Free Moving Day: A Thriller by Jonathan Stone Page B

regarded her that way sometimes. As if there were no other matter, no other protoplasm in the universe. Blinkered, bottomless, utter desire. Beyond words, beyond description. But now, of course, they were headed off to find those same possessions she was sure had no comparative meaning to him. Making her question what had so long seemed unquestionable. Making her challenge the one unchallengeable assumption of her married lifetime.
    The interstellar display of evening lights has flicked on. They drive on in silence until her question. “Will they stop somewhere?”
    “At this point, it’s just a he, I think,” Stanley tells her. “He’s not going to stay the night anywhere, I’ll bet,” he says. “He’ll drive all night, into the next day.”
    “Do you know where he’s going?”
    He shakes his head no. “Somewhere sparse. Somewhere they attract no attention. That’s my guess. He might stop for food and certainly gas, but that’s all. But we’ll stay the night somewhere. The signal should remain.”
    A concession she knows is mainly for her. She knows he could drive all night. He has the stamina. Even at seventy-two. He is a halfstep slower these days, but he is magically healthy, blessed with an almost animal vigor. In the rare menial task when he needs it—lifting luggage, shifting furniture—he still has much of his bull-like strength. He exudes a life force that makes some of their increasingly frail friends jealous, she sees. His energy can seem, well, inhuman. An apt description, if you strip
inhuman
of its negative connotation, that is.

    At the Four Seasons in Cleveland, the valet takes the Mercedes. There is a midwestern ease, a slow, informal pulse, to the bellmen and the desk staff that is at odds with the majesty and hauteur of the lobby as the Pekes check in. They have called ahead to some old friends, a retired oncologist from the Cleveland Clinic and his wife, whom they first met on a Caribbean vacation years before.
Yes, we’re driving cross-country. Once before we croak.
In their phone conversations to set up a dinner, the theft never comes up.
    They meet at La Fontanelle, Cleveland’s finest French restaurant.
    The Mercers smile broadly as they approach the Pekes, seem nearly giddy, as if with the unmediated glee of having won a contest and now striding up to collect the prize. All four of them are dressed with like smartness for the occasion, the men in crisp navy blazers and bright ties, the women in simple but sophisticated dresses, with print scarves and shawls. The Mercers have, Peke can sense, new spring in their step, new energy, on seeing their old Caribbean pals, and he feels some of this energy, too, though he knows it is only the Mercers’ energy momentarily reflected in him.
    “Hello, hello, hello”—an awkward but affectionate pas de quatre, an effervescent round of handshakes and hugs and arms across backs. Peke sees Rose’s joy of connection—a temporary break from the pressures of events, from her loneliness amid them. Full decorum is restored only as they are led to their table.
    The restaurant achieves its strived-for Europeanness—a Europeanness that, paradoxically, seems to become more pronounced, Peke sees, more strived for in certain settings, the farther into America they go. A regal, formal, forced elegance: crystal chandeliers suspended from high ceilings, a thick leather folio of wines to choose from, even the dining chairs correct in proportion, immediate in comfort, rife with civility. It is a Europe he never knew, of course. A Europe that was taken away from him when he was still a boy. A Europe that, he can see, exists in American dreams as it exists in his own. Does this in fact make him more of an American? Sharing this wistful fantasy of Europe? It is another misty irony in his double lifetime.
One life collapsing into another.
    “So. The continental crossing,” says Dr. Bob Mercer, grandly, safely.
    Stanley Peke nods with a smile.
    “Well, welcome