by E. Z. Rinsky
“Where did you get that information?” I ask.
“James told me.”
One of Courtney’s eyes shoots up, the other down, like they’re trying to escape his face in different directions. He might actually pass out.
“What—” I gasp.
“I’d like my books back.”
Courtney and I have a long conversation with our eyes which as far as I can tell is just variations on This is fucking bad. He grabs a Wendy’s napkin and scribbles a note to me: He thinks we have them.
I hold out my hands helplessly. Okay. So what?
He writes: Go with it.
Courtney clears his throat, and manages to say: “Why would we give them back to you? We had a deal. You got the money, and we got the books.”
A long pause.
“So you’ll be bringing them back to James?”
“So that he’ll bring them right to you?” I say. “And then you’ll have both? That works out nicely.”
A staticky sound that might be a modified guffaw.
“I’m not sure why you think what happens between James and me is any of your business. Bring them back to James as you promised him you would. He’s expecting them.”
“Maybe I’ll just call James and tell him you’re extorting him,” I say, trying to sound forceful. “That you’re the one who has the money, not Rico.”
A metal-coated laugh.
“You’re welcome to tell James whatever you like. I don’t think he’s going to be very receptive.”
“Listen . . . the thing is” —I’m so tired that without really thinking, I’m about to just tell the truth, mention the text from Rico, but Courtney realizes this and lunges across the table to smack me on the cheek. Shakes his head frantically. Instead I say, voice wavering: “We can bring the cops to the red house. Show them Rico, show them everything.”
A metallic clang that might be him clearing his throat.
“This must be Frank. The boneheaded one—James’s words. Frank, I suggest you defer to your wiser partner and exercise some restraint. Once you speak to James, I believe your only possible course of action will become clear. You have stumbled into something much larger than yourself. Something you cannot control. You are standing at the mouth of a cave that not even God himself dares to enter. Don’t be a fool.”
“I’m not—”
“You just invaded one of my private residences. Few things upset me more than that. So it may be prudent to ask yourselves why you’re still alive. The answer is: Because I’m a patient person. But James, decidedly, is not.”
He hangs up.
Courtney’s eyes are bulging. His face is the same pale white as the tile tabletop.
“Frank . . .” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Give me some alcohol, please.”
“Congrats,” I say and slide the liter of Jack across the table to him. “You’ve just been accepted to the prestigious Frank Lamb school of self-medication.”
He takes a little sip straight from the bottle and doubles over coughing. I doubt he’s had a drink since he last worked with me. Hands me back the bottle.
The phone starts buzzing again. This time it’s Sampson. I close my eyes, hoping when I open them everything will be different. Nope. Still sitting across the table from what looks like a scarecrow who just accidentally saw himself in the mirror and freaked out. We each still have one headphone in. I take a long pull of whiskey—half hoping one of these Wendy’s employees says something and gives me an excuse to go ballistic—and hit answer.
“Hi, Senator,” I answer softly. “Sorry about the—”
“Where the heck are you?” Sampson’s voice is throaty and raw in my ear. “How dare you ignore me! Bring them to me!”
“Senator, we—” I cling to the bottle, hoping to absorb a little more booze through osmosis. “We just experienced a little setback is all.”
“You . . .” The Senator’s voice has gone horrible. Soft, weak, cracked with pain. “What . . . ?”
“James. Listen, Rico is dead,” I say. “Oliver Vicks killed him. I know he already spoke to you, but he’s messing with you.”
“What? What?” he flips out again. “How dare you besmirch his holy name! Where is the money? Where are the books?!”
“Senator, listen carefully to me,” Courtney says, his tone pleading. “This won’t be easy to hear. But you’ve been had. It seems clear that this has been an elaborate con by Oliver Vicks to extort money from you. We can prove it to you—we can be at your house in a few hours to show you pictures. He’s not in prison. Must have been paroled or something. The authorities need to know about this. We need helicopters and German Shepherds. I’m going to call the police, and they’ll get you your money back.”
I hear the shrill crinkle of what I’m guessing is a Diet Pepsi can being manually crushed.
“Sophnot told me you’d say something like that.”
I close my eyes and see bright lights. Listen to the buzz of the air-conditioning, the ding of the cash register.
“James,” I reply, as calmly as I can. “He’s a monster. He’s manipulating you in a million different ways. Courtney and I are trying to help you.”
My heart flutters in the silence that follows. The longer it goes, the more terrible it is to imagine the man on the other end . . . His mouth open, trying to scream but unable to. Is he actually struggling to breathe? It’s impossible to tell how long the moment lasts. Time is stretched out like a man on the rack.
But when Sampson talks again, his voice is surprisingly calm, as if he didn’t hear anything I just said. His politician voice.
“You stole the books from me,” he says. “But I can forgive you if you make things right. Bring them back to me by Friday. Sophnot needs them by sundown on Friday. That’s when the holy Sabbath begins.”
“James,” I say, ignoring the seismic event unfolding in my stomach. “It’s more complex . . .” I trail off, lacking the strength or will to finish that sentence. My molars are gnashing together so forcefully I worry they’re just gonna pop out, or erode into nubs. In my earbud pounds Sampson’s frantic, impossibly fast breathing. Panting, almost. It’s like we’re listening to a man who is literally in the process of going insane.
“You think you can do this?” Sampson hisses. “You think I won’t move heaven and earth, to retrieve my teacher’s books? To punish you?” He trails off, whimpering, then starts up again, his voice again reverting to something resembling reasonable. “If you think you can simply flee with my property, you have badly underestimated the capabilities of my office. You think,” Sampson gasps, “you can hide from my wrath?!”
Courtney is breathing and blinking at hummingbird speed.
“Now let’s just back up—”
“Bring me my books. And if you dare, foolishly, to make this public, I’ll drag you down with me. I’ll clutch at your ankles and drag you down with me into hell.”
“Please, James, if we could just be reasonable—”
“I would prefer to resolve this quietly. But if I don’t get them by Friday you’ll leave me no choice. Can you imagine what happens when a United States Senator tells the FBI that he’s had very valuable property stolen from his house? You think you’d last a day with them looking for you?”
“James . . .” I lock eyes with Courtney, begging him for advice. What do I do?
I’m a fish flopping around on the sand, just looking to get back in the water even for a few moments. Have to avoid him calling in the infantry before then. Give us time to think. What’s today, Tuesday early morning? I can’t even remember.
“Okay. Friday,” I say, dread washing over my body. “We’ll bring them to your house.”
“By four,” he says. “Sophnot needs them before sundown.”
I hang up.
Courtney’s hands are trembling. Beads of sweat creeping from the creases on his forehead.
“This is . . .” He gasps, “Frank, I think I’m having a panic attack.�
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“I would have had one hours ago, but I’m too tired,” I say, shooting to my feet, and retrieving a paper bag from the Wendy’s staff for Courtney to breathe into. I retake my seat.
“Why does Oliver think we have the books?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe that’s what Rico told him. But the irony is, that’s better than him and Sampson thinking we don’t have them. I guess.”
“Yeah Court, everything’s rosy,” I say. “At least the ten-inch metal rod being shoved up our asses isn’t eleven inches.”
Courtney responds with a few rapid exhalations into the paper bag.
“We need to get the fuck out of here . . .” I say. “Out of this state. This country.”
Courtney puts down the bag.
“We can’t,” he says. “Sampson will come after us.”
I blink at him.
“So . . .” I say. “I guess we better figure out where Sophnot will never go. Before Friday.”
Courtney puts down his bag, presses his palms on the table, and pushes himself up slightly out of his seat, so he’s leaning over me like some kind of perched bird of prey. The tips of his fingers are vibrating like an electric current is running through them.
“And then what?” he says. “We just leave this serial killer on the loose? We can’t, Frank. He . . .”
Courtney trails off, unable or unwilling to vocalize the atrocities we now know Oliver has been performing regularly.
I drain what’s left of my spiked coffee, pathetically hoping this final caffeine surge will suddenly render everything a difficult yet manageable challenge that I can’t wait to get to work on.
“Okay . . .” I say, trying to think out loud. “Right. Oliver. So then . . . we’ll bring back the books, then call the cops on Oliver.”
Courtney emits something between a laugh and a cry.
“No . . . making this public will bring down Sampson. And if he goes down, I guarantee you he was telling the truth about bringing us down with him.”
“Well, then what the hell do you suggest?” I snap. Feels like my brain has run out of gas and is now just lurching spastically toward the garage.
Courtney sinks back into his chair.
“Let me think,” he says, and he sits back in the booth and goes silent. I consider calling Sadie again. Trying to explain . . . what exactly?
It would be a selfish call. I just want to hear her voice. That will settle me down.
But she wouldn’t pick up. It’s two hours later on the East Coast.
I toy with the empty coffee cup.
What if Courtney had never found me in Budapest? Or if I hadn’t gone to the hotel? Or if I’d said no to him?
There’s a reasonable case for being upset at him for dragging me into this, but I don’t feel that way. Instead I feel that this case, this whole state—fucking Colorado—is some kind of black hole that dragged me back from across the globe.
Why? Why does this place want Frank Lamb and Courtney Lavagnino?
I smirk to myself at the ludicrousness of the first answer that pops into my head.
What if we’re the only ones who can fix this mess?
“Oliver is in a pretty spot . . . He’s not particularly worried,” Courtney finally says. “He’s thinking: Either we’ll deliver the books to him ourselves, via Sampson, or, worst case, Sampson will deploy the cavalry to get them back for him. And meanwhile, he already has his forty-eight million.”
I bite my lip.
“He seems to have a knack for setting up situations in which he can’t lose.”
We sit for a moment in silence.
“What if we told Oliver the truth? That we don’t have the books, but here’s Rico’s text? Maybe he would know what Rico meant, and he’d just go get the books himself.”
“No, no . . .” says Courtney. “He knows who we are. And he’s not going to just let us walk away knowing what we know. He’d either kill us or have Sampson report us.”
“So what do we do?” I ask.
We sit in silence for a moment
“Option one: If we get the books by Friday then I can get my passport, and our salary, from Sampson. Then when Sampson brings the books to Oliver we can follow, and tell the cops where he is—I’d say skinning people probably violates his probation terms.”
“And if we can’t find the books?” Courtney says.
“Then our second best option is to just track down Oliver Vicks directly. To at least protect ourselves, stop him from killing anyone else, and get Sampson’s money back.”
Courtney purses his lips and taps his fingers on the table, and for maybe the twentieth time in the last couple hours, nods.
“Okay. I’m with you. Best case, get the books. And barring that, at least try to figure out where Oliver Vicks is and—hopefully—prove that he’s on the loose killing people. So. Where will Sophnot never go?”
I scratch my head.
“Back to prison maybe? I don’t know how the hell Rico would get in there to drop the books off, but if Oliver got out on parole, I mean, back to prison is probably the last place he’d ever want to go.”
Courtney shrugs helplessly.
“Could be. Let’s go tomorrow morning and figure out what the hell happened there.”
Part Three
Wednesday/Thursday
Genesis 41: 41–45
So Pharaoh said to Joseph, “I hereby put you in charge of the whole land of Egypt.” Then Pharaoh took his signet ring from his finger and put it on Joseph’s finger. He dressed him in robes of fine linen and put a gold chain around his neck. He had him ride in a chariot as his second-in-command and people shouted before him, “Make way!” Thus he put him in charge of the whole land of Egypt.
Then Pharaoh said to Joseph, “I am Pharaoh, but without your word no one will lift hand or foot in all Egypt.” Pharaoh gave Joseph the name Saphnat-Paneah and gave him Asenath, daughter of Potiphar, priest of Ond to be his wife. And Joseph went throughout the land of Egypt.
Saddleback Correctional Facility is in the foothills, near Golden, Colorado, about a half-hour drive outside Boulder. Much like it often was in Budapest, my mood is way out of sync with the scenery. Oceans of grain waving in the sparkling morning sun. Crisp blue sky. I see what might be an honest to goodness eagle riding the wind off to my right.
The star-spangled scenery does little to lift my spirits. Only serves as a reminder that, were I somebody different in a much better situation, I might currently be enjoying my stay on earth. I’d rather we were driving through a dark swamp in the dead of winter, occupied exclusively by crows and maggots.
We drive with the windows down, letting the warm wind whip against our ears. My right hip is killing me from the few hours of attempted sleep, contorted in the backseat of the Honda. Even four Tylenol PMs couldn’t put me down. Just lay still, listening to Courtney’s light snoring.
We picked up some oranges, apples and dry granola from a grocery store on the way out. I peel an orange and hand some slices to Courtney, who wordlessly swallows, keeping his eyes on the narrow highway.
The phone rings. Mindy, calling for the tenth time this morning.
“You wanna talk to her?” I say.
“I’m driving,” Courtney responds.
“I’m not going to tell her exactly what Rico said,” I say. “Can’t risk her finding the books on her own.”
“Fine. But have to make sure she doesn’t leak to the Senator that we don’t even have them.”
Courtney obviously has more credibility with her, but this is a nightmare scenario for his technophobia: speaking to a girl he’s crushing on, over the phone.
I hit call and she picks up almost immediately. I’m anticipating a screeching British earful, chewing me out for all but ignoring her calls and texts until now, but she seems to realize that she’s going to have to play nice.
“Where are you?” she says. “Did you find anything?”
“Colorado. And no.”
“Oh,” she says, voice souring. “This is Frank.”
“Courtney’s driving.”
He glances at me, dying to ask what she said about him.
“Speaker,” he whispers.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece.
“Don’t want to disrupt your concentration. While you’re driving.”
“Why didn’t you respond last night? Did you find anything on the security footage?”
“We might have something,” I say. “Actually wanted to ask you some questions. About Sophnot.”
“What are you talking about. What did you find?”
“It’s complicated, don’t want to get into it now.”
“Complicated? Please don’t patronize me.”
“Well, Courtney and I were wondering . . . well for one thing, if there’s a significance to the binding itself. If it’s more than just a cover.”
“Let’s meet and discuss this,” she says.
“Look, if you don’t want to answer my questions, that’s fine. I’ll call you later,” I say, about to just hang up on her when she says:
“Let me guess: You discovered what kind of leather he’s using.”
I grit my teeth. Courtney looks at me, eyes wide.
“You knew?” I hiss.
“Of course,” she says. “Do you know how many hours I worked with those things?”
“Then why didn’t you tell us?” I yell into the phone. Courtney is so distracted he nearly veers into a drainage ditch.
“Didn’t seem pertinent to you two.”
“Pertinent!? He’s been killing people to do this!” I shriek.
Mindy laughs dryly.
“Yes. It’s complicated isn’t it?”
I slap my palm over the receiver, emit a stream of curses, and try to control the anger in my voice.
“What else are you holding out on us?”
“About a decade’s worth of research, Frank. I apologize for not compacting everything into an executive summary of quick-hitting sound bites.”
“You didn’t think the fact that the books are bound in human skin was worth mentioning? What else do you know? What about a mask? Do the books say anything about a wax mask?”
