by Kit Reed
Once he set the timing Starbird had to lay back, at least for a while— no problem. He needed to think. He spent some days meandering up the Inland Waterway, exploring the Sea Islands. He drove on up to Beaufort with no obligations and no needs, really, until it was time. This gave him the liberty to take his ambition out into the light and crack it open and look inside. For the first time it seemed important to him to find out how the engine that drove him ran, to disassemble it, see what the parts looked like.
Exiting the life that made him who he was, Starbird was compelled to learn what he might possibly become. Without the distractions of the job to diffuse his concentration, the desire to find out took fire. It burned like acid, eating its way out. What did he want, anyway? What did he really want to do now, or to become?
Something, he thought. Something more than this.
He was riveted, hung up on the mystery of aspiration. Where did it come from, this burning, elusive need to jump higher?
Wandering rural South Carolina, he tried to open himself; he wanted to spread the leaves the way he would an artichoke and look into the heart. He needed to look into himself the way a man in love sometimes spreads the petals so he can look into the woman he loves, and look deep. Insulated by years focused on the work, the crazed cycle of planning and completion, Tom Starbird had no time to confront himself.
Now he did. When he finished this last job, this part of his life would be done forever. He brooded, wondering, What comes next?
He crossed long causeways flanked by marsh grass and drove on into sandy territory tufted with weeds and overhung by live-oaks and Australian pines shrouded in Spanish moss. In a ramshackle enclave by a dirt road, a door fell open as his car approached. Yellow light spilled out like a trail leading in. Stricken, Starbird took his foot off the gas. He was drawn to the glowing interior, where simpler lives than his spun out on bare wood floors in front of an HDTV; it was like seeing into another life. He switched off his lights and backed up, yearning for something he could not name. He cut the motor and coasted in. Rocked by longing, he watched kids running around the spare, uncluttered living room. Then somebody called and they dropped on the spot, laughing and tumbling in front of the TV while a woman— the mother? bringing cookies she had baked?— wandered in from the kitchen with a plate. Here’s a story he once heard: rich kid’s grandmother drives him through a burned out neighborhood in some big city. “Martin,” she says grandly, “this is where poor people come from.” At this distance, it looked good to him: having not enough, because he knew now that too much was never enough. Simple, compared.
It made his mouth water. His heart went out. He wanted to go up and present himself. Hi, it’s me. Get invited in. He wanted to move in, he wanted them to let him live in their lives. If he could, it would solve everything.
If he could only do this right, maybe they’d like him. If they liked him well enough they might ask him to stay the night. If he showed he was useful maybe they’d let him stay on. He could come to live with them forever, make repairs, pull his weight on the farm. Hell with the exigencies, he was ready to dig, plow, plant, mind kids when he was needed, and if there wasn’t a bed for him in the house no problem, he’d happily sleep in the shed. Right now Starbird would give anything to sit down for supper in the family kitchen and sprawl on the floor in front of the TV with their kids when supper was done. By this time he had fallen in love with this family; he was ready to do anything for them, give them anything they asked. Want a wire transfer? Sure. Let them take the damn money and go to fucking Europe if they wanted to, live on the Riviera, buy a farmhouse in France, he’d do anything for a chance to hang out with them here under the live-oaks, with the sharp, hard outlines of his guilt blurred by shrouds of Spanish moss.
He thought it was a fair transaction, everything he had in exchange for their hard but uncomplicated lives. Sitting there in the dark in coastal South Carolina, Tom Starbird rocked with homesickness for something he’d never had.
God, he thought, these poor people! Didn’t they know how vulnerable they were, laughing in there? Three kids with their nice mom, nice dad. Couldn’t they guess that there was a world-class felon slouched in his rental car out here in the dark?
When did he start thinking of himself as a felon? Wrenched by grief he didn’t understand, Starbird looked into his hands reflectively. He didn’t know. He didn’t know!
Anybody else would have put his head down on the steering wheel and sobbed.
The dog heard. It began to bark. A man came to the door. The father, protecting his family. Out here in the world there were loving fathers on guard. Groaning, Starbird stepped on the gas. He would be gone before the tenant farmer knew he was there.
It was pickup day minus eleven. Time to establish a staging area in Savannah, where he would retreat to begin surveillance and finalize the plan. The subject had been in the world for more than two weeks now. By this time the supplier would be strong enough to take it out in the car. Starbird had done the preliminaries before he hit the road— what were the parameters of the DelMar, where the supplier would go when she went out— how far were the doctor’s offices and which were the nearest stores, whether she went to the Food King or to Walgreens and when. It was simple enough to divine patterns, the comings and goings, this supplier’s habits regarding the subject. How vigilant she was. Who else was around, and when. Whether she let other people tend this baby and whether she ever left it alone. He was still studying methods for the pickup. A short-timer now, he was weighing the UPS truck and uniform— sure fire but demanding substantial groundwork, against settling for a slap-on Domino’s lightup sign for the rental car. A break-in would be easy. The site was wide open and easy to crack. Rundown motel, plywood doors and spring locks any fool could open with a credit card, but that was for amateurs. Clumsy. Accident-prone. Starbird is a skilled professional. If you want to do something right you never do it the easy way, which is exactly what police expect. Big back windows sheltered by azaleas, sitting there like an invitation. But that would be kidnapping. Starbird will never be that person.
After this job, nobody will confuse him with that person. Ever again.
Even exiting the business, Starbird is a professional. As a provider, he is careful. Meticulous. His plans are always in place well before he moves on them.
It’s time to prepare.
It is this cool precision that brings Tom Starbird to the Food King today. The supplier has popped the product into her rusting heap and driven to a big, impersonal supermarket a stone’s throw from the DelMar. He needs to observe without being seen and this is the ideal place. Tom follows at a distance as the supplier circles the aisles with the subject in its car seat propped in her shopping cart. Cartoon Teddy bears dance on the fabric that covers the cushions and the ruffled collapsible hood. The little plastic bucket comes equipped with a white plastic handle— asking for it! The infant in the bucket is like a puppy in a carrying case or a shrink-wrapped Easter basket with the bunny inside, inviting the consumer to snatch it out of the display, but Starbird prides himself on subtlety. He didn’t get where he is by grabbing an item in plain sight and running out of the store.
Expert at remote surveillance, he tracks the supplier at a distance; he knows how to see without being seen, following as she circles the store. The girl is bent over the cart, murmuring to the subject in its ruffled bucket; doesn’t she ever turn her back? As she stops to study TV dinners he backs off, waiting in the next aisle. He is alerted by a disruption. Sounds of a confrontation.
When the yelling starts Starbird knows it’s time to vaporize, but curiosity keeps him in place a beat too long.
He is in fact turning to leave when the girl rounds the corner, running fast. And she has left the baby— where? The second Starbird takes to consider this question is the one he should have spent exiting the picture. He’s skilled at disappearing. After all these years he knows how. How isn’t the issue here. It’s when. He’s seconds too late. The girl spots
him and runs headlong with her hands out. “Please,” she says urgently. “There’s this guy.”
“What?”
“Back there. He’s following me!”
Behind her this overweight bozo in a Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt hip-checks the corner display of salsa, smashing jars as he steams her way. Sauce splatters and he slips. Big guy; one of those athletes that runs to fat when the season ends, but the clenched fists and Popeye muscles make clear he’s still tough. Distressed, the girl turns a face like a bruised violet toward Starbird and— God!—just as he turns to go, she grabs his arm.
A nerve spasms. It’s as if she’s run a fingernail down his naked spine.
“Please!”
Oh shit. I’ve worked too hard to blow it now. He turns. In his right mind, Starbird would not permit this encounter because his work is done without reference to the mark. On any other job, he’d be out of here like a shot. Concealment is S.O.P., but he momentarily loses concentration, perhaps because they are so close to pickup, it’s the last, he is thinking like a short-timer here.
For the first time in his long life in the business, Tom Starbird is face to face with the mark. He has been surveilling her for days. Up close she is something else. Pale against the black T-shirt, skinny and insubstantial, a little shaky on her feet— right, the nurses said she had a tough time— all this and she’s trying to smile. All this observed in the seconds it takes the numbnut marauder in the Bulldogs sweats to regain his feet and cover the distance between the puddle of salsa and his prey.
“Please.”
One woman alone, she needs his help, does he have a choice?
Starbird puts her behind him. “Stay here. I’ll deal.”
By the time he muscles her assailant out of the supermarket and frog-marches him across the parking lot to the road, the girl is running after him, waving her arms.
The stalker, old boyfriend, whatever, shit, amateur kidnapper? Whatever he is, he’s struggling to get free. He lunges, raising hammy fists. Starbird stops him with the blade of his hand, not hard enough to smash the larynx but hard enough to knock him out of his tracks. Black belt: yeah thanks, Daria. Karate lessons to get me out of your hair. Grinning, he throws the schlub into the dirt and heads for his car. Split now and the girl may not forget what happened, but she won’t remember how it came down or who you are.
Behind him, she is calling: “Wait.”
Oh, shit.
“Don’t go.”
Don’t compound the felony, run. He pretends not to hear.
Behind him she calls, “Please wait.”
Another second and he’d have made it. He’d be out of here. “Can’t. Late.”
“Please!”
“Late, really. Really late.” Too late.
She cuts him off at the car. She’s panting and unsteady from the effort. Her voice is shaky too. “I just wanted to say thanks.”
Dammit, lady, don’t smile. Don’t smile at me.
She does.
He and the supplier are face to face.
Tom Starbird got where he is by setting protocols and adhering to his own strict rules. No personal contact. Once you’ve objectified, everything you do remains abstract. Elements fall into place like the cherries on a slot machine. The operation depends on it.
If this seems cold, Starbird has his reasons. You can get away with anything as long as the victim doesn’t have a face. Mistake. The minute you start thinking of her as a victim, you’re screwed.
Oh God, the girl’s still talking. “I just wanted to explain. That guy is my. Was my.” Her face is full of her story she wants to tell. She wants him to hear it but she can’t find the words to go with. She tries to take his hands but he pulls away. It’s like one of those games where you win if you can keep from getting slapped. She sees he’s getting weird and stops. “Oh hell, just, thanks.”
Don’t get sucked in here. Don’t talk to her. Get in the car now, asshole. Pretend you don’t know what she’s talking about. Like it wasn’t me that rushed that fat stalker off the scene, lady. Must have been somebody else. Leave now, while you can. Like a goddamn fool, he says, “You’re welcome.” OK, you said it. Now go.
He can’t go. She is bobbing between him and the car door. Nice face. Very nice face. Intelligent. Pale scar parting the left eyebrow, when she was little she fell, or some kid hit her with a toy. Embarrassed now. “I’m not usually so helpless.”
Three weeks out of the hospital, it’s perfectly normal. Don’t say that! “No problem,” he says in a neutral tone. If human lives ran with the beautiful, brute simplicity of an operating system, Tom Starbird’s screen would be bannered with the red circle canceled by an X. Right now it should be warning:
This program has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down.
“See, I just had a baby and …”
“It’s OK.”
She goes on anyway. “Something about the whole childbirth thing makes your brains melt and go running down your neck.” If she’d only stop smiling.
Accidentally, he smiles. Fuck you for that, Starbird, get rid of her before you do anything worse. “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back.”
“I just freaked.”
“He’s a pretty big guy.”
“I don’t usually freak. I’m usually pretty tough.”
I bet you are. “Yeah, well, nice meeting you. Now I have to …” Computers, at least, when you do something stupid, computers beep warnings, but this is a person. Born into a gentler society than the one he inhabits now, Starbird can’t get past her and he just won’t push her aside.
“He’s kind of an ex-boyfriend. Hell no, he was never my boyfriend, he’s just a …”
Fatal error. “Don’t worry, he won’t be back.”
“Oh yes he will. I just wanted to …”
Fatal error. With a sense of futility, he takes her shoulders and gently turns her so he can get into the car. The contact is like a little shock: slight. Shaky. Warm. Lovely, really. Asshole, back off! “Thank me? You’re welcome. Now if you don’t mind, I’m late.”
“I thought he was going to take my …”
This program has performed an illegal operation. Think fast, Starbird. “Baby? Lady, where’s your baby?”
Her hands fly up. “Oh my God, the baby!” At least this gets rid of her. Suppliers at this stage, they’re so new to it that sometimes they forget they have a baby and accidentally put it down.
And will be shut down. “Better hurry. You left him in the store.”
Whatever comes down now, he will remember her.
And she’ll remember him.
His systems aren’t shut down but they are gravely compromised.
22.
Jake Zorn is in his office, beginning construction on Tom Starbird’s worst nightmare. He doesn’t have the blueprint in front of him but the cornerstone is sitting right here. They are about to go mano a mano. With Starbird out of reach and everything pending, he has to keep busy. Partly he is bad at waiting and partly, in the lexicon of threats made good on, it is essential. If the dude can’t produce a kid, Jake will have this to show. It’s going well. In fact, it’s going so well that he thinks he’ll do the show anyway. It’s good. Very good. With this pretrial interview slotted in, the show will be gangbusters. Yes, he is thinking of this as a trial. An open trial before a jury of millions, never been done, not like this. First you expose the culprit. Then you destroy her.
Sitting opposite him is Daria Starbird.
“Thanks for coming in,” Zorn says. “I need your perspective on something.”
“I brought a list of agencies.” Woman’s activist, she thinks she is here to consult on health resources for women. Handsome woman past a certain age, smiling uncertainly.
“I’m more interested in you as a mature parent.”
Daria says sharply, “I wasn’t that mature.”
“You were forty.”
She blinks as if he’s just slapped her. “I didn’t come here to talk
about …”
“How does it feel to get pregnant in midlife?”
“And I certainly don’t intend to …” She trails off. She is looking for the thread but it eludes her. Daria Starbird is in her sixties now. Carved-looking head, expensive shoes. Man-tailored suit— new; good jewelry to make clear that she is definitely not a man, although she has the same pale eyes and strong chin as the son. Cut from the same cloth, different detailing.
Zorn is looking for the thread too, but not the one that draws a straight line through this conversation. When he’s at the top of his game the thread he pulls tightens like a noose but he’s a little bit intimidated by this woman. When he’s working a subject like this one he has to circle like a woodpecker tapping here, testing there, looking for weaknesses. That hollow sound that signals rot underneath. Tap. “Pregnant with a baby you don’t want?”
“Oh!” She shakes her head with a subverbal noise that will have viewers by the millions jamming the 900 number.
Tap. “And try to get rid of?”
“I didn’t have an …”
“I never said you did. I said you tried to get rid of it.”
Tears spring. “You have it all wrong!”
Bullseye. “By all means, correct me.”
“I wanted that baby, and besides …” Her head lifts. “That was a long time ago. Now, as I said, for women in trouble there are dozens of …”
“What was?”
She rushes past the question. “My list. It’s right here on my PDA. Don’t you want your person to download and print my list?”
“But the memories are still fresh.” Yes he is baiting her. Get her on tape and it won’t matter what she says, they can fix it up in the edit.
“No,” she says, cool as anything. She’s too smart to ask what memories?
“Because?” Maury’s psychotic break taught him how to work these women. He wants her to say, electroshock trashes your memory. Then he’ll say, not ask, what electroshock. Or, which memory.
