Go-Between

by Lisa Brackmann

  After that she stopped at the Best Buy and bought a new burner phone, just in case. Then treated herself to dinner at a “Contemporary American” restaurant close to the Galleria that had gotten a lot of good reviews: “pan-seared wild king salmon in red cherry barbeque sauce, with heirloom baby potatoes and broccolini drizzled with truffled lemon butter,” paired with a Washington pinot noir.

  By the time she got back to the hotel, it was close to 9 p.m. She smiled at the friendly desk clerks, took the elevator to her floor, unlocked the door to her room with the card key, hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. Tossed the bags of clothes on a chair. Kicked off her shoes, shed her Armani suit, hung it in the closet.

  She put on a baggy T-shirt and fell back onto the bed.

  This is insane, she thought. Danny is in jail, someone hurt him, and I’m eating truffled broccolini.

  Her iPhone rang. The Get Smart theme. Fucking Gary.

  “Hey, there. You do some shopping?”

  “Yeah, Gary.” She felt exhausted. “I did some shopping.”

  “Good. Looks like you’ll need the wardrobe. I gather you made a good impression.”

  “You talked to Porter?”

  He chuckled. “Now, did I say that?”

  “So, you talked to someone else? Why don’t you give me a hint?” The rush of adrenaline lifted her up on her elbows. “You don’t tell me things I need to know. Do you want me to fuck up? Is that it? Because I’ve thought a lot about what happened in Mexico. And the way it seems to me is, you don’t really care one way or the other.”

  For a moment, there was silence.

  “Of course I care,” he finally said. “Mexico was different.”

  “Different, how?”

  “Well … in that situation, there were a couple of scenarios I would’ve considered a success.” A snort. “Not the one that ended up happening, as it turned out.”

  “Such as?”

  “If you’d gotten good intel on Danny and what he was up to? That would’ve been great. If you’d … served as a reminder to him? You know, of what his situation was? That would’ve been useful too.”

  Don’t scream, she told herself. Don’t lose it.

  “Oh, you mean that someone who was fucking him might be spying on him? That situation? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “That, and what happens to people who don’t do what they’re told.”

  He sounded very calm.

  There it was, the threat. And the admission. That he’d tried to have her killed.

  Of course, she’d already known that.

  Gary’s sigh rattled the speaker of her iPhone. “Look, try to see it from my point of view. I didn’t know you back then. But I’ve moved beyond that, Michelle. I really have. Now I know you’re too valuable an asset to burn that way this time out.”

  She laughed. This was all such bullshit. “You’re blackmailing me into this. Just like you did before.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” He sounded so calm she could almost believe that he wasn’t a crazy man who’d once tried to kill her. “See, you could’ve walked away from this if you’d wanted to. This is about saving Danny’s hide. Not your own. Still surprises me, to be honest.”

  “And you wouldn’t have tried something else if Danny hadn’t worked? Threatened my family? Implicated me in my husband’s scam, maybe?”

  “Heh. Well, yeah. You’re probably right about that.”

  She took a moment to think. She knew a part of it was revenge—she and Danny had gotten away from Gary before, and that wouldn’t sit well with him. But the trouble he’d gone to, the money he was willing to spend … there had to be more to this particular op than just that.

  “You seem really anxious to have me look after this woman,” she said. “What’s so important about Caitlin O’Connor, Gary? And why me?”

  A chuckle.

  “Well, you know how it is, Michelle. It’s really hard to find a reliable babysitter these days.”

  I give up, she thought.

  She flopped back down on the bed.

  “So, Porter. What does he know? What can I tell him that’s safe?”

  A pause. “You’ve been recommended by several major donors. Porter’s inclined to look positively on you.”

  “And are you considered one of the donors? If I drop your name, is he going to recognize it?”

  A longer pause.

  “He’ll recognize my name,” Gary said. “But not as a donor. I’m just … an intermediary. You know, a go-between.”

  “Right.”

  “Expect a call from Porter tomorrow.”

  After he disconnected, Michelle lay on the bed for a while without moving.

  “Major donors” who used Gary as “a go-between.”

  This could not be good.

  There were a lot of things that she didn’t know about Gary. But there were a few things that she did know. He was one of the Boys.

  “Not everyone in the Company’s dirty,” Danny had said. “Most of them aren’t. It’s mainly that group, and they’ve been fucking the rest of us over since World War Two.”

  Them, along with several generations of very rich men. The Boys were their provocateurs, their shock troops. The ones who helped pave the way, who cleared the road of inconvenient obstacles.

  The Boys did what they wanted, regardless of who was officially “in charge.”

  “It’s the Deep State,” he’d explained. “Finance and dirty energy. Oil, mostly. Defense stuff, like ordinance and high-tech weapons systems, private contractors. The drug money keeps things running, especially the black ops that are off the books.”

  Michelle hadn’t wanted to believe any of this. Why not just bring on the UN black helicopters and the tinfoil hats? That was how crazy it had all seemed.

  But you get smacked in the head with the crazy hard enough, and what else were you supposed to believe?

  The Boys liked to keep some separation from the guys who did a lot of their dirty work. Danny had been a contractor, an “asset.” Gary, a few steps up the food chain from Danny—“Not exactly an asset. Not exactly official,” Danny had said. The “major donors” Gary worked for …

  What did they want with Safer America?

  “Welcome aboard.”

  Porter extended his hand across his expensive walnut desk. Michelle took it. He squeezed a little too hard. She’d never understood that, why some men felt the necessity to show their dominance through grip strength.

  “I’m really happy to be here,” she said.

  “We’d like you to start as soon as possible. Today, if you’d like. But if you need a little time to wind down your other obligations …”

  What had Gary told him?

  “I do have a few things I need to deal with.” She kept her voice cheerful. Reminded herself to smile. “If I could have a week, that would be great.”

  “That’s fine.” Porter seemed distracted, maybe by something on his computer screen. “Make sure you talk to Carla in personnel so you can fill out the W-4.”

  “Will do.” Great, she thought. Didn’t you need an address for a W-4? What was she supposed to put down? She couldn’t exactly use Emily’s address in Arcata.

  Her sister’s condo, maybe. Where the credit cards Gary had given her called home.

  “Do you have ideas about a place to live, here in Houston?” Porter asked suddenly. As if he’d read her mind.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’ve got a line on some corporate housing, if you’re interested. Semi-furnished. Not too far from here. Convenient, especially with all the travel you’ll be doing.”

  Michelle smiled at him. “Thank you. I’m very interested.”

  She needed to see Danny one more time, before it got any more complicated. Better to go as Emily—that’s how she’d gone before. Explaining Michelle’s presence there would be more than problematic. And if she was accompanying Caitlin on her media events and availabilities, to her high-profile
charity events, her parties …

  How easy was it to get known here?

  On Tuesdays, you could visit between 4 and 9 p.m.

  She waited in various lines. Put on a thin knit silk cardigan she’d brought for the refrigerated air. Avoided the horror that was the bathroom for the sixth floor visitors near Danny’s pod. Gave the guard the white slip of paper with his information. Sat on a cement stool with no padding, and rubbed down the speaker grate with a wet wipe, the shouting and laughing and crying of everyone around her blending into something like a human version of an orchestral warm-up.

  They brought him out. He wasn’t cuffed this time, which was a relief. He looked okay, she thought. Tired, mostly. Managed his half-smile when he saw her.

  “Hey,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “How are you doing?”

  He shrugged. Stood up and spoke into the grate: “The food sucks, the place stinks and there’s a large contingent of assholes.”

  “Other than that?”

  He grinned. At least she could still make him smile.

  “Are you still … are you having any problems?”

  That look again, the fractional headshake. Don’t ask.

  This time, she gave him a look back. The hint of a glare. Tell me.

  “One-time thing,” he said. “Just to let me know … what the situation was.”

  That he was vulnerable here. That they could get to him, any time they wanted.

  She’d suspected that. She’d known it, really. But still, it felt like a gut punch.

  “Shit.” She sat back and closed her eyes. It was all too much, this whole thing. How was she supposed to handle it?

  “Hey.”

  She opened her eyes. She had to look at him. To face this. He gestured toward the speaker grate. She put her ear back up to it.

  “Don’t … don’t worry. Just take care of yourself. I know you can do that.” His voice sounded warm, and urgent. She nodded.

  “Did you call Sam?” he asked.

  Her heart beat a little harder. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Couldn’t have it, more accurately. Not here.

  “Not yet.”

  He pulled away from the speaker, his expression once again weary. Studied her.

  “Look,” he finally said. “I get it if you’re done. I don’t blame you. But I need you to make that call for me.”

  “That’s not it,” she said, “That’s not it at all. It’s just that … Derek can’t?”

  He shook his head. “These aren’t people he talks to. It’s better if you do it. You can probably explain things better.”

  Things like Gary? she wondered.

  She leaned forward. Spoke into the grate. “I’m just a little worried. Because of the job. I’m not sure if …” How to put it? That she didn’t know if Sam was trustworthy? That she didn’t know what might happen if she exposed one of Gary’s operations to someone else? If Sam was working with Gary, then telling him was a problem. Gary hated it when people talked, and he’d punish her, or someone around her, if he found out. If Sam was on their side, could he get Danny out, or would he just make things worse? If he compromised her with Gary and didn’t have the juice to get her away from him …

  “Gary’s job?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m telling you, don’t do it.”

  She felt suddenly, irrationally angry.

  “You know, coming from a guy who …”

  She couldn’t finish. Because the rest of the sentence was, “Got busted for flying hundreds of pounds of pot to Texas and never paid much attention to my opinions on taking those kinds of gigs.”

  “Because it’s a bad idea?” she asked instead. “Or because you’re telling me not to?”

  “Because it’s a bad idea. You know it is.”

  It was, and she did.

  “Jesus, Em. I wish you’d listen to me.”

  “I’m listening,” she said. “I’ll make the call.”

  He seemed to relax, the line of his shoulders softening. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

  “I’ll try. It might get a little complicated.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Do what Sam says. He’ll take care of you.”

  Right, she thought.

  “I’m going home tomorrow,” she said. “To take care of a few things. I should be back in a few days.”

  She hesitated. She wanted to make some gesture, something to show him that she cared. She’d seen women actually press their lips against the window, but she wasn’t going to do that.

  Instead, she flattened her palm on the Plexiglas, just for a moment.

  It still felt fake. Like a scene from a bad prison movie.

  He watched her do it. Stared down at his own hands held flat on the counter. “Be careful,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought he seemed ashamed.

  “I will. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

  Once she got out in the hall, she tore open her second wet wipe and cleaned her hand with it.

  Stupid. You’re so stupid.

  The words repeated in her head like the world’s worst mantra. While she stood in the shower, washing the stink of the jail away, while she lay on her hotel bed, not able to sleep, until she finally gave up and took an Ambien.

  Seeing him in jail that first time, the rush of affection and fierce protectiveness she’d felt, now she thought it had been like she was acting out a part in a romance novel—save the handcuffed, wounded hero.

  This time, seeing him, the thrill was definitely gone.

  The jail was a horrible place, full of petty indignities. It was about waiting in lines, filling out forms, screaming into a spittle-flecked speaker, having to pee in an overflowing, shit-smeared toilet that no one seemed to care enough to clean. Watched every step of the way by guards, some of whom wore leather gloves padded with buckshot. It was horrible and stupid and mundane, like some kind of nightmare version of a prom at a poor public high school, men and women lined up on opposite sides of the glass.

  If I really care about him, I’m going to have to see this through, she thought. There’s no quick fix. What were the odds that Gary or Sam could just snap their fingers and make it all better? Or if they could, that either of them were willing to do so?

  She lay there, the Ambien slowly dissolving the knots in her head, and thought about it. How she really felt. Did she love Danny, really, without the fantasy? Considering who he was, and all the things he’d done?

  He’d done good things as well, she told herself. She’d believed him when he’d talked about the missions he’d flown. They hadn’t all been criminal.

  But what was the point of rationalizing it? That was what he’d done, what had helped him keep doing his job, until the bad things had piled up too high and tipped the balance.

  Did she owe him? On the one hand, he’d saved her ass. On the other, her ass wouldn’t have needed saving if she’d never met him.

  Though she’d probably be bankrupt and living in her sister’s spare room.

  She was finally dozing off. Once, twice, a fragmented thought broke through her drift towards sleep, jerking her awake, and she was irritated with herself for not being able to control her thoughts, for depriving herself of the relief that sleep would bring.

  Jesus Christ, I’m in love with a criminal.

  And not for the first time.

  That hadn’t ended well, either, she thought, before she finally fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  She got into Arcata at 4 p.m. She’d left her car at the airport, with a fleece jacket in the trunk, which was a good thing, because it had to be thirty degrees cooler here than it had been in Houston.

  She made it home before 5 p.m. The house smelled stale and cold. She resisted the temptation to take a nap. It had been a long day of travel, and her shoulders ached with fatigue, but there were things she had to do.

  Call Sam.

  She didn’t want to. But she’d promised.

&nbs
p; Funny. Danny had told her to memorize Sam’s number, and she thought that she had, but she was still afraid of forgetting it. So she’d written the number down on page 122 of her Alice Waters Art of Simple Food cookbook, on the margins of a recipe for pan-fried pork chops.

  She flipped through the cookbook to page 122.

  There it was.

  What phone to call him from? Emily’s? Michelle’s? A burner?

  She had a sudden flash from the night she’d met Sam. They’d flown over the border, landed on a dirt airstrip somewhere in New Mexico. Danny by that time was shocky, pale and drenched in sweat, wavering on the edge of consciousness at times, the blood on his shirt dried to rust. He’d called Sam. “Hey, Sam,” he’d said. “Hey. Can you pick us up?”

  She shuddered, thinking about it. It had been a bad night.

  A burner.

  She retrieved the new burner phone from her luggage that she’d bought in Houston at a Best Buy and plugged it in to charge. Went out to the garage and got the other phone, the one she hadn’t used to call Danny the night he was arrested. She’d tossed that one before going through security at SFO.

  The area code for Sam’s number was 703, Virginia, but that didn’t mean anything much. She had no idea where Sam’s base of operations actually was.

  “Hi, Sam? This is … this is Michelle. Danny’s friend.” She hesitated. “Is this a good time?”

  “Let me call you back.”

  Sam had the hint of an accent. She wasn’t sure from where. His last name was Kolar, but who knew if that was his real name? At times she thought she’d imagined the accent, or that maybe it was just an inflection he’d picked up from foreign-born parents. Or that it was some kind of disguise.

  Five minutes later, her burner rang. He was using a different number now. A burner of his own, maybe.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “Yeah. You know Gary, right?”

  A brief silence on the other end of the line.

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  She kept it short. Didn’t talk about her visit to Houston, or Gary’s job. Just that Gary had been responsible for Danny’s bust.

  Sam knew who Gary was. He had to. She hadn’t heard everything Daniel had told him that night in New Mexico, but he had to have told Sam about Gary.