Fault Line

by Barry Eisler

  He wondered for a moment about Ben, about whether he was ever bothered by any of it. Yeah, right. The irony was stunning—the guy who caused all of it, including what happened afterward, probably slept like a baby at night.

  10 KING OF THE WORLD

  Ben was getting bored in Ankara. Waiting for a target was one thing; he had a sniper’s patience for that. But waiting for information was different. Hort still hadn’t been able to find out anything about the Russian, if in fact the guy was Russian, and had told him to stay put until they’d cleared it up. So he read and worked out twice a day and visited a few famous archaeological sites.

  The Ankara Citadel was impressive, he had to admit. He went early one morning on a whim. It was set on a hill a kilometer high, and the city below was invisible, covered in mist. He thought of the people who had built it, gone now, but having managed to cleave a monument to a mountain in however much time they had.

  He thought of his parents. See, guys? I’m getting some culture. I told you I would.

  He smiled. Their ideas of culture had always been different from his. They’d been dead set against the army from the time he’d first started talking about it in high school. His father wanted Ben, who showed none of Alex’s aptitude for science, to be a lawyer. Ben found the proposition about as attractive as an offer of a lobotomy and a lounge chair.

  His father had pressured him to apply to college. “Why not keep your options open?” the old man had argued. “Give yourself a choice. If you get into a good school, you can take advantage. And you can always join the army afterward, as an officer. Then you’d have all the advantages and opportunities of a college degree plus the military.”

  Ben knew what the old man was really thinking: By the time you’ve graduated from college, you’ll have outgrown all this silliness. He was just trying to keep Ben on the “right” track long enough for Ben to get stuck in the grooves.

  There had been recruiters at Ben’s football games and wrestling matches, and he knew there was interest at Stanford, Berkeley, Michigan, Penn, a few other places. But his grades weren’t so hot. He figured he could apply to some schools to placate his dad but that in the end nothing would come of it. Then he could say, Hey, I gave it a shot, but it didn’t work out. Hello, army.

  It almost worked. But the old man was on the Board of Trustees at Stanford, which also happened to be the school most interested in Ben’s football prowess, and he pulled some strings. Ben was accepted. Then the old man started in with a new pitch: Stanford will be great. You’ll actually be able to play there, whereas at one of the higher-ranked schools you would have been red-shirted your first year anyway. Plus it’s the best education, it’ll serve you well as an army officer.

  Ben knew the old man had a point, but he just didn’t want to go to school so close to home. In fact, he wanted to be far from home, overseas far. He couldn’t exactly explain why. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his family, and the Bay Area was a good place to live, and Stanford was a good school, and yeah, he could play football there and wrestle, too, but … he just wanted more for himself, something fresh, something he felt he was cut out for in a way his dad and certainly Alex never would be. There was something special inside him, he could feel it, and going to college three miles from the house he grew up in … it was wrong. It would have been like betraying himself, in a way he couldn’t quite understand, let alone articulate to his dad.

  He had decided, fuck it, he wasn’t going to Stanford or anywhere else; it was his life and he was joining the army. He had talked to a recruiter and found out he could be guaranteed a slot in Airborne, which was the feeder to Ranger Battalion, which could lead to Special Forces—everything he’d always wanted, everything he knew he could be the best at. He would learn languages, train indigenous forces, have adventures ordinary people could barely imagine. He decided he would break the news to his parents right after the States. He’d be facing the best wrestlers in California there, and he couldn’t afford any distractions.

  He’d been seeded eighth, which meant in the first round he would face the top seed, an undefeated guy named Musamano who was built like a bull, and no one had figured Ben to survive even into the semifinals. But Ben had thought hard about what his opponents knew about him, what they would be expecting. He was known as a single wrist and half nelson guy, effective, but meat and potatoes. Standard. A little predictable. He started wondering what would happen if he threw Musamano a few curves.

  He thought about what he would do to stymie someone who wrestled the way he did. Keep the arms rigid, he thought. Palms on the mat, head up. That denies the opportunity both for the single wrist and for the nelson.

  But defending with that posture must create new vulnerabilities, right? The more he thought about it, the more he thought he could surprise people by attacking with a cradle, either near side or far, it wouldn’t matter. With their hands planted and heads up, overcompensating against the expected nelson and wrist attack, they’d be vulnerable.

  He didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing, so he practiced his new moves only at home, on his father and on Alex. His father didn’t have much patience for it but tried to be a good sport. Alex was too small and had no experience, but Ben could use him as a training dummy. He’d tell Alex what to do and how to move, to try to escape and resist this way and that way. Alex complained about the rug burns, but to his credit, he never refused. And by the first day of the tournament, Ben felt ready.

  Musamano took him down immediately in the first round and rode him for the rest of the period. But Ben was on top at the beginning of the second, and Musamano braced for Ben’s attack exactly as Ben had hoped. Ben slammed in a crossface with his left hand and dropped his right deeply into Musamano’s right inner thigh, spiraling out clockwise way past Musamano’s head, surprising him, twisting him up. Musa mano’s right arm crumbled and one quarter of his stability was gone. Ben heard a roar from the crowd and felt something surge inside him: it was working! But he pushed the excitement away. He wasn’t there yet.

  He spiraled out even more aggressively and sliced the crossface in harder, digging in so savagely he could feel Musamano’s teeth on his forearm right through the guy’s cheek. Musamano grunted and straightened his right leg to brace, and there it was, it was now or never. Ben dropped his right hand in behind Musamano’s right knee and changed directions, springing over Musamano’s back and landing right next to him on his right. He shot his right hand in deeper and took hold of his left wrist, tunneled his head into Musamano’s right temple, and tried to roll right. He could feel Musamano brace hard in the other direction and for one second Ben thought he didn’t have the leverage, he was going to lose the grip. But then Musamano was moving, arcing over Ben and onto the mat, his shoulders down, the cradle in place. Ben heard another roar from the crowd, louder this time, and Musamano bucked and arched but Ben sank the cradle deeper, angling Musamano’s shoulders onto the mat, squeezing with everything he had.

  He wedged a knee under Musamano’s lower back and gritted his teeth, squeezing, squeezing. The sound from the crowd was outsized now, not just cheers but the din of a thousand stomping feet reverberating through the floor and walls, but he was only dimly aware of it. He might have heard a whistle blow but it didn’t mean anything to him, he just kept working Musamano’s shoulders to the mat, choking him, trying to pin him or kill him, he didn’t care which. Then he felt strong hands tugging at him, prying him away, and it was only then he realized he’d done it, he’d pinned Musamano. It was over, he’d won.

  He released the grip and rolled to his feet. His arms were shaking. The auditorium was pandemonium now. He looked over and even his ordinarily restrained parents were on their feet, shaking their clenched fists over their heads, whooping at the top of their lungs. Alex and Katie were jumping up and down and shouting. He grinned and looked at Musamano. The wrestler was getting slowly to his feet. He looked stunned. He looked beaten.

  The referee took each of their wrists,
walked them to the center of the mat, and raised Ben’s arm. The crowd went crazy again. Ben couldn’t stop grinning. He’d done it. He’d beaten Musamano. He felt like king of the world.

  After that first-round upset, his other opponents were psyched out. He could see it in their eyes and their postures the moment they stepped on the mat. He was the guy who had pinned Musamano, for Christ’s sake, and although he’d learned in one of his classes that If A can beat B and B can beat C, A can beat Cis a logical fallacy, he knew people still felt it in their guts. He pinned his way through the rest of the tournament. No one could stop him.

  It had been the best two days of his life.

  And then. And then. And then.

  He shook the thought away. At least his parents had meant well. Fucking Alex, though, Alex never said, “It’s okay, Ben,” or, “It wasn’t your fault, Ben,” or, “I know how much pain you’re in over this, too, brother.”

  Well, the hell with him. The last time Ben had heard from Alex, he was in law school. Before that, it was some computer Ph.D. program. All those degrees, and what did he ever accomplish? He’d never gone anywhere, never even really left home. By now he’d be a rich lawyer, the kind of ignorant, ungrateful yuppie who never got his hands dirty and looked down his nose at soldiers. That was the only good thing about their parents, about Katie, being gone. He didn’t have to deal with Alex anymore. And he never would again.

  11 HAUNTED HOUSE

  Alex spent so much time on Obsidian in the afternoon that he had to stay at the office until almost midnight to catch up on other work. He went straight to bed when he got home, but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned for an hour and wasn’t even beginning to feel drowsy. Finally he decided the hell with it, he’d take a hot bath. Sometimes that helped.

  There was a little moonlight coming in the windows, so he kept the lights off. He turned on the faucet, then eased himself in and sat, gritting his teeth, wincing as the hot water crept over his legs and up to his stomach.

  He turned off the tap and the room went suddenly quiet, the only sound a few last drops falling from the faucet to the water below, breaking the silence like a dying metronome.

  He splashed a little hot water onto the porcelain behind him to warm it up, then eased back. He slid down until his chin was just touching the water and closed his eyes, thinking this was good, this was what he needed. After a few moments, the dripping stopped and everything was utterly noiseless.

  It was funny to think this was the same tub where his mom used to wash them as kids. Some people would say it was weird that he still lived in the house where he grew up, and he supposed they had a point. He’d never even left town for any of his degrees, and the only different addresses he’d had since he was a teenager were a collection of dorm rooms, which in retrospect felt like just a break, a vacation from this, his only real home. Sometimes he thought he should have taken more chances, explored a few more possibilities. But after the thing with his dad, and then his mother got sick, what kinds of chances was he supposed to take? And as for living in this house, well, yeah, you could say it was the safe alternative. But on the other hand, after everything that had happened here, it had taken a lot of courage.

  After Katie’s funeral, he and Ben had gone back to school. Alex focused on his studies, Ben stayed after every day for track and field. Katie’s absence was huge—an oppressive, constant, almost physical force, a void touching everything in their lives. Katie’s jacket on a hook in the foyer, slowly collecting dust. Katie’s shampoo in the shower, the amount of amber liquid in the bottle unchanging. Katie’s empty chair, staring at them at the dinner table. Alex thought this was where the idea of ghosts came from, this was what it meant to live in a house that was haunted.

  Some of the fights Alex overheard were about what to do with Katie’s things. One day he came home and her room was empty— a desk, a chair, a stripped mattress and bed. Alex closed the door behind himself and checked her closet, her drawers. Everything was gone. It was like Katie had just … vanished.

  He looked around the empty room, dumbfounded. He remembered how once, when he was a little kid, he’d broken the arm off one of Ben’s G.I. Joes, which Ben had specifically forbade him to touch. Petrified, he’d gone to Katie. He remembered the way she had smiled and shushed away his tears and helped him glue it back. And no, of course she wouldn’t tell, not even Mom and Dad, pinkie promise. And when Ben had noticed anyway and confronted Alex, Katie said it was her fault, she had done it. And Ben had just let it go. Alex wondered if Ben knew— after all, what was Katie doing with a G.I. Joe?—and thought maybe Ben just couldn’t stay mad once Katie stepped in. She was like a force field against anger and hate and accusations.

  He dropped to his knees beside the bed, buried his face in the denuded mattress, and sobbed her name over and over. Where was she? How could she be gone, without even any evidence that she’d been there? It was impossible. He couldn’t get his mind around it.

  He cried until his throat was raw and his back throbbed, until he was so exhausted and drained he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Then he stood and took one more slow look around the room.

  Katie was gone. And if something like this could happen to Katie, who was as joyous and good and alive a person as Alex had ever known, who liked everyone and laughed at everything and had not a single enemy, then the best thing you could say about the universe was, it was random.

  But randomness was merely a logical possibility. What Alex felt in the deepest places within himself was different. In his gut and his bones, he knew the universe wasn’t random, or indifferent, or in any way benign.

  The universe was hostile. You couldn’t count on anyone against that. And Alex wouldn’t forget it.

  He lay in the tub for twenty minutes and was just thinking it was enough, he could sleep now, when he heard something downstairs. It sounded like the mail slot in the front door. These days he was never home when the mail came, but he knew the sound well enough from when he was a kid. This time it was softer than he remembered— stealthier?—but he recognized it just the same.

  He sat up, water running down his back. Oh, come on. No one was looking through the mail slot at two in the morning. He was just keyed up, that was all, which was why he was in the bath in the first place.

  Right. He was being silly. Even so, he sat very still for a moment, breathing silently through his mouth, his head cocked, concentrating on listening.

  There was nothing. He was definitely being silly.

  He closed his eyes and settled back. Maybe he’d soak for a few more minutes.

  He heard a quiet click from downstairs.

  His breath caught. He sat up and listened.

  A few seconds went by. There was nothing.

  It’s an old house. The floor settles, joints groan. How often are you awake at two in the morning to hear anything? This is just what the house sounds like this late.

  He let out a long breath. Christ, he really was jumpy. At this rate, he was going to have to stay in the bath all night.

  He heard another sound. A quiet scraping, the movement of a rubber weather strip over a metal threshold. The front door.

  Suddenly his heart was hammering so hard he could hear it echoing in his ears. He almost called out, Who’s there? but managed to stop himself. Who do you think is there? he thought, fighting panic.

  A burglar. There was no other explanation. If he called out, it might scare him away. But if it didn’t …

  Without thinking, he placed a shaking hand on the edge of the tub and eased himself soundlessly out. Water ran down his body onto the floor and he was suddenly freezing. He thought frantically of what he might use as a weapon. Knives in the kitchen. Golf clubs in the garage.

  Here, goddamn it. Something here.

  His heart was thudding like a war drum. He fought to control his breathing.

  There were some cleaning products in the cabinet under the sink. He didn’t know what exactly; whatever the maid used. But ther
e might be something. If he could just stay quiet, quiet …

  He heard the sound of rubber over metal again. The front door, this time being closed.

  He eased the bathroom door shut and quietly locked it. Even as he did so, he knew it was pointless. It was nothing but a little privacy button, you could pick it with anything. But he didn’t care. He just wanted a barrier, any kind of barrier. He didn’t dare turn on the light—it could be seen from under the door and probably through the edges, too.

  He dropped down to his knees in front of the cabinet and opened it. It was dark inside. He felt around, his hands shaking. Toilet paper. A bar of soap. A plastic bottle.

  He pulled the bottle out and rotated it until he could see the label. Toilet bowl cleaner.

  He set it aside, thinking, Come on, come on …

  Another bottle. Some kind of scouring powder.

  He reached in again, his hands shaking so violently he was terrified he would knock something over and give away his position.

  Mildew remover. That meant bleach, right? He tried to read the label but couldn’t make out the small print in the dark. He unscrewed the spray cap and sniffed. Immediately he jerked his head away and had to fight back a coughing fit. It smelled like pure bleach.

  He stood and looked around the counter for something to put it in. Nothing. Not even a cup. The only thing he ever used this bathroom for was the bath.

  A light flashed across the bottom of the door. A flashlight beam, cutting through the dark. He realized closing the door had been stupid. It had exposed where he was.

  He felt paralyzed. He couldn’t think.

  Please, he thought. Please, come on …

  He dropped down again and felt inside the cabinet. A scrub brush. More toilet paper …

  His fingers touched something cold and hard. He pulled it out. A mug, a big ceramic coffee mug. The maid must have put it there, part of her cleaning supplies, or to rinse the tub or something.