Page 39 of The Lie Maker

She recognized the voice. One of her contacts with the Boston PD.

“Go ahead.”

“They found the doctor.”

Twenty-Two

Jack

Back in the van, Gwen ordered me to put the blindfold back on for our return to Boston. I put my notebook on the seat next to me, picked up the cloth, and did as I was told. The last thing I saw before putting it into place was Bill standing on the porch of the cabin, giving us a friendly wave goodbye.

Scorsese started up the vehicle and we were off, the sound of gravel crunching under the tires loud enough that it wasn’t worthwhile to engage in any conversation. Once we hit the main road, things got quieter, but I didn’t feel like talking much.

I was a little shell shocked, I guess. And Gwen had picked up on it.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

It had all seemed a bit of a lark up to now. Being asked to imagine past lives for people I didn’t know had struck me as a fun idea at the outset. Challenging and mysterious all at once. I got a Walter Mitty–like buzz out of this assignment.

And having to keep it all a secret was, in its own way, part of what made the work all the more tantalizing. I could walk down to the deli for my whole wheat bagel with chive cream cheese and look at all the other customers and think: None of you have any idea what I am up to. I am working for the government on a very hush-hush project. As if all that weren’t enough, I knew it was driving Lana crazy, not knowing what I’d been engaged to do.

But lunch with Bill had left me, at least for the moment, shaken. The reality of what the man was facing hit home. This was no fucking game. This guy’s life was on the line. If Gwen didn’t hide him well enough, and if I didn’t do my part in giving him convincing stories to tell, he was a dead man.

And it got me to thinking about more than just Bill. It was all starting to feel a little too close to home.

“Talk to me,” Gwen said about ten minutes into our trip back to the city. We were back on a main highway, judging by how fast it felt that we were traveling. She sounded close, and had evidently turned around in the middle seat so that I could hear her better, even if I couldn’t see her.

“About?”

“That meeting with Bill. It made an impact.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“It seems a little more real than it did before.”

“Yeah,” I said again.

“Bill—I guess it won’t surprise you to know that’s not his real name—but Bill can be a little dramatic at times.”

“Was he making that up? What they’d do to him if they found him?”

“No,” Gwen said.

I went quiet again, thinking.

“Did it help?” she asked. “Did getting to know him, even for that length of time, make it easier for you to craft a history for him?”

I took a moment to answer. “I suppose so.”

“But?”

“There’s no but.” I paused. “Maybe there is, but it’s got nothing to do with Bill.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. Is Bill’s experience pretty representative? Do all relocated witnesses live in that kind of perpetual fear?”

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