The Escape Artist

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The Escape Artist Page 13

by Brad Meltzer


  “You saying this plane crash—?”

  “I got no comment on the plane. All I know is what’s on the TV. But whether it was a faulty engine or anything else, there’s no shock she eventually went down in flames.”

  Zig thought about that, thought about how many of Nola’s fellow soldiers had their careers ruined by her brashness, or lack of social skills, or whatever you wanted to call it. It was a hell of a suspect list.

  In his pocket, his phone began to vibrate. Had to be Nola calling back. Zig didn’t pick up. Not yet. “Can I ask you one last question? Nola’s final trip—this one to Alaska… Was this her mission or an Army one?”

  “I think it was hers, but with Nola…” Barton glanced over Zig’s shoulder, into Nola’s office. “The Army doesn’t tell me every secret. You should look for yourself.”

  “Weren’t you her supervisor?”

  Barton readjusted his glasses, forcing a fake laugh. “There was no supervising Nola. Even on assignments, she didn’t listen. Didn’t engage or even argue. Nola just did. You want to know what she was chasing in Alaska?” He motioned again toward her office. “Have at it. God knows what you’ll find.”

  24

  The first thing Zig noticed were the walls. They were covered, floor to ceiling, with overlapping posters that made Nola’s office feel like an indie record store, but with old Army propaganda prints from World War II (“It Can Happen Here!”), painted covers from old Life magazines (“Vietnam—Why We’ll Win!”), psyops pamphlets that were dropped in Kuwait (“Leave!” in seven languages), all of them mashed together—Soldiers! Guns! The American flag!—a bright kaleidoscope of red, white, and blue. There was also a postcard of TV host Bob Ross, painting his happy little trees.

  “You hung up on me,” Nola said in his ear.

  “The call dropped,” Zig shot back. “Coverage is crap in this building.” Truth was, he almost didn’t pick up when she called back. But that would’ve led to even more problems. “By the way, you’re welcome. I got rid of your coworker Barton.”

  “I knew he’d leave. Even when I’m dead, he’s afraid of me.”

  Zig nodded, knowing she wasn’t joking.

  “Make sure the door’s locked behind you,” Nola added.

  Zig didn’t even hear the words. He was moving fast, too busy looking at the wall on his right with its inspiration corkboard filled with dozens of photographs—big 8x10s, standard snapshots, even some Polaroids—all of them of soldiers: soldiers shaving, soldiers eating, soldiers texting, soldiers playing basketball on a makeshift court with a desert backdrop. There were no weapons, no fighting. These were normal scenes. There was even a black-and-white photo of an Iraqi kid dancing, his arms twisted in an old-school hip-hop move as a group of soldiers crowded around, cheering him on. Downtime, Zig decided, thinking it was probably something Nola had a hard time comprehending.

  “Tell me what you see,” Nola said in Zig’s ear. “Before Barton comes back. You find the desk?”

  There was no missing it. On Zig’s left was an oversized drafting table, angled like a pinball machine. Unlike the walls, which were covered in chaos, the desk was neat: file folders in one pile, notebooks in another, opened mail in another, each pile in perfect size order. Even Nola’s colored pencils, in a nearby pencil tray, were lined up shortest to tallest and in perfect roy-g-biv rainbow order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet.

  Pooomp. The noise came from out in the hallway. Zig glanced over his shoulder. Idle motion sensors again blinked off. Barton was gone. Good. All alone, Zig told himself.

  “Tell me what’s there,” Nola said.

  “They nabbed your computer.”

  “What?”

  “Your computer,” Zig said, eyeing the metal government-issue desk that held an old PC keyboard and bulky monitor. Underneath, though… “Your hard drive’s gone. Someone grabbed the whole tower.” Zig took another scan of the office. Everything else was still in place. Nothing looked messy or torn apart. Whoever took the computer, they were in and out immediately. Professional job. Or someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

  Nola made a noise, a grunt that said she wasn’t surprised. “Get what you came for. The canvases—”

  “I see them,” Zig said, heading for a dozen or so painted canvases leaning against the back wall, one against the other, like oversized dominos stacked too close.

  “Pull them forward,” Nola said.

  Zig grabbed the pastel painting in front. It was mostly camouflage olive and muddy brown, a portrait of a black female soldier from the chest up, head cocked with a ghostly sadness, like someone who just heard that her dog was sick. Zig knew this painting—he’d seen another just like it back at Dover, in Personal Effects, right before he was hit in the head. The soldier was different, but it was the same pose, same artist. The signature at the bottom confirmed the rest. NBrown.

  Zig flipped to the next canvas, then the one after that. They were all similar, focused on a single soldier—black, white, Hispanic, all heights and body types—staring straight at you. Some looked angry and intense. One had a strained smile. But all of them had that same look—that emptiness in their faces like they were somehow…broken.

  “Who are these people?” Zig asked.

  Nola didn’t answer.

  Zig flipped to another painting. Then another, realizing that the broken looks on their faces…it reminded him of the look that Nola herself had.

  Flipping to the next canvas, he noticed something on the back of it. Tiny block letters in a perfect handwriting. He squinted to read it:

  Daniel Graff—Monterey, CA

  Zig flipped to the next one. On the back it said:

  Sgt. Denise Madigan—Kuwait

  Pulling out his phone, Zig flipped through the next few—there had to be twenty or more in total—taking a picture of each name.

  Pooomp. Another sound from the hallway. This one more faint. Like the motion sensor lights had popped on in the distance.

  “Your pal Barton might be headed back,” Zig said, frantically tilting all the paintings forward until he revealed…

  There. Behind the final painting.

  The canvases were so big, at first you couldn’t see it, which was the point. The best hiding spots were the places no one would look. But with the paintings all tipped forward, there it was, solid and gray, complete with a blast-resistant combination lock.

  A steel-reinforced safe.

  “Exactly where you said it was,” Zig said, reading the warning sticker on the front. In bright red letters were the words: Flammable Items Inside! “Now what’s the combination?”

  25

  Twenty-seven right, nineteen left, seven right,” Zig repeated, turning the lock on the waist-high safe.

  Kuunk.

  The lock popped. He was still staring at the warning sticker: Flammable Items Inside!

  Zig grabbed the latch and gave it a twist. As he tugged the door open, there were two metal shelves. The smell of turpentine hit him.

  “Tell me what’s there,” Nola said, her voice flat and measured. She hadn’t lost her cool yet. But she was getting close.

  “You got some serious stuff in here.”

  There was a bowie knife, an old World War II Ka-Bar Marine fighting knife, and even a broken Strider SMF Special Forces knife where the blade was snapped. There was also ammunition—all shapes and sizes: empty rusted shells for rifles, handguns, machine guns, and some ordnance Zig didn’t even recognize. Plus two rusty grenades. None of it was live. If anything, it looked like the same collection most soldiers kept, war toys from bases they visited.

  “It’s up top,” Nola said.

  On the top shelf, Zig shoved aside four cans of spray paint, a bottle of turpentine, another of brush cleaner, and yet another of something called Oil Mediums. Nola’s building was a museum-level facility that held the Army’s entire collection of art and antiquities. Of course anything flammable had to be stored in a bombproof safe.
/>   “I’m still not seeing it,” Zig insisted, stretching his arm into the safe and patting around.

  “In the back. It should be—”

  “Got it,” Zig said, feeling a rectangular box. “I got it.”

  He pulled out from the safe an antique metal tin, like an Altoids container but bigger and far older. The pale green logo had a man wearing a cap and gown while smoking a pipe. Yale Mixture Smoking Tobacco—A Gentleman’s Smoke, read the vintage label. Five different rubber bands held the tin shut.

  “Go. Get out of there,” Nola said in his ear.

  Zig didn’t hesitate. There was a ting-ting-ting as he shoved the metal tin in his pocket, like there were dice or keys—something small—inside.

  As he quickly cleaned up and darted for the door, he spotted—

  There. Under the door. The lights in the hallway were on. With the motion sensors…shouldn’t they be off? Maybe not. Barton left only a few minutes ago.

  Slowly, Zig opened the door and stuck his head out. The hallway was clear. It didn’t make him feel any better. For twenty years, Zig had worked on and studied nearly every part of the human anatomy. But there were some things even science couldn’t explain. Like the ability to know when you’re being watched.

  “You have the box?” Nola asked.

  Zig didn’t answer. Weaving back to the main hallway, he was tempted to run, but instead he walked with purpose, holding tight to the metal tin in his pocket. Stay calm. Don’t call attention. Up ahead, he eyed another set of cameras he’d missed on the way in. Still no one in sight.

  “You have it or not?” Nola added.

  Zig barely heard the question, suddenly all too aware of how quiet the hallway was. His shoes squeaked against the floor. He could hear his own breathing. And then—

  Ka-tang.

  There. Straight ahead. A high-pitched sound, like something hitting metal. Zig cocked his head toward the only thing in sight: General Pershing’s limousine.

  It was after hours. Everyone was gone. As Zig slowly approached the limo, he eyed its open windows. Were they open on the way in? He thought so.

  Slowly getting closer, he peered inside the car. Empty. But that feeling of being watched? There was no ignoring it.

  “Get out of there,” Nola insisted.

  Picking up speed, Zig plowed for the front glass door, ramming it with his shoulder. The door flew wide and a snap of cold air had him sweating and freezing all in the same moment. Without slowing down, he headed left, to the far corner of the parking lot.

  Reaching the gray rental, he was out of camera sight. He glanced over his shoulder. No one there.

  “You in the car?” Nola asked.

  “Yes,” Zig said. It was a lie. From his pocket, he pulled out the metal tin with the green tobacco label. When Nola first asked him, their plan was simple:

  1. Get inside

  2. Get the tin

  3. Get out of there

  Sometimes, though, even the best plans had to change. Nola wouldn’t tell him what was in the tin, but since he was the one who took the risk and pulled it from the safe…

  4. Time to see what was so important

  Zig yanked the rubber bands from the tin. It didn’t feel heavy, but it felt full. Maybe a cell phone was in there?

  With his thumb, he popped the lid, squinting down and seeing…

  Crayons. A dozen fancy crayons. Oil pastels.

  He broke a few in half, wondering if there was something hidden in them.

  No. Just…crayons.

  Zig raised an eyebrow. It made no sense. Why would she have him come all this way for something as useless as—?

  There was a noise behind Zig. A skittering of stray gravel.

  Zig turned just in time to see the punch coming. Zig had been in enough fights. He knew to roll with it, but it still hit like a pool cue to his face. A burst of bright stars detonated in his eyes. The tin tumbled to the ground, near the front tire. Zig was still on his feet, determined to get a better look at—

  “Where is she!?” a man’s voice exploded. “Tell me where Nola is!”

  26

  Zig stumbled backward, crashing into the gray car in the corner of the lot. Stupid old man, Zig cursed himself. You let him pin you in a corner.

  His attacker wasn’t tall; he was wide like a garage door. And fast. Short blond hair, wide-set eyes, thin nose. But no uniform. From his fighting stance, definitely military training. Recent too—he was in his late twenties. Half Zig’s age. A kid, really. In his hand was a telescoping baton. Zig made note of that. Standard issue for the Secret Service.

  “We know you were with her,” Wide Eyes said.

  We. Zig made note of that too, even as he lurched sideways. Zig held on to the car for balance. He was still blinking stars from his eyes. Could he take another hit? It was Zig’s one advantage. He could always handle pain. Catch your breath, he told himself. Make a plan. Get your knife.

  “And don’t even think of going for that knife,” Wide Eyes said. Kid was young but well trained. “Last chance,” the kid warned, cocking the baton back. “Where’s Nola?”

  “Nola who? I just—”

  Fwwsssh. With a ruthless swipe, Wide Eyes slashed down, nailing Zig in the meat of his left calf.

  Crumpling to one knee, Zig made a noise, like a grumble, but refused to cry out. Hunched over, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the knife and—

  Whaaap. The baton hit like a baseball bat. There was a crunch of fingers. The knife went flying, skittering into the nearby grass. The impact tore open Zig’s skin in a thin red line.

  Down on both knees and gripping his bloody hand, Zig shook his head. “Y-You do realize…I’m gonna shove that baton—”

  Wide Eyes wound up again, this time smashing Zig in the shoulder. Then again in Zig’s lower back. The world went blurry at the edges, then black, and then there Zig was, down on all fours, suddenly seeing his mother, watching as she used to beat Zig’s brothers with an ironing cord. But never Zig. Zig was the one she always protected.

  “—even know who Nola is!?” Wide Eyes shouted as the world again blurred at the edges and shrunk down to a tight pinhole. “You got any idea what she’s done? What kinda monster she is?”

  Still down on all fours, Zig was thinking about what Master Guns would say about Nola—that she set Zig up, that he didn’t owe her anything.

  “Don’t let Nola fool you—she put that plane in the ground!” Wide Eyes insisted. “If you keep hiding her…” He raised his baton for another hit.

  “S-Stop…I-I’m not hiding her… I know where she is…” Zig sputtered. He could barely move.

  Wide Eyes kept his baton cocked, leaning down as Zig whispered two words.

  “Suprasternal notch.”

  “Wha?” Wide Eyes asked, leaning even closer.

  Zig didn’t like violence. Every day, he saw the damage it did. But after years of rebuilding broken soldiers, Zig also saw which parts of the human body were most resilient. And most vulnerable.

  “Suprasternal notch,” Zig repeated, thrusting his thumb—like a spear—straight into the small hole—the suprasternal notch—below Wide Eyes’s Adam’s apple. “That little pocket right…there?” Zig said, driving his thumb even deeper, then gripping the man’s neck. “Your collarbone doesn’t protect it, so that pain you’re now feeling? That’s me crushing your trachea.”

  Wide Eyes was gasping, grabbing at Zig, who wouldn’t let go. The color ran from Wide Eyes’s face. He was wheezing now, choking, dropping the baton. Zig still held tight.

  We all have truths we don’t admit about ourselves. As Zig tightened his grip, he felt that embarrassing flush of adrenaline that comes from having power over another person. Every day, Zig told himself he hated violence. But deep down, he knew one thing: He was good at it.

  Would Zig kill him? He’d never kill. He made that promise long ago. Death already had enough helping hands.

  Zig studied the sudden whiteness on Wide Eyes’s face, watched
his eyes roll back in his head, the first sign of flaccid paralysis: when the brain stops sending signals to the muscles and the body goes limp. Wide Eyes crumpled like a sack of batteries. It was a victory, but Zig took no joy in it.

  “You could’ve knocked him out faster by blocking his venous return,” a voice said behind him.

  Zig turned just in time to see Nola standing there. With a shove, she planted the heel of her palm into Zig’s forehead. On her hand was a black insulated glove with metal pins—just a centimeter long—at the thumb and pinkie.

  Gripping Zig’s forehead, she pressed the pins into Zig’s temples, squeezing tight.

  “Nola, don’t—!” he started to yell, but his body was already convulsing, vibrating with more electricity than a military-grade stun gun.

  As the world once again went black, the last thought in Zig’s head was a curse word, directed at himself, for not seeing this coming.

  27

  Ekron, Pennsylvania

  Fifteen years ago

  This was Nola when she was eleven.

  She was in the back of a car, the big willow-green ’65 Chevy that her dad Royall bought at foreclosure to fix up and resell, though eventually, he wouldn’t part with it. Royall traded a doctored passport that he’d worked on for weeks for the car’s original hubcaps, then bartered an expensive set of hearing aids to get the front grille, its chrome still pristine. Royall waxed it every other weekend, even gave the car a name. Teri.

  It was parked in the driveway, and Nola was in the backseat, curled on her side, trying to sleep.

  This was where she slept every Tuesday and Saturday. Those were Royall’s drinking days. He was strict about that, learned it in a book about success. But she learned early on: better to stay away on those nights.

  Shifting from her side to her back, she readjusted her pillow, then made sure her blanket was tucked just right to protect her from the cold seat belt. Truth was, she didn’t mind sleeping in the car. In fact, on September nights like this, when a cool wind was blowing, she preferred it.

 

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