“Yeah, you’re right. I can’t argue with that. But exposing the whereabouts of federal witnesses? I don’t know, Peyton. That’d be asking for a whole new level of trouble.”
I didn’t respond and he didn’t press me further.
After a minute or so he spoke. “You want coffee?” he asked. “We could walk over to Dushanbe. I always like an espresso after I eat.”
I caught his eyes with mine and recognized the awkwardness of the longing that hid in the recesses. This wasn’t an offer of a beverage. This wasn’t an offer of assistance. Carl Luppo was asking me out on a date. I wasn’t sure he was even aware that he was asking me out.
But I knew it.
I had to answer him. Before I could, though, a whale breached. I tried to shake it off, force it to dive, but I couldn’t. It was something about Robert and Robert’s eyes and me knowing that he wanted me. The feeling was one of warm pleasure, of power mixed with lust.
I shushed it away.
I said, “Not tonight, Carl. I’m too worried about Landon. I need to go home, call Ron Kriciak, decide what to do next.”
“Can I offer Landon an ice cream? There’s a place right down the Mall. It’d be a treat for me to buy her an ice cream. It would make me happy.” He pointed west, toward the mountains.
I knew he didn’t want to say good-bye. It made me think of all the losses he was responsible for, all the good-byes that he’d forced in his life. I said, “I don’t think so. I should get home. Call Ron.”
Carl looked down. “When you tell him all of this, he’s gonna relocate you, you know that? You’ll be out of your place tonight and into a safe house. Be in another safe place tomorrow, and you’ll be in Topeka or someplace by the weekend.”
For some reason I thought of the money stashed in the bottom of my purse. The marshals would search me. The money would raise questions. How would I account for it?
I looked west, toward the mountains. The sunset was monochromatic, as golden as fresh butter. The yellow light softened and disappeared as it dripped down into the canyons. I said, “Where we go next, it probably won’t be this pretty.”
“Who knows?” he said. His eyes were heavy, and it seemed to take some extra effort for him to find the energy to continue speaking. “Maybe there’s program room in Bermuda, or Honolulu.”
I laughed.
“Listen, whoever’s looking found you real easy. They’re sharp. They have contacts. Good contacts. Odds are they’ll find you again. You’ll have to stay on your toes. Promise me you’ll do that.” He was using his father-talking-to-his-favorite-daughter voice again. The sexual tension between us had risen from the air; its heat had carried it higher. Carl and I were left close to the ground with the density, the sadness. I felt it from him.
I felt it in myself.
I tried to make my voice playful. “Who’ll look after me next time? I won’t have a Carl Luppo when the next plane lands, will I?”
“Carl Luppos are one of a kind,” he said.
“Yes, they are,” I replied and kissed the hit man on the cheek.
God, how my life had changed.
4
After a quick dinner, Prowler took the private elevator from his basement apartment to his attic office. His tenants in the four apartments in the building didn’t even know that there were offices tucked under the roofline of the building. Nor did they know that the free DSL Internet access that their landlord provided to his tenants also provided their landlord access to an additional phone line that he’d rewired from each apartment to the attic office. He insisted that each tenant receive the DSL service from the phone company in their own name and submit the monthly bills along with their rent checks. Prowler then deducted that amount from their next month’s rent. The system gave Prowler four untraceable lines for making or receiving local calls.
To unlock the attic space required a key, a six-digit alphanumeric code, and an iris scan. The correct combination in the correct order not only unlocked the door, it also deactivated the computer security system, which was programmed to instantaneously format all the drives in the room in the event of unauthorized entry, unexpected movement, or the sound of broken glass. The windows on the third floor did not open; they were all opaque and all made of fixed glass. Radiant tubing provided heat to the space, and the diameter of the ductwork used for the air-conditioning system was too narrow to permit human access.
As far as the security system was concerned, the only authorized entrant was Prowler.
Upon entry, Prowler reactivated the system on “Stay” mode, which deactivated the motion sensor.
He accepted the arrival of the new digital images from Barb Turner with hardly a glance. A few key strokes and he saved them to three different hard drives. Prowler didn’t believe in portable media. It was entirely too hard to destroy and way too easy to steal.
Kirsten Lord’s kid didn’t interest him and he’d assumed that Lord’s address would be on its way because Barb Turner had said it would and she had become his most reliable man. That’s how he thought about her. For Prowler, Barb Turner was like a guy in disguise. And her disguise helped her blend into the most unlikely of locations. Like Boulder, Colorado.
He e-mailed back to her that he didn’t see any reason to disturb the rest of the nest. He figured that would ease Barb’s mind. Prowler wouldn’t hire anybody who could kill a kid without at least a little compunction. Nor would he hire anybody who wouldn’t kill a kid if instructed to do so.
Prowler was busy planning the coordination of the next phase when his phone rang. He straightened the microphone on his headset with one hand and guessed the identity of the sender before he glanced down at his caller-ID screen. The number on the screen told him that the call emanated from Washington, D.C. That meant Marvin. Prowler hadn’t guessed that Marvin would be calling. First time he’d missed all day. He punched a button.
“Prowler,” he said.
“There’s some noise here at headquarters.”
“I’m listening.” And saving to disk.
“My man has picked up on some e-mails that are circulating in rarefied air. Okay? Is that clear? It seems that some security flack detected some active attempts to penetrate files at headquarters, including the files of a person of particular interest to us. Whether they picked up my contact’s earlier attempts to get through the firewall or whether there are some independent efforts under way, that’s unclear.”
Prowler processed the problem instantly. He said, “Then clarify it. If it’s your contact that they’re picking up evidence about, be prepared to clean up after yourself without delay.”
“We’re trying to determine what they know right now. My man has to be especially careful not to leave any electronic fingerprints. That would only make matters worse. We don’t want that.”
Prowler sensed indecisiveness. He didn’t like indecisiveness. “Are you prepared to sever ties, Marvin?”
“It won’t be necessary, Prowler.”
“You should know that I am prepared to sever ties. I’m told that a little role-modeling can be a wonderful motivator for a subordinate.”
Prowler could hear the man on the other end of the phone gulp before he said, “You know me. I’ll take care of whatever needs to be taken care of. You can rest assured of that.”
“I rest fine. I assume plans are in place.”
“They are.”
“Good.”
Prowler clicked off and punched eleven numbers on the phone keypad.
The phone was answered after three rings. A man said, “Krist.” He pronounced it Christ.
Prowler appreciated the irony. He said, “We’re ready at this end. What do you have?”
“You still want an accident? Or do you want I should send a message?”
“This is a whisper job all the way.”
“If I have some latitude timewise, I can do them together. Car in the water. Lots of water down here.”
“What kind of latitude?”
“Three days, maybe four. They get together with some regularity to discuss our client.”
“You don’t have that kind of latitude. It needs to be over within twenty-four. Noon tomorrow would be better.”
“Then she goes in the water. He has a heart attack. She’s careless and the man is a coronary waiting to happen.”
“So be it,” said Prowler.
“Then it’s a go?”
“It is a go.”
5
I refused to believe that Landon and I would be leaving Boulder within hours, and I told myself that was why I refused to say good-bye to Carl Luppo as we left him behind at the Pearl Street Mall. Although I couldn’t imagine an innocent explanation for why a woman with a camera would be following my daughter and me around Boulder, I was trying to convince myself that such an innocent explanation did exist.
Carl had walked us to our car, which was parked on Thirteenth, near the hotel where I worked. When I was inside the car with the window rolled down, Carl Luppo leaned in toward me and said, “I want you to know that helping you out has made me very happy. Very happy.” I could feel his breath on my face and could smell his scent, some blend of lemon and sunshine.
“Thanks, Carl. For everything. I mean it.”
From her spot in the middle of the backseat, Landon piped up. “Yeah, thanks a lot for the empanadas and lemonade, Uncle Carl. And for playing soccer with me. And I mean it, too.”
As she said, “Uncle Carl,” he smiled the broadest smile I’d yet seen on his face. His eyes sparkled like Santa Claus’s.
LANDON DISAPPEARED INTO her room the moment we got home. Somehow the night seemed normal to her. She wanted to listen to music and study her spelling lists before she went to bed.
I was wondering whether or not Ron Kriciak and the Marshals Service would even permit her to wake up in the same bed the next morning.
What had I done to my little girl?
I TOOK THE phone downstairs and sat on the dining room floor where the table would be if we had one. I sat smack in the middle of the room, right below the tacky smoked-glass-and-fake-crystal chandelier that was hanging from a faux antique bronze chain. I started to punch in the number of Ron Kriciak’s pager but stopped one digit short of completing the sequence. I disconnected the call, then checked my purse for another number instead, found the business card I was looking for, and dialed. I listened to a long message and was prompted to leave a message of my own and then dial another number to activate a pager.
For my message, I said, “Hi, this is Peyton. I’m really sorry to bother you, but something’s come up and I need to talk with you right away. It’s real important, obviously.”
I dictated my number before I hung up.
I dialed the second number, punched in my number, and I waited.
Two minutes, three. My watch told me that it was eight fifty-seven. The watch was too elegant for everyday use, but I wore it anyway. It had been a gift from Robert. But it wasn’t engraved. After a protracted argument during my initiation, the marshals had relented and allowed me to keep it.
Finally, the phone rang. I pressed the talk button after less than half a ring. My greeting sounded hoarse. I wondered if I was getting sick. Couldn’t possibly be related to stress.
“Peyton?” my therapist said.
“Dr. Gregory, thanks for calling.”
Ten minutes later, not really expecting an answer, I asked my psychologist, “So, do you think I should call Ron?”
I felt him hesitate before he responded. When he spoke, he said, “I wish I was in a position to offer advice on that, Peyton. I could argue it either way—calling Ron or not calling Ron.”
I put some despair in my voice, the way I used to do with Robert when I felt that he was resisting me unreasonably. “I’m not sure what to do. I could really use some advice.”
Dr. Gregory’s reply surprised me. “Advice is tricky for me. You know what advice is? Advice is me standing on the sidelines telling you how to maneuver yourself and your daughter through a minefield. Let’s say I suggest that you step somewhere and it happens to be the wrong place—boom!—you’re both screwed, but I’m still just fine, standing on the sidelines. Giving advice.”
“You have part of it right. This sure feels like a minefield,” I said. I was still disappointed, but I was feeling a little lighter on the despair.
I’D STARTED OUT the conversation telling him everything I knew about the woman with the camera and about my suspicion that Ron Kriciak had been following me around Boulder for a few days. But I hadn’t told Dr. Gregory everything. I hadn’t told him about Carl Luppo’s help.
I’d also admitted, “I just don’t know who else to trust.”
Other than myself, my daughter, and a retired mafioso.
And you, dear doctor, I thought.
Sort of.
HE RESPONDED TO my minefield comment by saying, “What are you going to do, Peyton?”
What?
What did he mean asking me that?
My daddy wouldn’t have asked me that. My daddy, bless his heart, would have decision-treed me to bored tears, frowning at every feint I made down the wrong branch, turning up the corners of his eyes in a smile as I found the stem he wanted me to choose. Problem solving was like a treasure hunt with my daddy, and I always loved to play because he let me cheat.
He loved for me to cheat.
Robert wouldn’t have asked me what I was going to do, either. Robert, at this exact moment in my passivity, would have spelled out precisely what my choices were and then whittled away at the perimeters of the ones that he thought were asinine until it was clear that any reasonable person—and I am a reasonable person, aren’t I?—would choose the one that Robert in his wisdom had rightfully, and righteously, decreed should be left standing.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said to Dr. Gregory. “I’m thinking I should call Ron.”
I silently cursed the impersonal quality of the phone and in my mind pretended that I was staring hard at him in his office, eyeing him the way I did when I was trying to pin a witness I was certain was about to lie to me. Even in my mind, though, Dr. Gregory’s eyes didn’t waver. They stayed locked on mine. His face was impassive. His crossed legs unflinching.
I wanted a cue.
I got nothing.
Frustrated, I reached over and fumbled inside my purse and dug around until I found a solitary lollipop. It was a pale red one. Did DumDum make watermelon? Yeah, they did.
But this one was strawberry. I unwrapped it and placed it on the center of my tongue, trying to keep the hard candy from clanking against my teeth.
Finally he said, “Yes?”
I replied, “I told you once that I trusted the marshals more than I trusted Ernesto Castro, didn’t I?”
“I think you did.”
“Well, that argument tells me I should call Ron and let him know what I’m thinking.”
Apparently it wasn’t the right answer. He asked, “Right now, what are you concerned about, Peyton?”
You mean besides some stranger wearing chinos or maybe the latest from Abercrombie trying to kidnap my daughter? You mean besides that and maybe besides that same someone trying to blow a hole or two in my head with a silenced .22? You mean other concerns? The direction of the Supreme Court? The price of gasoline? The instability in the Balkans?
“The moment I call Ron,” I said, “my control evaporates. He takes over. He decides what happens next. For all I know, he’ll have me out of my house by midnight and out of Colorado by tomorrow morning. Landon leaves more new friends. I lose a job I like and Landon and I once again become pieces that are moved around on some big WITSEC board game.”
Two beats of my heart passed before my therapist said, “You haven’t had much control, have you?”
His words made me cry. I wasn’t sure why. I tried not to sob into the phone. I didn’t want him to hear me sob. I moved the lollipop from my tongue to a hollow in my cheek.
After
I garnered some composure I followed him, meekly. I said, “Not since that day at Galatoire’s, no.”
He said, “I’m talking about even before that. Katherine Shaw certainly didn’t have any control. Peyton Francis doesn’t have much, either. The surprising thing—maybe to both of us—is that I think you’re telling me that Kirsten Lord didn’t have much either.”
He remembered all my names. I was touched. Some days I couldn’t even remember all my names. “What do you mean?” I said, protesting his contention about Kirsten Lord being out of control.
“I think you know.”
I did.
“Is there some message in what you’re saying? Something that might help me know what decision I should make tonight?”
He read between my lines. “I wish I knew what was best for you, Peyton. If I did, I’d tell you.”
Daddy always knew what was best for me. Robert always knew. My bosses always knew. I said, “I wish you did, too.” And I almost meant it.
“I think other men in your life have been willing to act like they knew what was best, weren’t they? If you were willing to act helpless enough.”
I swallowed, forcing down a rebellious rise of anger. I wanted to disagree, even if only for form.
“Robert,” he said.
I was sure he could hear me breathing. I made a conscious effort not to suck on my DumDum.
“Your father.”
For some reason I wanted to catch the train before it left the station. I felt stupid standing alone on the platform. “Are you suggesting I conspired with them? That I encouraged them to make decisions for me?”
He started to speak, then hesitated before he said, “In order to rescue a damsel in distress, first, I think, requires a damsel.”
Me, a damsel?
Robert would laugh at the thought, and upon hearing it he would rush up to me and he would kiss me hard, at least one hand on a cheek of my ass, and he would be perfectly content with the description.
“You’re my damsel,” is what he would say.
The reflection on Robert didn’t warm me. It didn’t even qualify as a visit from a whale. I said, “Maybe … maybe tonight I shouldn’t play the damsel. Maybe that’s the message.”
The Program Page 21
