On top were surveillance photographs – Brian McAvoy with Dodge and William. Multiple meetings, each photo sporting a different time stamp. Mike looked up at Two-Hawks, unimpressed.
Two-Hawks said, ‘Our man smuggled out the material beneath.’
Mike lifted the final few photos to reveal a stack of photocopies – cramped handwriting and figures filling lined pages.
A ledger.
Mike’s heart quickened.
Two-Hawks’s finger appeared beneath Mike’s downturned face, one manicured nail tapping. ‘These represent payments issued through McAvoy’s personal slush account. Yes, that is McAvoy’s handwriting. He must not have wanted digital files’ – a note of irony – ‘as they’re too easy to copy.’
‘Your inside man?’ Mike said. ‘You said he’s an accountant?’
‘Ted Rogers. A specialist in offshore bookkeeping. McAvoy brought him in to expedite the cash flow between offshore entities. In the process Mr Rogers needed to clean up some wires that had gone astray between accounts. So he was given limited access to this ledger. The recipients are identified by bank-account number – see there? You can probably guess who the most frequent fliers are.’
‘Rick Graham,’ Mike said faintly. ‘Roger Drake. William Burrell.’
‘And, if you reach back far enough, Leonard Burrell. I guess he’s—’
‘William’s uncle.’
Mike riffled through the pages, the scrape on the underside of his arm throbbing. The dates trailed back through the decades. Next to certain payments were lengthy numbers without commas or dashes. Mike counted and recounted; each number had nine digits.
Mike said, ‘Are those what I think they are?’
‘Social Security numbers.’
Mike tried to swallow but found his mouth too dry to carry it off. ‘Belonging to?’
‘Your mother. Your father. Those brothers who wouldn’t sell their land. A councilwoman in the way of a zoning law. A high roller who couldn’t make good on a seven-figure marker. These payments are issued and the people corresponding to those Social Security numbers go missing a day or two later. To a one.’
Seeing it laid out so brazenly was sickening. Dollar and cents, human lives.
‘Which ones . . .’ Mike wet his lips. ‘Which ones belonged to my parents?’
Two-Hawks pointed out the entries. Mike ran a finger across the dates. Stared at the Social Security numbers. Just John. Danielle Trainor. Two-Hawks cleared his throat, and Mike realized he’d zoned out for a time.
He flipped to the end of the photocopies, but the dates ended about a week before Dodge and William had stepped from the shadows into his life. The thought of the actual ledger still out there, sitting in some safe or locked drawer, chilled him. He knew what would be written there now in the same strained penmanship – his own Social Security number, and that of his daughter.
His eye caught on the last big payment. It had no corresponding Social Security number. ‘What do you think that was?’
Two-Hawks bunched his lips, his stare dropping to the table. ‘One of Ted Rogers’s last acts was transferring the money to pay for his own murder.’ He flipped back a page, pointed to two more entries. ‘And the murder of his wife.’
The fact rang around the room for a moment or two.
‘A few days went by, no sign of any of them. Cops were called, found the house empty. No trace of anything aside from a missing couch cushion from Ted’s study. Dodge and William never leave a body behind.’ Two-Hawks rubbed his eyes. ‘Clearly, McAvoy had caught wind of something. For obvious reasons he left the Social Security numbers off the ledger, since Ted would have recognized . . .’ He slumped back in his chair, a cheek clamped between his teeth, his eyes gone moist. Mike understood now the man’s quick anger last night when Shep had pressed him on the topic of his inside man.
The scenario in the Rogerses’ house was too close to the nightmares that had been playing out in Mike’s head for the past two weeks. He averted his eyes. In the bottom of the safe-deposit box was a final stack of photocopied papers. He reached for them.
The top pages bore shadows where the originals had been folded like letters. Each had a handwritten date, one of the Social Security numbers from the ledger, and a code of some sort. Midway through the stack, they switched to fax format, the codes scrawled in the middle of the page, the time stamp printed neatly across the top.
Grateful for the shift in attention, Two-Hawks said, ‘I guess those were tucked in the back of the ledger. Each date corresponds with a payment and someone’s disappearance. I figure it’s confirmation that the job was . . . completed. On these later ones, the “sent to” phone number on the header? That’s McAvoy’s personal fax line. But we couldn’t figure out what those codes mean.’
Mike glanced at a few of them. FRVRYNG. MSTHNG. LALADY .
Text messages? Nicknames?
The sealed room was making him claustrophobic. He was eager to get out and start formulating a plan with Shep and Hank for how to obliterate McAvoy and his men. Gathering up the papers, he slid them into the large gray envelope that Two-Hawks had provided.
He stood, leaning a hand on the table to steady himself. Two-Hawks gripped his arm in support. They headed to the back corridor, Mike continuing on ahead alone.
He reached the far door and shoved it open, the night air sweeping through his clothes, tightening his skin. He looked back. Two-Hawks was still there down the hall, standing in half shadow. He raised an arm, his palm out like that Indian healer from the painting.
Mike stepped out into the cold.
‘You need a body.’ Hank’s voice over the line sounded hoarse and weak.
Cell phone pressed to his cheek, Mike sat shuddering in the passenger seat of the Pinto, Shep looking on. They were parked outside an all-night diner down the hill from Two-Hawks’s casino, the gray envelope heavy across Mike’s thighs.
‘What?’ Mike said.
‘Why do you think McAvoy makes those people disappear?’ Hank said. ‘No body, no murder case. All that shit you got, damning as it looks, remains circumstantial. But a body, a body opens everything up.’
Mike was yelling: ‘You’re telling me that all this—’
‘Look, there’s no question this evidence changes the playing field. It’s way too big for McAvoy to cover up anymore. He’ll be stained – the payments to Graham alone. Once this gets out, it’ll drive a wedge between McAvoy and the law-enforcement community. You’re gonna have whole agencies scrambling to distance themselves from the guy. It’s all about appearances. And with that genealogy report, you can make a claim on the casino and put the asshole out of business. Dodge and William will be investigated and watched, and I can’t imagine that the cops won’t find something that’ll stick. But you asked if this hangs McAvoy, and no, it doesn’t hang him. A body would hang him.’
Exasperated, Mike pressed his temple to the icy window. A young couple in a vintage Mercedes coupe parked beside them and climbed out, so Mike resisted the urge to shout again. ‘What do I do?’ he asked quietly.
‘You’ve done enough,’ Hank said. ‘We get a lawyer, leak some evidence, negotiate who you turn yourself in to. I’m thinking FBI. There’s plenty you gotta answer for, too, Rick Graham’s body being foremost. But we can get you in the system now. Check on Annabel. Get your daughter back, safe.’
Mike’s head was tilted forward into the warm air blowing from the vents, his hand pinching his eyes.
‘You’ve been out in the cold a long time,’ Hank said. ‘It’s time to come in.’
Tears were falling through Mike’s hand, tapping the gray folder. He managed to get the words out. ‘How long? Until I can get Kat?’
‘We’ll get our footing with this as quickly as we can. A few days?’
‘No. By tomorrow night.’
‘Then let’s get started.’
Mike swallowed hard. ‘All right. I’m coming to you. We make copies of all this. Put them in different locations. Figure out a
game plan, slow and smart.’
Hank agreed, and they signed off.
Mike tilted back his head and blew out a shaky breath. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ Another breath, this one less wobbly. ‘Let’s hit the motel room, pick up the cash, the flash drive, and the genealogy report.’
‘Motel’s the opposite direction,’ Shep said. ‘I’ll go, meet you there.’
‘We only have one car,’ Mike said.
Shep scowled at him, disappointed, clearly, by Mike’s lack of imagination. Shep got out, swinging the door shut behind him. In ten seconds he was into the vintage Mercedes; in forty the engine roared to life.
He offered Mike a two-finger salute as he pulled out.
Mike slid across into the driver’s seat and drove off.
The freeway, at this hour, was quiet. A few miles down the road, a lightning bolt of hope shot through the vise of Mike’s chest, nearly splitting him in half. He steered off onto the shoulder, stumbled a brief ways into the brush, and bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. For so long he hadn’t dared to let himself hope, and the sensation of it ripped through his bloodstream, a drug he’d lost tolerance for. He fought off thoughts of Annabel’s touch, her hands intertwined in his against the bedsheets. The heft of Kat when he picked her up, that smooth cheek against his.
Not a husband. Not a father. Not yet.
The air was sharp and tinged with sagebrush, the wet dirt sticking to the bottoms of his shoes. He heaved twice, bringing nothing up, then returned to the car. He’d left the door open, the soft dome light spilling over the headrests. He buckled back in, put his hands on the wheel, and set off toward Hank.
As he exited the freeway, the Batphone vibrated in his pocket. He fumbled it out and open. ‘Yeah?’
‘I have to put through a call.’ Shep’s voice sounded weird.
‘What? Who?’
There was some background noise and then an electronic click.
Annabel said, ‘Hello?’
Chapter 54
The first thought to break through Mike’s delirious relief was that Dodge and William had found her and forced her to call. He didn’t know what he was saying, but in between the rush of his words and the thrum of his thoughts he registered his wife’s replies: ‘Yes, I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m right here, babe.’
And: ‘—need you. Need you here. I’m so scared.’
And: ‘No, no one’s got me. I’m safe. Laid out, sore as hell, and I smell like a nursing home, but I’m safe.’
His brain finally caught up to what was happening, sounding a single clarion note over the din of their voices: She’s alive.
She was sobbing, her voice cracked and aching. ‘—was terrified when I woke up yesterday. Thought you were—’
She’s alive.
And: ‘—almost twenty-four hours to get my voice working. I had Shep’s number, the one you gave to me back—’
Alive.
And: ‘No, I haven’t called anyone. They told me my father’s been on a scorched-earth campaign to find me, but I knew to wait, to only talk to you. Shep told me some crazy stuff – an Indian tribe? – and that no one can know where I am. That you guys are on the run.’
Her next question brought him crashing back into his body, stilling the background buzz of his own words. It sent him into a kind of reverse shock, his senses heightened to a painful clarity.
She asked, again, ‘How’s my baby?’
There was nothing but pure, raw sensation. The plastic bumps of the steering wheel digging into the meat of his fingers. Windshield condensation blurring the edges of the yellow sign of Hank’s motel up ahead. The wrinkles of his shirt forming ridges against his lower back.
Mike cleared his throat, hard. ‘Shep . . . Shep didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ All the warmth had gone from her voice.
He forced out the words. ‘I had to leave her.’
‘Leave her? Leave her? How long ago?’
Five days, fourteen hours, and seventeen minutes.
He said brusquely, ‘Couple of days.’
‘Days? Did you say . . .’
‘Annabel, I promise you—’
‘Have you checked on her?’
‘I . . . I couldn’t. I can’t. There were—’
‘She’s been alone? Without you?’ Her words deteriorated into something unintelligible. Her breath came in loud puffs across the receiver. ‘You know she’s okay, though? Right now?’
He heard himself hesitate a beat too long. ‘. . . Yes.’
‘No.’ Her voice had turned fragile, tiny, pleading. ‘Uh-uh. No. Where is she?’
Shep said, ‘Um . . .’
Mike had forgotten they were on a three-way call. The sound of his wife’s voice had overwhelmed all other considerations, but Shep’s interjection knocked him back to harsh reality.
He said, ‘I can’t . . . I can’t tell you.’
Annabel was breathing hard, maybe hyperventilating. In the background he heard the beep of a cardiac monitor. ‘What does that mean?’ she said.
‘You’re on a hospital phone,’ he said.
‘I can’t walk yet, Mike.’ Her tone had gone flat. ‘Where else would I be?’
‘They’re still looking for us. And you. They came after you once to get to me and Kat. We don’t know if they’re monitoring your line right now. I can’t tell you over this phone.’
‘Where’s my daughter?’
‘They could be listening. Right now.’
‘Does Shep know where she is?’
‘No one knows.’
‘Except you.’
‘I’m getting her tomorrow, Annabel. We’re almost out of this. We are one step from nailing them and starting to put our lives back together. Hours away, honey. Hours.’
She was crying again, hopelessly. He imagined her, injured and bed-bound in a strange room, pumped full of drugs and terror.
Without registering it he had pulled in to a parking space by Hank’s door and set the car in park. ‘I will pick her up tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and bring her to you.’
‘Please just tell me where she . . . that she’s . . .’
He summoned all of his strength to harden his heart to her.
Not a husband.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Everything will be okay.’
‘I need to know.’ Her words, drawn out through sobs. ‘I just need to hear my baby’s voice.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I love you.’
He snapped the phone shut. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told it. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry.’ Heat rolled up from his neck into his face, and he punched the steering wheel. Once, twice, three times. His knuckles screamed.
He sat panting. Hours away, he reminded himself. Hours.
Annabel was alive. Impossibly, he had even more at stake now.
He grabbed the gray envelope and hurried across the parking lot to Hank’s room. When he knocked on the door, Hank called out, ‘Yeah, come in.’
The door was unlocked. Mike pushed in, the room led to by a brief hall. It was dark, lit only by the laptop, which sat open on the tiny desk, throwing off a lavender swirl of screen saver. Hank sat on the bed, facing away, his shoulders slumped. ‘Yeah, come in,’ Hank said again. The screen saver threw dappled light across half of his body before the glow shifted to the ceiling.
Mike stopped at the verge of the room, felt the smile bloom on his face. ‘We did it, Hank.’
A meow came out of the dark, and Hank’s fat tabby oozed from the blackness to rub against Mike’s leg. It sat on his foot and began assiduously licking its front paw.
Mike held up the envelope. ‘It’s all right here.’
The screen saver kept on, mapping blocks of light on the far wall, the lampshade, Mike’s shoes. A section of warped floorboards flashed into sight ahead. A trail of tiny paw prints, rendered in smeared black, led from around the side of the bed to the cat at Mike’s feet.
Icy horripilation moved up Mike’s arms, c
rawling across the back of his shoulders.
He dropped the envelope, reaching for the .357 tucked into his jeans. The envelope slapped the floorboards, and the cat started, scampering off, leaving fresh prints of blood.
Mike brought the revolver up, aiming, pivoting to take in the half dark around him. Across the room Hank sat as still as marble, facing away. Only then did Mike see the microcassette recorder on the comforter beside him. Hank’s voice issued again from the tiny speakers: ‘Yeah, come in.’
Mike put his back to the wall, barely hearing his thoughts above the roar of blood in his head. A faint rustle came from the unlit bathroom between him and the front door. He was pinned in the brief hall. Inching forward into the room, he charted a trembling course toward a corner. The screen saver kept on with its disco alteration, bringing the walls and ceiling to life, making them bulge and contract like lungs. In the watery light, he noted the Ethernet cord trailing from the back of the laptop to the outlet beneath the desk, and he knew with fierce, distraught conviction that they’d tracked Hank to the motel when he’d logged in.
The cat bolted back into view, a whisper against the dust ruffle, and Mike started, a quick movement matching him in the space beside the curtains. He pivoted ninety degrees and pulled the trigger, the muzzle flash lighting the wall mirror already spiderwebbing around the bullet hole.
Too late he heard something whistling through the air behind him, and then the warped floorboards rushed up and hit him in the face.
Chapter 55
Janine, the oldest, kept a cocoon on a twig in a giant pickle jar, which Ms Wilder set on the ledge above the kitchen radiator in hopes of warming the chrysalis to fruition. Before every meal the girls watched it for signs of life. Traditions, though few and plain, were adhered to with rigor.
Kat slept in the fourth bedroom on a mattress laid between two bunk beds. She slept fitfully, and by the time she did drift off, she was trampled during the morning bathroom stampede. The other girls were neither nice nor cruel, though in some ways their indifference was worse. As if Kat were no more than another in a long line of undistinguished bodies that had rotated under this roof, no different from the countless that had predated her and the countless more that would arrive to displace her. She slept curled up like a puppy and smoothed out the top sheet before breakfast in a semblance of making a bed. She realized that she was doing her best to leave no imprint behind.
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