If She Wakes

by Michael Koryta

“If you think I’m crazy, fine, but I’m trying to give you a chance,” she said. “Trying to give her a chance.”

  Shannon’s voice was low when she said, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I can’t limit access to her,” she said. “There are too many doctors involved, and they’re not going to let me call the shots. If you think she’s at risk of being…killed, then who am I supposed to tell? Who do I call?”

  The wind gusted off the water, peeled leaves off the trees, and scattered them over the pavement, plastering one to Abby’s leg. She stared at the bloodred leaf, then looked over to where the Tahoe was parked. A man in an L. L. Bean windbreaker walked by it without giving it so much as a passing glance, but still Abby scrutinized him.

  “I don’t know who you call,” she said finally. “If I knew, I’d call them myself. Maybe you can trust the police.”

  “You’re not sure of that, though?”

  “I’m…” She’d started to say she was sure, but she couldn’t. All she could think of was the way the kid had smiled when he’d spoken of friends in cells and friends in uniforms. “I’m not sure,” Abby finished. “Sorry. There has to be someone to call, but I don’t know who the right person is, because I don’t know who I’m dealing with. I don’t know what Tara saw, what she heard.”

  She faced the hard, cutting wind and paused again, aware that she was letting the call go on too long but no longer caring as much because an idea was forming.

  “Can you ask her the first round of questions?” she said. “Without doctors around, or at least without many of them. Can you handle that?”

  “Questions about what happened that night?”

  “Yes. You need to do that. But they have to be the right questions. They have to…they need to be my questions.”

  “What are those?”

  “I’m not positive yet. I mean, I know some, but…let me think.”

  “You have to tell me what to ask!”

  Abby squinted into the cold wind and watched the ferry churn toward the island, its wake foaming white against the gray sea, and then she said, “Ask her if he took a picture of her. I definitely need to know that. And if he did, then ask if she gave him another name.”

  “Another name? What do you mean, another name?”

  “I’m not sure. If she called herself Tara or Miss Beckley or whatever. Ask what he knew her by. That’s really important. What would he have called her?”

  “She would have been just Tara. That’s it,” Shannon said, her voice rising, but then she lowered it abruptly, as if she’d realized she might be overheard, and said, “Why does this matter? What do you know?”

  “People are killing each other to get to a phone that was in her car,” Abby said. “I have it now. It was in the box I brought down to you. I don’t know what in the hell is on it, but it looks like he took her picture. It’s on the lock screen now, and it wants her name. But her name doesn’t—”

  The phone beeped in her ear then, and her first thought was the battery was low, but when she glanced at the display, she saw an incoming call, the number blocked.

  The wind off the water died down, but the chill within her spread.

  “Hang on,” she told Shannon Beckley, and then she ignored her objection and switched over to answer the incoming call. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Abby.”

  It was the kid.

  34

  Abby didn’t speak.

  She stood with the phone to her ear and her head bowed, eyes focused on the single red leaf fluttering against her dirt-streaked jeans.

  The kid seemed amused when he said, “You do recognize my voice, right? I’m usually memorable. Apologies for the arrogance of that statement.”

  Abby reached down and flicked the leaf free from her jeans and watched it ride away on the wind. Finally, she found her voice.

  “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “Kill who?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Exactly. This is how we can go for as long as you’d like, or you can make progress. The way I understand it, you’re in a bit of a bind.”

  He talks like an imitation of a human, Abby thought. Like he’s not entirely sure how to walk among us, but he’s studied it enough to fake his way. He’s got the exterior down just enough to pass. What evil is on the inside, though?

  “I’ll be needing that phone, Abby,” the kid said, and right then someone down on the pier shook the remains from a bag of fast food into the water, and a handful of seagulls rose in wing and full-throated voice. They danced and dived and fought for French fries and the kid said, “On the coast, are we?”

  Abby paced away from the water, a pointless effort given the piercing chorus of gulls, and wished death upon the indifferent diner who’d scattered his French fries to the wind.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Miami. Come south.”

  The kid’s laugh was the only genuine thing about him.

  “I like you, Abby,” he said. “I mean that. But we really should get down to business.”

  Abby looked at the phone display. Twenty seconds and running. Shannon Beckley still on the other line. But the kid wasn’t wrong. Abby had to get down to business or get to a police station, one or the other, and in a hurry.

  “You want the phone, and I want you in jail,” she said.

  “There’s not much to entice me in that scenario.”

  “I want you in jail,” Abby repeated, “but I know I might not get that.”

  “Wise. So what do you need instead?”

  “To keep myself alive and out of jail.”

  “Typical millennial. One thing is never enough. You want free shipping too?”

  “The phone keeps me alive,” Abby said. “The police will too. The right ones, at least.”

  “Be very cautious about that. Finding the right ones isn’t impossible, but it won’t be easy. Not for you. That’s not a bluff. That’s a promise.”

  He said it with calm, earned confidence. If Abby weren’t already scared of his reach, she’d be with the police now, and they both knew that.

  “Give me a number where I can call you back,” Abby said.

  “Call the German. He’ll get me.”

  The German? The guy who’d answered Oltamu’s phone had sounded anything but German. A trace of Boston accent, maybe, or a hint of Irish, but not German.

  “You don’t know him,” the kid said. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting. Let me ask you something, Abby—do you need me to go to jail or do you just need somebody other than you to go?”

  “I need the right person to go.”

  “Then you don’t need me. Not if you care about the food chain.”

  “You killed him.”

  “Think I won’t be replaced, Abby? You’re smarter than that. I know you are.”

  Abby hesitated. “Hold the line a minute.”

  “What?”

  Abby switched calls and spoke without preamble to Shannon Beckley. “I’m going to be in touch from a different number. Keep people away from Tara. If you see a kid, somebody who looks like he walked out of the high-school yearbook, call the police.”

  “What are you—”

  “I won’t blame you if you don’t trust me. But you need to.” She switched calls again. “Still there?”

  “Yes,” the kid said. “You have a recorder going now or a helpful witness listening, maybe?”

  “No. I’m going to tell you where to find me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Listen real close so you don’t miss it.”

  Abby left the call connected when she tossed the phone into the sea.

  Before it reached the bottom of the harbor, she was running for her car, keys in hand. Even if she’d stayed on the phone long enough for them to trace it already, she’d be gone when they got here. It was time to get moving. Instinct told her to go farther north, to seek ever-smaller towns and more isolation
, but she wanted to see Shannon Beckley. There was risk in that, of course, but maybe less than she thought. And Boston was a city filled with strangers. It would be easier to blend in there. They also had an FBI headquarters, probably even CIA. She could pick her police agency instead of relying on the locals. That’s what she would do. Get to Boston, get to Shannon Beckley, and then get to the FBI. When she called Oltamu’s phone again, she would be with the professionals. A day ago, she’d had nothing to tell them but the wild story about Hank’s house, but now she had the phone that wasn’t a phone, evidence of what all this killing was about, and that changed everything. They would believe her now.

  She unlocked the Tahoe, slid behind the wheel, and cranked the engine to life. Her hand was on the gearshift when she felt the cold muzzle of a revolver press the base of her neck.

  She moved her eyes to the mirror, and from the backseat, the kid in the black baseball cap smiled congenially.

  “Found you,” he said.

  Part Four

  Exit Lanes

  35

  Abby waited on the kill shot. There was no reason for the kid to hold off on it now. Unless he had a sadistic streak, which Abby thought he probably did.

  He didn’t take the shot. Instead, he said, “Go ahead and put it in drive.”

  Abby didn’t move. Why make it easy on him? If she was going to die either way, she’d make the little prick take the shot in a crowded spot, where people would hear it and respond to the sound, where maybe surveillance cameras would give the police a lead.

  “Abby?”

  “Do it here,” Abby said. She could feel the weight of the SIG Sauer in her jacket pocket, where she’d jammed it awkwardly, more concerned about concealment than access when she’d walked into the library. An amateur playing a pro’s game.

  “No.”

  “You’re going to have to,” Abby said, and as she spoke, her eyes drifted higher on the mirror, and she estimated the distance to the curb and the slope that led over the jogging path and down to the boardwalk and that deep-channel harbor. If she could get it in reverse and keep her foot on the gas, she’d at least be able to take this sociopath down with her.

  “You think you’re done?” the kid said, sounding surprised. “That’s a disappointing attitude from someone with your resilience.”

  It was less than thirty feet to the curb, and once she cleared that, gravity might handle the rest. If the kid fired, the bullet was going to obliterate Abby’s brain and any control she had over the wheel and the gas pedal, but as long as momentum and gravity worked together, the Tahoe might make the water.

  “I was thinking we could go back to the house in Tenants Harbor,” the kid said, and his smile brightened when Abby’s eyes returned to him. “Yes, I knew you were there. Beautiful spot. Love that detached studio too. Made me feel creative. The whole place is nice and peaceful, though, much better than this parking lot. And we’ll need to pick up your guns. They’re likely to concern the Realtor.”

  When Abby still didn’t move, the kid sighed and said, “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now, get it?”

  Abby pulled the gearshift down. She considered reverse, passed it, and put the car into drive.

  “How’d you find me?” she asked.

  “Bauer’s phone is in the glove box, and I enabled tracking. I did the same to yours, but you were smart enough to get rid of that one. You didn’t check the Tahoe out fully, though. Poor choice, Abby.”

  All day and all night, Abby had believed she was off the grid, hidden. In reality, she’d been exposed and at the kid’s mercy.

  “Why’d you let me live?” Abby asked, pulling out of the parking lot and turning right, then left, putting them back on Route 1, headed south.

  “Priorities. You were there for the taking if I needed to do it, but the phone was the bigger problem, and I didn’t think you had that. Tell me, where was it?”

  “Under the driver’s seat. You didn’t check the Chrysler out fully. Poor choice, asshole.”

  The kid laughed, and suddenly the pressure of the gun was gone from Abby’s skull. “I like you,” the kid said. “I really do.”

  “It’s not mutual.”

  “I struggle at first impressions. Give me time.”

  “Okay,” Abby said, and then she added, “Dax.”

  It was the only card she had to play, the only thing she knew about him that might make him pause, but he took it in stride.

  “There aren’t many people left who call me that, but go right ahead. It’s always been my preference. And, Abby? Keep a close eye on your speed, please. You’re going pretty slow, and it would be a bad day to be pulled over.”

  “Where am I driving?”

  “I told you.”

  “We’re really going back to the house in Tenants Harbor?”

  “I think we should. We could use a private, peaceful place like that to talk.”

  “Not much to talk about. You’ve won.”

  “Plenty to talk about, and if you hadn’t polluted Penobscot Bay with that phone, we might already understand each other better. But I’ve always preferred face-to-face conversations, anyhow. We’re going to be together for a while. Gerry is waiting on your call, and you will need to be alive to make that. Good news for you, right?”

  “Gerry?”

  “That’s the name of the man who answered the other phone. Gerry Connors. Crusty old bastard. I liked him. For a long time, I liked Gerry just fine.”

  “He’s the German?”

  “No. He’s not. But we’ll get to the German before we’re done, I think. I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to do that.”

  He shifted in the backseat, and Abby looked in the mirror again and saw that he’d hooked his right foot over his left knee, as relaxed as a passenger in a chauffeured car. Which, Abby supposed, was exactly what he was now.

  “You don’t work for him?”

  “I did. But I think the relationship is on the rocks at this point.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Sure you do.” He leaned forward. “You’ve already tested him. You offered him the phone for my life once. You’re going to do the same thing again.”

  How did he know this? He’d known Abby’s location; he knew her movements, her calls, her words. How was he so damned omniscient?

  “By the way, Abby, where is the phone now?”

  She could lie, but what was the point? “My jeans. Front right pocket.”

  The kid nodded, satisfied. He leaned back in the seat, slouched and nearly uninterested, although the gun was still pointed at Abby’s back. It would be easy to spin the car and throw off his balance, and Abby thought there was a good chance she could do that and buy enough time to get out, but she couldn’t imagine she’d buy enough time to get out and find cover. The kid would shoot before then. Abby could flip the car, of course, but then she was as likely to die as he was.

  “Do you know what’s on it?” the kid asked. “Do you actually have a clue what’s on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just a phone?”

  Abby hesitated but realized there was no point in holding out. “It’s a fake. Looks like an iPhone, but it isn’t. As far as I can tell, it’s not really a phone at all.”

  For the first time, the kid showed real interest. He shifted into the middle of the seat, where he could keep the gun trained on Abby’s head and watch all of her movements, and said, “Pass it back to me, please. I’m trusting that you won’t reach for the gun in your jacket instead. Remember, you’re still alive due to my choices and to yours. Make the right ones.”

  Abby took her right hand off the wheel, slid the phone out of her pocket, and passed it back. The kid accepted it and leaned away. For a while, he didn’t so much as glance at the phone; he kept his eyes on Abby, assessing her.

  “Keep driving, and you’ll keep living,” he said. “Can you do that? Keep driving?”

  “Yes.”

  The kid looked away then. Down
at the phone. The gun was still in his hand, but his attention was compromised.

  Flip the car. Just do it, you coward, flip it and take your chances. You’ll have witnesses and people calling 911 and police cars screaming out here…

  She kept driving. She couldn’t will herself to flip the car, even though she’d walked away from worse before. She tried to tell herself it was because of the gun in the kid’s hand.

  While Abby drove, the kid alternated between glancing at her and studying the phone. He never lowered the gun, keeping it in his right hand as he turned the phone over carefully in his left. When he finally spoke, it was softly, almost to himself.

  “Didn’t expect that.”

  Abby didn’t respond. The kid was silent for a moment, and then he looked up and said, “You know who’s on the screen, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “A picture of Tara. Interesting. Any idea why that would be there?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve taken a swing at it, I see. It looks like you tried her name, maybe?”

  Abby nodded.

  “Do you know why that didn’t work?”

  “No.”

  “Guess.” The kid slouched back against the seat, the phone in his pocket now, all of his attention on Abby. “Show me some promise, Kaplan. Offer a strong theory.”

  “It’s all fake.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That the picture is pointless, maybe. A smoke screen. It’s not how you unlock the phone.” She glanced in the mirror and saw the kid staring intently at her.

  “How do you think the phone is unlocked, then?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Give me another effort. I think you’re close.”

  “A fingerprint. A PIN number. I really don’t know.”

  “Actually, you’re very close. Not bad at all. It’s biometrics, but it’s not a fingerprint. The camera is real, so I’m betting on facial recognition.”

  “Do you think it’s really Tara’s face that has to be recognized, though?” They were on a narrow stretch of the peninsula now, Penobscot Bay looming to their left, the sea gray-green under the massing clouds, a tower of battered lobster traps stacked high on a weathered wharf.