamford. Cory straightened up. He’d been asleep for two hours. He remembered the next stop was Greenwich and looked around the car. Only two men in their twenties.

  The train lumbered forward and before it reached its normal speed, slowed again. Greenwich was in sight. Besides the green in the pockets of its residents, Connecticut’s wealthiest town was brown. Founded in 1640, the old town’s farms had slowly been bought by hedge fund managers and turned into estates.

  Cory walked into downtown Greenwich and took a cab by an office building. Using broken English, he told the driver to drop him at the Stanwich Golf Club.

  The small farm was just west of the golf course. It was cold and it started to drizzle. Cory brushed off the thought it was a bad sign, reminding himself rainbows appeared when it rained.

  He saw the turnoff to Pacer Lane and smiled, recalling when Donny and he rode his uncle’s tractor into a drainage ditch near the farm’s entrance. One of the hinges of the gate was broken, and it was clear the place had fallen into disrepair.

  It was sad, but Cory hoped it was the perfect place to hide out. The pain in his foot ran up to his knee. He couldn’t chance taking the pebble out and slowed his pace, though the rain picked up.

  The main house was dark. A solitary light next to the door was on. Cory remembered playing countless games of Uno on the porch. The wicker set was gone, but the smoke curling from the wood stove in the carriage house was almost as good as seeing his kids.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Cory stamped his feet and wriggled off the backpack. The room was smoky but warm. He headed straight for the stove. He eyed the pizza box on the knotty pine table as he warmed his hands. Swinging open the stove door, his stomach growled.

  Donny had left a note that he’d turned the water on in the main house and that the phone was his personal one. He left a number for Cory to call, using it for any messages for Donny. His friend had gone all out.

  Cory took a piece of pizza out. It was cold but tasted good. He took a bite of a second piece as he placed the box on the stove.

  Cory pulled two chairs close to the heat. He took his jacket off, hung it on one, and sat in the other. Exhausted, he kicked his shoes off and held his bandaged hand near the heat. He was groggy.

  Both feet hurt. Cory dragged the platform that served as a bed close to the stove and reclined. He looked at the exposed beams, remembering the time Donny had thrown his sneakers up there. It had taken him an hour to get them down.

  Cory’s eyes were closing. He reached for his backpack, and positioning it as a pillow, felt something. He probed with the tip of his finger. It was a carving. Cory had cut Linda and his initials into the bed.

  He shined the light from Donny’s phone onto the deep cuts he’d made with a knife. He’d been in love with Linda since he first saw her. He traced the carving with his finger and vowed to do whatever was necessary to be reunited with his family.

  Cory woke up cold and stiff. His hand throbbed and his back hurt as he got off the bed. The fire in the stove had been reduced to embers. He put firewood in and stoked it.

  He massaged his feet and thought about Tower. Black mentioned he had changed his name. That fit with his inability to trace much of Tower’s history before law school. He took the tablet out and turned Donny’s phone into a hot spot.

  Cory pecked a question in. He was surprised how easy it seemed to be to find out if someone had changed their name. He read through two blog pieces on the subject. Both said that in order to change your name, you had to go to the court in the county you resided in.

  That meant to locate someone who had changed their name, you’d search the records in that county for the relevant documents they needed to make the change. Tower was always referred to as a New Yorker, but that didn’t mean he was one when a name-change request was filed.

  Cory thought about that until realizing the law school scholarship. You had to be a local. He Googled New York name changes and went to the link, nycourts.gov. A bolt of adrenaline coursed through him as he read. The official site led off with the statement that name change applications were public.

  The privacy tab mentioned being able to have the records sealed to prevent anyone from seeing them. However, the court would only grant those if your safety was in danger.

  Cory grabbed a slice of pizza. Biting into the crust, Cory noticed a link for Adult Name Change Petitions. The page helped you complete the documents necessary to request a name change. He couldn’t understand why they’d make it easy to change your name. There were exclusions for those in prison or on probation, but it didn’t make sense.

  Maybe it had something to do with most women changing their last name when they married. He read that name-change records were filed in the clerk’s office in the county where the person lived.

  Cory began his search, hoping the results were organized alphabetically and not chronologically. He got up after an hour, stretched his back and put another piece of wood in the stove before resuming his search.

  He almost missed it and scrolled back up. There it was. He leaned in: Barney Tower was formerly known as Richard Sullivan. The address listed at the time was 39 Bank Street.

  It was now an expensive neighborhood, but what was it like in 1990? Dinkins was mayor, and the crime-ridden city was crumbling.

  Cory didn’t know what to do first. If Tower was eighteen at the time, he was born in 1972. It was about right, figuring Tower to be about fifty. He remembered Linda saying something about Ancestry.com having birth records for anyone born in New York City.

  He input Richard Sullivan and 1972 and two records appeared. Cory wanted to call Black and ask him what to do next. He decided to wait until he really needed help.

  Cory paced the room. Why would an eighteen-year-old change his name? He could have committed a crime as a minor and wanted to distance himself. He’d read the courts wouldn’t allow a name change for someone still on probation or parole. It couldn’t be that then, he reasoned.

  The only explanation that made sense was to get away from
his family. Maybe he grew up in a dysfunctional household or possibly his father or mother committed a heinous crime. He Googled how to find out if someone had a record.

  After clicking through a number of sites claiming to be free but then asking for a fee, he realized even if he paid, he’d need the first name and date of birth. Cory had neither. He’d have to dig into the neighborhood Tower grew up in. But would what he might find be enough to force Tower to retreat?

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Cory needed people who knew the family, someone who could tell him what Tower was like as a kid and find out what was in Tower’s past that he wanted kept secret. Cory wondered if Tower had a brother or sister.

  He Googled several variations on finding if someone had a sibling but kept coming up empty. If he could find a neighbor, they’d not only be able to provide background on Tower, but also reveal if he had siblings.

  Cory knew Tower was born in 1972 as Richard Sullivan and had been living in the West Village in 1990. He also knew the power of social media had no equal when trying to connect with someone.

  He was certain the police were watching his social media accounts and created a new email account with Google. Cory took that email address and opened an account on Facebook, under the name Dan Saturn.

  Cory used a picture of a fiftyish man from the web as his profile picture. He created a couple of posts with images of cats and seascapes. Though he thought the chances were slim, he searched for people named Sullivan. A list in the thousands confirmed his suspicion.

  He scrolled through the list wondering how to sort through it. He could look for people around Tower’s age or for anyone living in the city, but the work to narrow down the possibilities did nothing to ensure he’d find a relative.

  Cory thought about calling Black or Donny to ask them to canvas the Bank Street neighborhood. Thirty years had passed, but maybe someone still lived there who knew Tower. Cory began posing different questions looking for a way to find someone who knew Tower as a child.

  Searching for histories of families living in New York City on Facebook, a couple of worthless results came up. One, a group named Staten Island in Days Gone By, gave Cory an idea. He typed Greenwich Village in the search bar and smiled.