The Drifter(76)

Betsy barely made it onto a stool at the counter before she devoured her bagel, licked her finger to pick up stray salt crystals to devour those, too, and walked to the corner to catch the M20 uptown.

She hoisted herself up on to the bus, slid her MetroCard into the slot, and waddled toward the back. She pushed a discarded New York Post off of a blue seat and lowered herself down slowly. Betsy loved riding the bus. To Gavin, it was torture, a shuttle to ferry the elderly and nannies with their tiny charges, only for the very young or the very old who were in no particular rush to get anywhere, up and down the congested streets. When Betsy had the time, she stayed aboveground. She liked to see what was happening around her, the bikes weaving in and out of traffic, the NYPD gathered in suspicious clusters on the sidewalk for reasons unknown, the ambiguous steam that rose up from manholes on chilly fall mornings like this one. Taking the bus was a habit she picked up when she’d first moved to the city, when she felt an urgent need to learn about her surroundings, memorize intersections, master the landmarks that helped her get her bearings, and keep an eye on the people around her. She felt more in control of her life on the bus. She could jump out the back door at any point, if the occasion called for it.

Betsy was always planning her escape.

Once they hit Central Park, Betsy decided to walk. The office was only a block or two away, and she wanted to see if any of the autumn colors remained on the lingering leaves. Years before, she and Gavin used to take the train up to Cold Spring and marvel at the view along the Hudson. Growing up in the oppressive Florida climate had given them both a deep appreciation for the change of seasons. Fall had become Betsy’s favorite time of year.

“It looks like a puzzle,” she’d say every time she saw the intermittent patches of golden ash and bright red maple leaves along the riverbank. As a kid, she never understood the appeal of autumn, the cool dampness of the air and crunch of decaying leaves on the ground, the last dramatic, spectacular show of nature before the deathly grays of winter. Cold weather made her mother anxious. When her mom learned of Betsy’s baby’s December due date, Kathy was perturbed, claimed she didn’t want to be subjected to the crush of holiday crowds, but Betsy knew it was the cold that frightened her.

The cramped but tidy waiting room at Dr. Kerr’s office was empty, except for a woman dressed in a pink nurse’s smock rocking a weeks-old infant. She cooed at the baby, reassuring him that his mother would be out shortly. There was a low table piled high with parenting and pregnancy magazines, beaming infant faces looking up at her from their covers, locking on to her gaze. Betsy scanned the stacks for something that wouldn’t terrify her, with all of their caustic warnings about runny cheese and caffeine. The sets of massive, searching baby eyes and the crying of the fussy boy—short bursts of volume followed by a snorting inhale—made her tense. On the seat next to her, someone had left behind most of The New York Times. And though germy abandoned newspapers also occupied a slot on her list of phobic worries, Gavin had made off with theirs that morning and missing a day of the news would further stoke her anxiety. The headlines were predictable: Bush continued to bungle the situation in North Korea, seventy dead in a Baghdad car bombing.

Then, on page four, Betsy saw it. She drew in a sharp breath and suddenly understood why Gavin had urged Betsy to take a well-earned mental health day.

SERIAL KILLER CONVICTED OF MURDERING FIVE IN FLORIDA IS EXECUTED

Her eyes darted across the first paragraph.

GAINESVILLE, Fla., Oct. 25—The man convicted of murdering five college students here in 1990 was executed on Wednesday by lethal injection. Scott Charles McRae, 42, was pronounced dead at 6:13 p.m. at Florida State Prison. Witnesses said he stared toward them and began to sing just before the drugs were administered . . .

Betsy stopped reading. She suppressed the urge to vomit. Everything inside of her churned like a fire. And there was his picture, gazing out past her shoulder. His forehead was furrowed and his right hand covered his open mouth. From his still-warm grave, traveling across state lines and decades, she got one last, long look. Betsy could feel her throat tighten. Her heart flipped suddenly and softly in her chest like a hooked fish. She jerked when the phone in her bag vibrated.

“I’m in a cab, sorry, I got a little sidetracked,” said Gavin. Betsy couldn’t speak. She breathed heavily into the phone, wincing with the tightening cramp that was now radiating down her left side.

“Bets—are you there? Everything OK?”

“I found the paper.” She could barely force the words.

“Christ. Shit. Where are you?”

“At Dr. Kerr’s.”

“Elizabeth Davis?” A young nurse in purple scrubs with a long dark ponytail stuck her head out from behind the office door, holding Betsy’s chart in her hand. Betsy felt the baby kick and a tight pull in her left side.

“I’m so sorry, Betsy, I was going to show you at lunch. I just wanted you to get through this appointment first.”

“I can’t fucking breathe, Gavin. Gavin, please, I can’t breathe . . .”

The nanny glared at her, pulling the boy tight to her chest.

“Ms. Davis? Everything alright?” The nurse was standing in front of her now. “Ms. Davis, just try to breathe.”

“I’m on my way, Bets,” said Gavin. “Just hold on.”





CHAPTER 21