We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008) Page 28

I backed to the stucco wall, trying to stay calm,

  and got my bearings. I was on the east side of the building--a few feet of concrete and then the fence. Alan was in the bedroom, James back with Caruthers, and the political aide was just out of view around the corner--I could hear him pacing and talking on his cell phone. Three steps to the fence. I scaled it as silently as possible, making sure my shoes didn't knock against the wood, and dropped to as quiet a landing as I could manage. Then I sprinted to the car.

  I took off swiftly and drove as fast as I dared. If I got pulled over, I'd find myself back in the system, and right now that wasn't a safe place to be. My eyes flicking continually to the rearview mirror, I turned onto the freeway.

  I didn't have a phone number or I might have called ahead, but part of me needed to hear it in person.

  I had forty minutes to clear my head.

  Still, pulling over in front of the house, I took a moment, closed my eyes. I pictured Frank the first time I ever met him, in our kitchen, too big for the little chair. Hand on my mom's knee. That stupid Garfield clock with its clicking eyes and tail. English Leather and Maxwell House. There will always be a place for your father in this house.

  I climbed out, my steps heavy up the walk.

  No.

  I rang the bell.

  Not Frank.

  A moment later the door creaked back and Lydia Flores peered out at me. Her face lightened--a break from the crossword puzzles and the cheesy soaps and the porcelain cats and the dead family history depicted in photos on the unused piano and the too-high fence penning it all in, the final insult to a lifetime of injuries.

  "Nick," she said. "Hello." She pushed the screen aside, and her expression shifted when she saw my face. "More questions for your article?"

  I blurted, "Whose campaign?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  My words were a jumble. I couldn't figure out how to convey what needed to be conveyed, or what was riding on it. "The campaign-- Did Jane work . . . ? Who was she working for?"

  Lydia shook her head, concerned by me and also taken aback. "Jasper Caruthers, of course."

  Chapter 46

  Gunning along the freeway, I heard my crappy phone ring. My hand chased it around the passenger seat, and then I answered.

  Caruthers said, "Nick."

  The voice caused sweat to tingle across my shoulders. Blood rushed to my face, the cut in my

  cheek aching again.

  "Where to from here?" he asked. I didn't answer, so he said, "I'd imagine you're not after money."

  "I'm after the truth."

  "And getting it out? Think of the ramifications. You want Andrew Bilton back in office? The world is at stake and he's spent the last four years grabbing his ankles for the special interests."

  "Yeah, but I'm not holding evidence of his crimes."

  "Come over. We've got plenty."

  "He didn't kill Jane and Gracie Everett. Charlie and Mack Jackman. Or my stepfather."

  "Baseless claims."

  "Then why are you calling me?"

  "I want you to go back to your life, Nick. But with peace this time. Nothing hanging over you. At least give me the opportunity to try to talk some sense into you."

  "You killed your own baby. You want to talk to me about sense?"

  "Son, trust me, you're not ready for this game."

  "Don't call me 'son,' Senator."

  "Nick, we don't want to do this. I'll erode your credibility so hard your head'll spin. Think about your past. Your suspicious involvement in Frank's death. A conspiracy theorist who has an ax to grind with the Secret Service? I'll have you brought in, and once you're in the jaws of the system, you'll get chewed up faster than you can say Scooter Libby, and I'll sail to two terms."

  "I have evidence."

  "We've dealt with forged documents before.

  This'll get killed before you can blink. Look what happened to Dan Rather, and, Nick, you're a far cry from Dan Rather. My team won't permit me to get sullied by a false story concocted by a man on the run from the law. There's no fax-by-night solution, not in this day and age. It's a long way from a questionable document to the front page, with plenty of interference. I have editors at all the newspapers. I have people who own all the conglomerates. I have disaster-response teams and crisis managers and reputation polishers and flak catchers. I've got emergency funds with more digits than the inflation in Ecuador. You set this mouse loose in the labyrinth and we'll see who knows this game."

  "Okay," I said.

  "It's not about information. It's about who's holding it. No one will believe what you have to say. You're nobody they'll listen to, Nick."

  "So much for a transparent campaign, huh?"

  He'd exhausted himself and now just sounded drained. "Nick, it's complicated. It's all complicated."

  "Not when you're a nobody, it's not." I rolled down the window and flipped the phone out. In the rearview I saw the pieces bouncing at different heights, pursuing the rear bumper like left-behind crickets.

  I reached Santa Monica and pulled in to a gas station. I paid cash to fill up and found a new brand

  of prepaid cell phone on the rack behind the counter. The minutes plan sucked, but my cell phones had shorter shelf lives than Hollywood marriages. I added to the counter a convenience-store-priced box of Ziploc bags.

  Sitting in the car as the pump ran, I called Callie and asked her to conference in Steve at the office. After some hesitations and an accidental hang-up, all three of us were on the line.

  I said, "It's the other candidate."

  Callie: "Caruthers? "

  "Jane Everett worked on his campaign. He got her pregnant. He had them killed."

  "Who did the killing?" Steve asked.

  "People who worked for him." What else could I say? Mr. Pager? Two Eastern Europeans? The answer was likely whoever was in the dark sedan that drove away with Jane Everett, but I didn't have time to explain all that. If Tris's message got through, I'd find out at midnight. On the Glendale High pitcher's mound.

  Steve's voice was muffled. "They just put out a citywide BOLO on you. Your face is all over. I guess the public is willing to believe anyone's a terrorist now."

  "What are you going to do?" Callie asked.

  I said, "I'm not sure yet."

  "Will I see you again?"

  "I hope so."

  "You're not going to run?"

  I could hear her breathing over the line, the click of the gas meter running up cents and dollars, the wax and wane of passing traffic. I said, "Not this time."

  The pump clicked off. I said good-bye and hung up.

  A few minutes later, I eased along that quiet residential slope in Santa Monica Canyon where I'd met Caruthers on his jog. The houses abutted the street--small setbacks, frosted windows, and abbreviated front steps. I parked right beside the spot where Caruthers and I had talked, then grabbed a Ziploc bag and a pen from the glove box. When I climbed out, the thud of my closing door echoed off the aloof facades.

  I walked over to the gutter and crouched. There it was, preserved as I'd hoped. A beige dot, stuck to the mailbox post. Caruthers's nicotine gum, frozen where he'd thrown it. Using the pen, I pried the piece of gum off into the bag and sealed it.

  Driving back to Induma's, I tried to listen to the radio, but all talk was on politics. A mediocre senator claimed the moral high ground after his opponent addressed a female reporter as "honey." A House rep pleaded for us to Vote for Change. Someone wanted to tax cigarettes to pay for gasoline, or gasoline to pay for levees. Finally I opted for silence. Pulling over a few blocks from Induma's house, I wanded down the Jag but found no transmitters. It was the hind end of dusk as I

  scaled the neighbor's fence and hurried through Induma's backyard. I liked coming here, as I liked Callie's kitchen and Homer's tunnel and the other little nooks of warmth I'd carved out of the insanity of the past week. Eight nights ago I'd been dragged off the floor of my condo and hustled onto that Black Hawk. Eight nigh
ts, but to me it felt like a third lifetime.

  When she opened the back door, I held up the little plastic bag, letting the chewed ball of gum swing.

  She said, "You know, some guys bring flowers."

  "It's Caruthers's."

  I watched the wheels turn behind her dark, intelligent eyes, and then she blinked once, long, and said, "DNA sample."

  "You can get one from gum, right?"

  "I've heard you can."

  She stepped back and I came in, and the house smelled of caramelized onions. We stood just inside, facing each other like nervous prom dates.

  "I got the bone-chip analysis," she said. "The sample in your cheek matched Charlie Jackman. I have the report upstairs."

  "Can you run one more analysis?"

  "Against the person on the paternity report? Unidentified Male?"

  "Unidentified Male," I said.

  "You've been busy."

  "Me and him both."

  "Yes, I can get the analysis run. To determine if the same person who chewed that gum fathered that child."

  She walked to the couch, and I followed her. Pillow back in her lap, she took in the update.

  When I finished, she ran her hands through her dark hair. She took a deep breath and tilted her head to the ceiling as she exhaled. "Caruthers is the better candidate for president. You know it and I know it. And you have something sure to stop him."

  We sat with the weight of that for a moment. It seemed like a stupendous choice, but it wasn't much of a choice at all.

  Induma's pragmatism finally got the better of her. "How are you planning to put this out in a way so the public gets onto it?"

  "Can you have the DNA results back by Thursday morning?"

  "Why Thursday mor--" Comprehension flickered across her face. "Oh, no, Nick. The debate? You can't be . . . ?"

  "Town-hall format, remember?"

  "The debate's a farce, Nick, like everything else. The questions are all vetted, and the people asking them'H be screened six times over. They're only gonna let VIPs and preselected demographic types even get inside the building. All that on top of the fact that the Secret Service, which'll be de facto running the event, will be on the lookout for you." She shook her head, her hair swaying. "There's no way for you to get the ultrasound inside Royce Hall without being seen."

  "Well," I said, "there is one way."

  She studied me, an eyebrow arched with curiosity. But she didn't ask. Instead she said, "I thought you were going to disappear, mail this in, let someone else handle it."

  I looked over at that sandalwood Buddha, still laughing in the alcove. My throat was dry.

  I said, "There's no one left to handle it."

  The enormity of the challenge sat between us, fearsome and overwhelming. But we started to talk through my plan, one step at a time. Induma brought back the gear I needed from her garage-workshop and rigged it to her satisfaction. Nightfall came shortly, but neither she nor I moved to turn on a lamp. Maybe we were too distracted by what we were contemplating, but more likely a part of us welcomed the dark. These were unsafe ideas, better murmured in unlit rooms where they were no more than words without owners, where we were faceless shadows on a couch.

  Suddenly Induma's silhouette stiffened. With alarm I looked over my shoulder, following her gaze, and through the front windows I saw the band of light that had sprung into existence, illuminating the street end of her walk. Something had tripped the motion sensor down there by the curb. Gnats pinged around in the emptiness between the

  waist-high bamboo lining the concrete path. We watched, breathless.

  A pair of men in suits emerged from the dark of the street, piercing the cold, white glow.

  Agents. I recognized them from when I'd had that kid run my credit card at Starbucks.

  The high-tech lights blinked on in succession, broadcasting their approach.

  Induma half stood, one knee on the couch. We were frozen. Their voices became audible as they stepped onto the porch.

  The doorbell rang, breaking whatever spell had paralyzed us.

  Induma hissed, "Go."

  "I don't want to leave y--"

  "They came up the front walk--they're just here to poke around and harass me. Believe me, I can handle this. But you need to go now, or we both run out of options."

  I started for the rear door, hesitated.

  Induma said, fiercely, "If they catch you here, it's over."

  The doorbell rang again.

  I scrambled out the back. Someone--another agent--was fussing with the latch, trying to open the side gate. I sprinted across the lawn, vaulted the boxwood hedge, and skidded down the canal slope, water seeping through my shoes.

  As quietly as possible, I sloshed the length of four houses, stooping under footbridges, dodging sleeping ducks with their heads turned to rest on their backs. A flashlight beam played briefly in Induma's yard, but no one crossed the barrier to check the canal. I misjudged my proximity to a cluster of mallards, and they exploded up in a spray of water and pinfeathers, scaring me senseless. I bolted up onto someone's deck and cut through an easement overgrown with foxtails.

  Induma's house was no longer visible, but still I crept through front yards to avoid stepping out into the open. The Jag was where I'd left it, in the shadows between streetlights. I drove away, forcing myself not to speed. My hands shook as I called my mom. Steve answered.

  I said, "They're closing the net. I had to warn you they might come--"

  He cut me off. "Yeah, Janice, she can't talk right now. We've got some people here asking about her son."

  He hung up.

  I pulled over and sat in the car, breathing hard. Caruthers's men were beating the bushes, cutting down my options, forcing me to keep on the run where I'd be likely to make a mistake. I had to find somewhere to bed down until everything blew open. But I had nowhere left to go.

  Except back where it all started.

  I blended in with the slipcovered furniture, breathing the familiar air, becoming a part of this house that had become a part of me. The walls echoed with memories. Sitting in the armchair of the otherwise-empty living room, sheltered by this structure that had sheltered me as a child, I closed my eyes, and in the sweet musk of dust and rotting wood, past became present and present past. Here Frank had embraced me and called us a family. Here he'd bled to death in my arms. Here I sat, waiting to duplicate my walk of seventeen years ago, from back door to pitcher's mound.

  I rose.

  It was time to meet Frank's killer.

  Chapter 47

  In the dark on the pitcher's mound, I breathed in the smells of my youth. Damp grass, rosin dust, and the vintage blend of infield dirt--silt, sand, and red clay. It seemed inconceivable that I'd played on these grounds, that I'd lost my virginity on this very spot. I hadn't been back to Glendale High, not since that night.

  I was waiting in the great wide open. Given that everyone knew what cards I was playing, my strategy had changed. Mr. Pager would have been long tipped off that I was the enemy. If he came here expecting Tris Landreth and saw me instead, he'd be unable to resist confronting me, finding out where I'd stashed the evidence, and killing me.

  Or he'd just shoot me from a distance. That would render my plan less effective.

  In right field a sprinkler chopped away, going it alone. I couldn't see the streams, just the moist gleam of the darkness over there. I thought about my first glimpse of Isabel McBride on the mound, the breeze plastering her sundress against her contoured form. How different she was now. How different we all were.

  My shoes, and pants from the knee down, were still damp from the canal. I was wearing a jacket I'd bought earlier, but it wasn't for comfort alone. Aside from some white-noise traffic and the staccato beat of the sprinkler, the school was quiet. Desolate, even. A few distant streetlights. The buildings, flat blocks against a moonless sky. The glow of my cell phone showed 12:18 A.M. Mr. Pager, true to form, was fashionably late. Scouting me out this very moment
. Crosshairs leveled at my head, perhaps, or maybe he was placing a call to two Eastern European gentlemen with a penchant for inquiry. I tried to relax, to let the cool breeze blow through my clothes and cleanse me. I'd been lured to this place seventeen years ago, avoiding Frank's killer. And now I'd come back to face him.

  I sensed movement at the fringe of visibility, shadow against shadow, and then a form resolved. Circling like a shark, head turned watchfully, not to me but to the darkness beyond. I was not a perceived threat. Painstakingly he drew closer, until I

  recognized the bearing, and then at last, the pale, lean face.

  He stepped forward and stopped, about halfway to home plate. The boogeyman in a dark suit. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and I noted the bulge in the fabric.

  Wydell spread his arms as if to say, Here I am. Then he put his hands back in his pockets. "Without evidence you've got nothing. Which brings us to the question at hand." "Or the questions before that," I said. "Which are?" "Sever?"

  "Sever doesn't know anything. He's a good soldier."

  "The guys who guarded Jane Everett?" "Hired hands. Bulgarian operatives, Cold War discards looking for work." "There are Bulgarian operatives?" "You bet your ass. It's an ugly world." "Uglier by the minute. What happened to them?" "One had an accident. One bought a boat and drifted off. You'll never find him. Least I haven't

  been able to." "You must have had more help inside the

  Service. Besides the Godfather."

  "Brown?" Wydell smirked. "Caruthers still has an inner core, sure. Five, six agents. They're loyal. They view you as a threat. They don't need to know anything else."

  I pictured those agents who'd come striding up Induma's walk earlier this evening, how their blank expressions and firm posture conveyed a certain assurance of purpose, a freedom from uncertainty.

  "But you still don't get it," Wydell continued. "This isn't about Caruthers and some agents. This is the party apparatus. Do you have any idea how many defense contracts and subsidy deals rest on his not getting knocked off the ticket? What happened seventeen years ago? No one cares. No one even knows the whole story. Not even Caruthers."

  I thought about Caruthers's tears when I'd told him what had happened to Jane and Gracie. Though I believed nothing else about him, his grief in that moment was undeniable. He'd never known precisely how it had gone down. He'd been well cushioned by plausible deniability, insulated all these years by the people protecting him. Somehow that made it worse.