We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008) Read online

  My entire body tensed. I stared down at that raised metal lever as if I could make the fact of it go away. I sensed something--some vitality--in the darkness over my shoulder. With deep foreboding, I turned. A man's outline, barely discernible in the darkness, stood backed to the kitchen counter. The form tensed, registering my focus, then sprang at me.

  His shove hurtled me into the wall. I collided hard, bouncing off and swinging. He'd already thrown the sliding door open and was halfway out, but I clipped his chin. He reeled back, the door screeching along the tracks. Though the overhang shadowed the balcony, the lower half of his face passed through a band of yellow light from the opposing streetlight, and what I saw froze me with shock. I was still for just an instant, but it was time enough for him to get off a kick to my chest.

  My view tilted, and then the carpet was there like a horizon. Through the swirl of dust raised by my cheek, I saw the dark form leap recklessly from the balcony and strike the telephone pole. A grunt at impact, limbs scrabbled for purchase, and then he

  lurched down out of view.

  I got up, clutching my ribs, each inhale aching.

  Staggering to the balcony, still short of breath, I peered down in time to see him sprinting away, flashing into view at intervals beneath the streetlights. His footfalls--rubber soles shushing across asphalt--rasped back from the unlit carports in half echoes.

  I'd caught my breath but still felt winded. Not from the pain, not anymore, but because the wide, wild mouth I'd seen illuminated in that band of light belonged to Charlie.

  Chapter 21

  It was impossible. And yet there was no mistaking that mouth. Before the concussion wave had knocked me unconscious in the power plant, I'd seen the explosive flash at Charlie's head. There was no way that he'd emerged unscathed. But I never actually saw him dead. Maybe his head hadn't blown up at all. Maybe the memory had been implanted by government drones. Maybe the trauma had tipped me into a delusion sleep, and I'd awakened with bits and pieces of a story forged from my reinforced paranoia.

  Had I dreamed it all up? My fingers found the little wound in my cheek. Score one for reality. I went into the stark white light of my bathroom and peroxided the cut, then checked the skin of my chest and arms. Still faintly red from the blast.

  Something had happened to me. And to Charlie. But what?

  I paced my claustrophobic condo, checking and rechecking locks, fighting with myself about whether it was safe to stay. My sense of isolation, I realized, was compounded by the fact that I'd dissected my home telephone. None of my friends had a way to reach me, and I was hardly in the mood to call around and give people the number of a disposable cell phone that I was soon going to throw away.

  Shortly after 7:00 A.M., I resolved to go and check in to a motel under a fake name until I could figure out my next move. I shouldered the rucksack full of money and threw open the front door, nearly barking my surprise at the cheery DHL delivery guy staring back at me. He handed me a padded envelope and an electronic clipboard. In elaborate, illegible cursive, I signed Foghorn Leghorn and sent him on his chipper way.

  I returned the rucksack to its home, then fought open the adhesive flap of the padded envelope. A Nokia phone slid out into my palm. I stared at it, spinning my tires and looking for traction.

  It rang.

  I dropped it and vaulted the counter into the living room. Crouching, I waited. No explosion, just three more linoleum-rattling rings and then silence. They were probably waiting to hear my voice before pushing the red button. It started up again, shrill and unnerving. A seeming eternity until it silenced. Slowly I crossed to the sliding glass door and nudged aside one of the vertical blinds with my knuckle. No dark sedans, no hovering helicopters, no glinting sniper scopes on the opposing roof.

  I grabbed the screwdriver next to my disassembled home telephone, then tentatively rounded the counter and regarded the Nokia, working up my courage for the five-step approach. Finally I picked up the phone. It shrilled in my hand, putting a charge into my heart rate, and I dropped it and stumbled back, tripping over a cereal box. Through the V of my bare feet, I watched the angry, clattering Nokia until it silenced. Then I pounced on it, using the Phillips-head to crack the cheap plastic casing. I sorted through the electrical entrails and the battery compartment but found nothing resembling C-4. The wires had come loose from the circuit board, and I stared at the broken unit, dismayed. I'd likely just dismembered my best chance to find out what the hell was going on.

  My name and address were typed on the packing slip, but the sender information remained blank. No account number. The envelope boasted of same-day service. I called DHL from my cell phone and, after a costly wait, determined that the package had been dropped off at a Mailboxes N More on Lincoln first thing this morning. When I reached the store, the owner was indignant that I'd believe his business to be so sluggish that he'd remember an individual customer. The paperwork, of course, showed that the sender had paid cash.

  The store was a few miles from my place. The sender had known to call the Nokia immediately after it was delivered, which meant he was watching.

  I took the disemboweled phone downstairs and set it on the square of lawn in front of my apartment, near the curb so it was visible from my bedroom window. Then I set up camp with a cup of instant coffee and my binoculars by the vertical blinds in my bedroom. The lenses aimed through a sliver of light, I sat on my chair until my ass grew numb. Facing windows, parked cars, passersby--nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A Labradoodle sniffed at the phone casing and found it not worth his interest. A skateboarder stopped to examine the tangle of wires before passing on. By one o'clock my bladder had reached bursting point and caffeine had my stomach roiling. Finally a big white truck pulled over in front of my building and the driver ambled up the walk. In the core of the building, the elevator whirred to life.

  A few moments later, my doorbell rang.

  Gratefully, I rose, my lower back and knees aching. The same delivery guy smiled the same grin and handed me the same padded envelope. I signed Pepe Le Pew and thanked him.

  A transparent Nokia slid out from the box, a tweenie model designed to show off the electronic entrails. I felt understood.

  It rang within seconds, and I clicked the green button. "Hello?"

  A gruff voice I didn't recognize said, "I have something you want. The Hyatt on Sunset, West Hollywood. Mezzanine level. Show up at seven. Alone. Do not come earlier. Do not tell anyone you're coming. I'm watching you. Do you need me to repeat any of this information?"

  "No. Are you the one who took pictures of me--"

  "Seven o'clock."

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 22

  Emily answered the door and scowled at me. "We gave at the office."

  "Is Callie here?" I asked.

  She pointed to the bronze placard screwed into the wall. "No solicitors."

  "Where's Callie?"

  "Sorry, we're full up on drama this week." Under my steady gaze, she finally broke eye contact, popping her jaw. "At work."

  I was surprised. "Where's she work?"

  "Gallery."

  "Why are you home?"

  "Assembly day. Drug awareness. They're

  teaching us to 'just say no.' I've perfected saying no, so I figured I'd take a pass."

  "I just need to get something from the attic."

  She held out her arms as if preparing for an aria. Her moth-eaten maroon sweater had baggy sleeves that turned her arms into wings. She cleared her throat, readying her instrument. 'Wo." A fake smile. "I told you."

  "Why not?"

  "My dad said not to let you in if you came back."

  "Look, I just need to look through the boxes in the attic one more time. Then I'll leave you alone."

  "Tempting offer." She thought for a moment, then waved me in.

  I followed her up the stairs. "What was it like running away forever?" she asked over her shoulder.

  "It was a weird situation."
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  "Still. Sounds heavenly."

  " 'Heavenly.' Eight letters across, twelve points."

  She smirked. "Seventeen points. Or sixty-seven with the bingo bonus, plus more cuz you'd cross at least one premium square."

  "Uncle." I held up my hands, ceding point, set, and match. Then I asked, "It's really that bad?

  Living here?"

  "I liked my old school. My old friends. Our old house. Just me and my dad. Your mom's all uptight about wiping the counters and stuff. And they're so gross together. All kissy and stuff. Who wants to be around that?"

  Not me.

  We reached the second-floor hall, and she pointed at the hatch and disappeared into her room. I took a moment to collect myself; I was still a bit jumpy from the cell-phone exchange. The Mystery Caller had sent the second Nokia from a different location and paid cash again. No one at that store had remembered him either. Both of the Nokia accounts had been prepaid and were equally unsourceable. Whoever I was up against knew the steps of this particular dance.

  I climbed into the attic, squinting in the faint light, at first unsure of my eyes. The boxes containing Frank's possessions were gone. I searched the space to see if they'd been moved behind a beam or to the far side of the air-conditioner unit. Bewildered, I kept looking around as if the boxes were going to warp back into existence. Who the hell was shuffling through the darkness like a stagehand between acts, leaving telltale photographs, speaking cryptically over delivered phones, stealing boxes out of attics? Finally conceding reality, I climbed back down and knocked on Emily's door.

  "What?"

  "Can I come in?"

  "I guess."

  I opened the door. She was lying on her belly, facing away, playing Space Invaders, using one of those new joysticks that holds a thousand retro games right inside it.

  "Do you know what happened to the moving boxes in the attic?"

  "Yeah, I keep LoJack on all your mom's junk. Let me pull up the GPS screen right now and we'll track 'em in real time."

  "This is important," I said. She ignored me, so I crossed and unplugged the joystick.

  "You're an asshole."

  She looked genuinely hurt. Her eyes were tearing--I'd violated her trust after she'd done me a favor by letting me in. I'd been there myself. How had Frank always known how to handle me?

  "Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I know it must be hard being uprooted like this--"

  "You don't know anything. Spare me your condescension."

  "Em, I need to find out if someone came and took those boxes. This isn't a game. This could be dangerous. For you, your dad, and Callie."

  She studied my face a long time, deciding if she could believe me. Then she said, "I don't know anything about any boxes. I swear. If they're gone, someone could've come this morning and taken them when I was at school and my dad and Callie

  were at work."

  "I want you to lock all the doors and windows after I leave, okay? I'm gonna look into some stuff and then come back tonight and talk to your dad

  and Callie."

  She sat up, cross-legged, pushing the fringe of her sweater down nervously with both fists. "Okay."

  "Promise me you'll lock up everything. I'm gonna give you my cell-phone number--"

  "I have my dad's cell phone. He's a cop. Unlike you."

  She followed me down and closed the door behind me. I waited on the front step, listening for the metallic thunk. I waited some more. I was just stepping toward the doorbell when Emily called out, "Kidding" and threw the dead bolt.

  My pseudo-martial-arts class, taught on sticky blue mats in the basement of my gym, finally moved on to aikido throws, my favorite part of the session. I like aikido because it doesn't focus on punching and kicking, the crass offensive. Instead it teaches you to use your opponents' energy and momentum against them. The quick sidestep, the locked joint, the tug-and-throw that sends your off-balance attacker hurtling by. I had the skills and the reflexes for it. Fat lot of good they'd done me last night.

  After, I ran on the treadmill, hoping that the pounding would clarify my thoughts, separate the specks of gold from the silt. But my troubles pursued me even here, staring out from the mounted TVs. Occasionally misspelled closed captions gave to-the-minute poll coverage. President Bilton was still trailing, but he was closing the gap. His running mate, Ted Appleton, a labor-and-farm guy from Pennsylvania, was hardworking and almost

  as bland as Bilton himself. But he had the same old-boy skills--the deflection, the dismissive chuckle, the snide implication--that wore overloaded voters down into submission, like besieged prom dates who'd run out of excuses not to put out. Watching Bilton and Appleton waving to filled Mountain State bleachers, I was struck by the dangerous complacency of their calculated campaign and know-better personas. Even from my own apathetic viewpoint, Caruthers's energy seemed a possible antidote.

  I showered, and dressed in front of my locker, ignoring the usual guys who liked to walk around naked and pretend that no one noticed because we were all so grown-up.

  In the rooftop parking lot, I chirped my auto-unlock and climbed into my pickup. Before I could get the key into the ignition, the passenger door opened and Wydell slid into the seat. He held a notepad on his knee on which he'd written, Don't talk. Your vehicle is wired.

  He said, "I suppose you're wondering why a special agent in charge would bother to pay you a personal visit."

  I stared at him, and he gestured impatiently.

  I said, "I'm wondering why you're harassing me." On his pad I wrote, Who?

  He nodded good job and spoke while he scribbled. "You did us a favor three nights ago, and I'd like to repay it before you learn what hardball is."

  He tilted the pad to me. We put it in this morning.

  "I've played hardball. I was scholarship material." So why warn me?

  He paused from scribbling, scratching his nose above the jag where it bent left, a gold cuff link peeking into view. "You could've been a contender. But that was a long time ago." Problem. Mole in the department.

  "You just pop by to Dr. Phil me, or do you have something useful to say?" I circled Who? twice, emphatically.

  "It's come to our attention that you've been looking into matters as pertain to the San Onofre incident. Is that true?" Don't know. Major sting in works. Answers soon.

  "Not in the least. You'd think guys in the intel business would get their facts straight." Mole for who?

  "For a disinterested guy, you're opening a lot of old doors." Not sure.

  "I guess almost dying in a fiery nuclear blast can serve as a wake-up call. I'm reassessing some things." Whole Service compromised?

  "You're not digging around where you shouldn't be?" Extent unclear.

  "Not that it's any of your goddamned business, but no." Is Sever dirty?

  "Keep it that way." I can't protect you. Stay away.

  He tucked the pad under his arm and got out, slamming the door. I watched him walk away until he disappeared into the shadows of the overhang.

  Chapter 23

  After bucking Sunset traffic for forty nerve-grinding minutes, I pulled up to the Hyatt a hair before seven. I valeted and took in the trendy stretch of the Strip. Next door, people were already lined up for the Comedy Store, and across the street thin women in strappy dresses and chunky heels teetered into SkyBar, laughing into cell phones too small to see.

  After the gym I'd returned to the spy shop and bought a magnetometer wand, feeling unsettled at my growing kit of implements of paranoia. In an alley by my building, I'd wanded down the truck as I'd seen Frank do so many times and found, embedded in my visor mirror, the digital transmitter that Wydell had warned me about. I'd taped the bug to the wheel well of a neighbor who always complained to me when our mail got mixed up.

  The Hyatt had been tarted up in keeping with its hipster surroundings. I moved swiftly through the slick lobby and mounted the broad steps to the mezzanine. I could feel the pitch of tension rising inside me
, prickling my skin. Ducking into the bathroom, I splashed water on my face. A sign by the paper-towel rack urged workers to wash their hands. It was written in Spanish only. I found that presumptuous.

  At the right edge of the mezzanine, a glossy sign on an easel announced OPAQUE, A UNIQUE DINING EXPERIENCE. A number of well-dressed couples chattered nervously on modern couches, but no one seemed to be waiting for me. Arty black-and-white photos of L.A. cityscapes punctuated the hall beyond.

  I walked over to the podium. A calligraphic sign next to a stainless tray said, Please check cell phones and pagers here, and a number of customers had. A handsome man with a blond goatee glanced up from the reservation book.

  "Hi. I'm Nick Horrigan. I'm not sure--"

  "Yes, we're expecting you." A firm accent, Swiss or German. "Jocelyn will lead you to your table."

  "Lead?"

  A heavyset black woman shuffled over, skimming a hand along the wall, smiling a bit too broadly. As she neared, I saw the vacant stare and realized she was blind. The host took my hand and hers and joined them with odd, New Age ceremony. Sliding my hand up her arm to rest on her shoulder, Jocelyn turned away, leading me, and asked, "How are you doing tonight, sir?"

  "Baffled." We came around the corner and whisked through a heavy velvet curtain into an unlit, narrow corridor comprised of more curtains stretching up to the high ceiling. The velvet behind us whispered back into place, leaving us in total darkness.

  No visible exits, no easy escape route. My worst nightmare.

  I broke a sweat, debated a retreat. Jocelyn, of course, took no notice. My concern rising with every step, I followed her through another curtain into what felt like a larger space. My heightened senses picked up faint giggles, rings knocking against wineglasses, the smell of charred meat.

  I'd blundered into a conceptual dining experience, an evergreen Los Angeles trend. The crap they dreamed up to justify twenty-dollar cocktails--aquarium-tank floors, fruit-infused shochu bars, scorpion toast served within eyeshot of Santa Monica Airport's private runways. And now darkness. You could slit someone's throat over a glass of Syrah in here and never disrupt the atmospherics.