"Can't call out," he said to Deena. "These are for incoming calls only."
"What kind of office is this?" she asked.
Justin shook his head. He went around and checked all the machines. Not one of them showed that any messages were waiting to be picked up. He went to one of the machines, pressed the Menu button, and followed the instructions until he could play the outgoing message. A man's voice came on and announced, "You've reached Ed Marion. I'm not at home right now. Please leave a message after the tone and I'll return the call as soon as I can. Thank you." He did the same on each machine. Nine of them had the same message from Ed Marion, the man who'd said he was William Miller's nephew. Nine of the phone machines had identical messages but they weren't left by Marion, but by a woman, Helen Roag. Justin looked up, saw the question in Deena's eyes, shook his head again because that was the only answer he had. He took a deep breath, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed. In a few seconds, his call was connected.
"Gary, it's Westwood," he said, and before the cop at the other end of the phone could sputter his name or say anything at all, he added, firmly and loudly, knowing that the tone would stop Gary cold, at least for a few seconds, "Don't say anything. Don't let on who you're talking to. You understand?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Just listen to me. I'm going to ask you to do me a favor. It means you're going to have to trust me. And I'm going to have to trust you. I don't want you to say anything to Rollins or even to Jimmy."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know who's involved in what. Or where there are leaks. And I don't want you to end up like your pal Brian."
There was a long pause after that. Then Gary said, "What makes you trust me?"
"What you saw and what I think that probably did to you." Justin then breathed out a faint laugh. "And you told me to stop smoking. It was a nice thing to say and you looked like you meant it. It's pretty thin but it's all I've got right now."
There was another long pause. Justin was certain that the images from Brian's living room were running through Gary's mind.
"What do you want?" the young cop asked. And from the way he lowered his voice Justin knew he was going to go along with him.
"I need more phone information. Similar to what you got for me before." He gave him Growth Industries' address and the names Ed Marion and Helen Roag. "There are eighteen phone lines coming into that office. I want the records of every incoming call on all of those numbers for the last three months. That's one thing. I also want you to find out who gets the bills and where they're sent. And I want you to get me as much information as you can on Marion and Roag. Check the tri-state area and Massachusetts, too. I want to get a home address and any phone numbers, including cells. I want anything you can get on them. I'm guessing on the spelling of Roag, but if you don't find anything, run through any variation that makes sense."
"Yeah," Gary said. "I got it."
"I meant what I said before, too."
"About what?"
"About keeping this quiet. And about staying alive."
"How do I get the stuff to you?"
"Take down my cell number. When you've got it, call me and we'll figure it out. Don't leave the number lying around, either. Don't let Agent Rollins see it. Or Jimmy either, for that matter. Try to be smart here."
"What's going on, Justin?" Gary said. And suddenly he didn't sound like a cop. He sounded like a scared twenty-four-year-old kid.
"I don't know," Justin told him. "But I appreciate the help. And the first day I can, I'll take you out for a drink as a little thank-you."
"I didn't know about you."
"What?"
"I didn't know all the stuff that's come out, that's been in the news. I mean, I didn't know what had happened to you."
"No," Justin said. "You wouldn't."
"Well, I read all about it. And Jimmy told me some stuff, too. Since it's out in the open now." When Justin didn't respond, Gary said, "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago, I guess."
"They're pretty pissed off at you here. You watch yourself."
"Ditto," Justin said. "If they know you're doing this, they'll be pretty pissed off at you, too." And then he hung up.
"What now?" Deena asked.
Justin looked at Kendall, leaned down so they were eye to eye. "Is there one food your mommy doesn't like you to eat?"
"More than one," Kendall said. "She's a health nut, you know. Right, Mom?"
"That's right, sweetie. I'm definitely a health nut."
"Well, what's the worst?" Justin asked.
"A tie. Chocolate and french fries," the little girl said.
Justin stood up and stretched his arms. "I'm starving," he told his two traveling companions. "What say we go out and get some french fries and chocolate. I think we all deserve it."
15
The dream came again that night.
He shouldn't have been surprised. Even as he woke up, felt his shortness of breath, Justin knew that this dream wasn't merely a gut-wrenching reminder of the past. It was a warning about the future. About the violence and danger and death that were all around them.
His instincts had dulled but they had not completely disappeared. His nostrils were filled with the scent of fear. What he didn't know- what one never knows, he thought-was whether he would be strong enough to fight off the fear and make sure they all survived.
It's why the dream kept haunting him; he understood that. It wasn't just the losses he'd suffered. Nor was it the exposure to genuine malevolence. It was the despairing feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he hadn't been strong enough-or quick enough, or smart enough, or tough enough or mean enough or caring enough-to protect the people he had loved.
It had been his fault, everything that had happened. His choices. His decisions. His stubbornness. His life.
Their deaths.
The dream was shorter tonight. It spared him the pleasure and brought him right to the pain. He woke up to the image of himself, lying on the floor, feeling the river of blood spread beneath him. He could feel himself turning and he could see the remarkably vacant eyes staring down at him. It was a new detail, these eyes, and it forced him to remember that they had not been hate-filled or vicious. They were the eyes of a sociopath, calm and unemotional. They were the eyes of someone doing his job. Doing what he had been bred to do.
The image of Lili's body was there, of course. Broken and crumpled. And he could see her eyes, too. Desperate and sad, in so much pain. Confused and pleading with him for help. In real life, there had been no pleading. Things had happened too fast. But in his dream, the sadness in her eyes lingered long after her life had ended.
Alicia's eyes were in the dream too. Large and round and brown. And accusing. Staring and accusing.
Then there was the final bang, the last shot. It filled his head like an explosion, and then he woke up to find himself sweating and afraid of the violence that was sure to come.
Justin heard a door swing open and suddenly the dream didn't matter. He hurled himself toward the bed table, grabbed his gun. His hands were shaking as he pointed it toward the door, toward the figure that was standing in the shadows. He exhaled a long and quivering breath when he heard a woman's voice say, in hushed tones, "Are you all right?"
Justin focused his eyes on Deena, peering at him from behind the door that linked their adjoining rooms. He put the gun down.
"You cried out," she said. "I heard you. I thought-"
"I'm fine," he told her.
"I got frightened."
He nodded. "Yeah. Me too, I guess."
"Did you have a bad dream?"
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Just the usual."
"What do you dream about when you have bad dreams?"
"Just life," he said, putting his gun back down on the nearby table. "That's all it takes."
Neither of them said anything for several moments. Then Deena whispered, "Well, I better go
back to bed. Kenny's still sleeping. Nothing seems to wake her up."
He watched her disappear and close the door behind her. He looked at the cheap plastic clock radio by the side of his bed. It was 5 a.m. Justin decided to turn on his light. He would stay awake now.
No more dreaming today.
16
At 8 a.m. she knocked on his door. Justin cleared his throat, called out for her to come in. When she did, he saw that she was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Her legs and feet were bare. Instinctively he tried to cover up the glass of scotch he was holding.
"I meant to tell you this yesterday," she said. "I want you to tell me how much all this grandeur"-she waved her hand around the motel room-"costs. You're doing enough for us. So I just want you to know I'll pay you back. I don't know how long we're going to have to be doing this, but whatever it is, I'll pay my way. And Kendall's, too."
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I can cover it."
"Is East End Harbor doling out six-figure salaries to their police force now?"
"I can afford it," Justin told her. "You've got other things to worry about. But I appreciate it."
She looked at him curiously, and he knew she was wondering about his secrets, but she didn't say anything, then she gave her lopsided half smile and said, "I'm going to work out. You want to join me?"
"You mean, like…exercise?"
"Exactly like exercise," she said, brushing one of the curls away from her face. "I thought maybe I'd give you a yoga lesson."
"I don't think so."
"If you won't let me pay you, at least maybe I can make you feel a little better."
"I feel fine."
"Is that why you're drinking at eight o'clock in the morning?"
"I've already been up for three hours. So by my body clock, it's really lunchtime."
She just stared at him. Finally he put the glass down and said, "Okay. Let's exercise."
She led him nice and slow through a series of stretches as well as various sitting and standing positions with odd names like Downward Dog and Upward Dog. He felt extremely awkward and strangely vulnerable; he also was embarrassed because he knew he was out of shape. She kept trying to get him to repeat the Sanskrit versions of the names of the exercises, which he deliberately mangled to annoy her a little bit. Within ten minutes, he was dripping sweat onto the motel-room wall-to-wall carpet and feeling his muscles ache and his tendons stretch. She, on the other hand, wasn't even breathing hard.
"You're not in very good shape for a cop," she pointed out.
"I haven't been a real cop for a while. I'm a little rusty. And aren't teachers supposed to be supportive of their eager students?"
"Stop stalling and get into squat position." When he didn't move, she said, "I know you know what that is. We just did it."
"I know what it is. But if I squat right now, I'm just going to warn you that several of my body parts might never return to normal."
"I'll risk it," she said.
So he made a face and contorted himself into a squat, his arms pointed straight up, his palms together. Then he was made to twist into two or three other positions he'd never dreamed existed. And he had to admit that she was a hell of a teacher. Using her body to position him gently, demonstrating what the poses were supposed to look like without showing off her superiority. She was extremely strong and extraordinarily limber. He liked listening to her too. Her voice had a way of lulling him into a spell, so the whole session took on a kind of vague otherworldliness. It was as if she were keeping the real world temporarily at bay, which he realized was not such a bad idea at the moment.
One of his cell phones rang half an hour into the lesson. He was relieved to be able to stand up and stop working his recalcitrant body. But he instantly missed the touch of her hand, the feel of her weight against him.
"Yeah," Justin said into the receiver.
"I've got some information," Gary said on the other end of the line. "What's going on? You sound out of breath."
"Don't ask," he said. "Where are you calling from?"
"The station. No one else is here."
"Okay, what do you got for me?"
"Just about everything you wanted. You got a pen?"
"Go."
"There haven't been a lot of incoming phone calls to Growth Industries. I've got three in the last month, a total of eight in the past three months."
"Eight phone calls in three months? For eighteen phone lines?"
"Yeah. Well, seventeen now. The one that Susanna Morgan called's been disconnected. Even so, if they're sellin' something, I hope they're getting a good price for it, 'cause they ain't doing a lot of business."
"You have the numbers of the incoming calls?" Justin asked.
"Yeah. They're all from the Northeast. Massachusetts, Vermont, New York, one in New Jersey." As Justin wrote, Gary read out each of the numbers of the incoming calls and matched them up to the Growth numbers they came in on.
"Okay," Justin said. "Next."
"None of the bills for the eighteen lines go to the Growth address. Nine of them are sent to a company called the Ellis Institute and nine are sent to something called the Aker Institute."
"What the hell are those?"
"They're research firms."
"How do you know that?"
"I called 'em," Gary said. "What kind of research?"
"Medical. Ellis is in New York. Aker's in Boston." He gave Justin the phone numbers and addresses for both firms.
"Do we know who the bills go to at the firms?"
"Yes, we do. Edward Marion at Ellis. Helen Roag at the other one. But listen to this: When I called both places, I said I wanted to talk about a bill that wasn't paid. I used the names of companies that had called in to the phone machines."
"And what happened?"
"I got the runaround. I couldn't get past Marion's or Roag's assistants. They both said that those bills weren't paid there. They're always forwarded on to something called the Lobster Corporation for payment."
"And what's that?"
"No idea. They wouldn't give me a phone number or address. They said they'd look into it but that's as far as they'd go."
"Son of a bitch," Justin said. "I'm impressed as hell, Gary."
"Thanks. But there's more on Marion. I've got his home phone and address. He lives in Connecticut. His cell must be a company phone because I couldn't track it." He gave the information to Justin, then did the same for Helen Roag. "She lives in Boston. Actually, just outside Boston, in Marblehead. You did have the spelling right, by the way. It's R-O-A-G. And I've got her cell number, too." He passed that along, then verified it after Justin read it back to him.
"You did a great job, Gary. I want to thank you."
"Don't you want to know what else I got?"
"I didn't ask for anything else. I can't imagine anything else."
"I know. But I figured you might be a little busy wherever the hell you are. So I called those numbers, the ones that made the calls to Growth Industries."
"And?"
"And it's pretty weird."
"How weird?" Justin asked.
"Very weird," Gary answered. "Every place that called? Every one of them's an old-age home." Elron Burton had been feeling proud of himself ever since that secretary from Growth Industries had locked herself out of the office. There'd been a problem and he'd solved it. No fuss, no muss, no need to bother the big boss. So when that boss, Byron Fromm, came striding through the lobby that morning, Elron gave him a big smile and a wave and said, "Problem solved, bossman. Everything was A-OK last night."
"What problem is that, Elron?" the chubby, Jell-O-like Fromm asked.
"The problem with the lady who locked herself out. I let her in, just like you said."
"Let who in? And when did I ever say to let anybody in?"
"The lady from Growth. You know, up in 301. She got locked out and she called you and you told her to come see me…"
From the look on Byron Fromm's face, Elron h
ad the sinking feeling that maybe he hadn't solved the problem. Maybe he'd created the problem. He wished he'd kept his big mouth shut.
"You'd better tell me the story from the beginning," Fromm said, and he looked mighty scary for someone with such a soft body.
"Yes sir," Elron said. And he told. "That's amazing."
Justin and Kendall were watching Deena finish her yoga exercise. Justin had just seen her execute a movement where she went from standing straight up, slowly bent over backwards, and kept going down until the top of her head was resting on the floor. From that position, she slowly lifted her head up again, then uncurled her back until she was absolutely straight. Now Deena was balancing herself on her hands while her legs were bent backwards and wrapped around her own neck.
"This isn't an actual human position," Justin said. "I never saw anyone make herself so small."
"The point is balance," Deena said, not even breathing hard. "Not size. I'm perfectly balanced."
"You could also fit into somebody's briefcase."
"I don't think you're grasping the finer concepts of the practice."
"No," Justin agreed. "I think you're going to have to work on it with me. I'm mostly focused on the fact that your feet are in a place I can't even get my hands to."
Deena now slowly unfurled her body and lay on the floor, rhythmically breathing in and out. She crossed her legs, bent her head forward until the crown touched the floor, told Justin that she was sealing the practice. It wasn't until she'd lifted her head that Kendall asked, "So what do we do now?"
Justin looked at his watch and said, "Your mom's gonna take a shower, you get to watch TV, and I'm going to start running up our phone bill." Byron Fromm sat in the office of Bert Stiles, the head of the Alexis Development Company. Bert had been silent for quite some time now. All he did, as Fromm sat there, was run an emery board across the tops of his fingernails. Occasionally he would pick up a nail clipper and use it to clean a nail or pinch off an untidy cuticle. The man was obsessed with his nails, was always buffing them or polishing them or neatening them. Watching him, Fromm began to fidget uncomfortably.
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