by Lamar Giles
Bertram.
I grabbed a T-shirt and sweatpants off my hamper, scrambled downstairs.
Four. That’s how many times I’d seen him before today. Always in the dead of night, when he escorted us to a new life in a new state. Never in daylight. Was this how they did it when they revoked protection? Tell you in the morning so you have time to make a run before the sun sets and the wolves pounce.
Dad waited in the foyer with his hand on the doorknob, twisting it before the doorbell finished ringing.
Bertram stepped in, as tall as Dad, but pale with his shaved head and orangish beard. He said, “I think we’re going to be skipping the conference call this week.”
I didn’t move. Neither did Dad.
Bertram stepped between us, entered our kitchen like he was about to whip up breakfast, and folded himself into a chair. “A bottled water would be fine,” he said, as if someone had asked.
I expected this to be the starter gun for the pissing contest between him and my father. Dad simply crossed the room and retrieved a cold bottle of Deer Park from the fridge for the U.S. Marshal.
Bertram took three quick sips in succession then recapped the bottle as if it needed to be rationed. “Where’s Donna?”
“Shopping,” my dad and I said at the same time.
Bertram eyed us closely. “That was good. Neither of you batted an eye.”
He was baiting. Maybe he knew nothing, maybe he knew everything. Didn’t matter much either way at this point.
Confirming my thoughts, he said, “We’re beyond all that now, anyway. Whether or not you’re honest with me on this matter is of little importance as of this morning. We’re all living in a different world now.”
Bertram motioned to the empty chairs at the table. “Please have a seat. There’s a lot to discuss.”
“Are we out of the Program?” Dad asked.
“Sit. Please.”
I moved first. Reluctantly, Dad followed. The sounds of chair legs screeching across the kitchen tile took me back to the day before, the mayor’s screams. I shook off the nightmare sound but my hands trembled under the table.
“I’ve been in touch with Sheriff Hill,” Bertram said. “He briefed me on the terrible ordeal you’ve undergone, Nicholas. I’m glad that you’re okay.”
Bertram turned his attention to my father. “I’m not sure how much you two know about the Whispertown initiative—though I’m told Nicholas knows plenty, thanks to his late friend—but after all that’s transpired, you’re going to need some background. I’m about to share some highly privileged information, and the only reason I’m telling you any of this has to do with containment.”
“Containment,” Dad repeated, emotionless.
“Listen carefully.”
Bertram uncapped his bottle and took another sip, then he spoke for an hour straight, briefing us on information we already had. We did as he asked. Listened. Nodded in the right places. Acted shocked and angry over being Uncle Sam’s guinea pigs.
“Mayor Burke was entrusted with a secret but made a huge mess of things. He made the mistake of trying be a pioneer—a leader—when his own house was not in order. He’s dead because of that.
“His son is a disturbed boy. Hell, he’s responsible for, what, four deaths that we know of. Has taken to bomb making.” Bertram looked to me. “That little package he placed in your girlfriend’s car was pro quality, son. He got the chemicals for it from his dad’s construction site. Powerful stuff. You’re lucky to be here, you know.” Then, to Dad, “Dustin Burke idolized heroic killers. There’s no such thing, is there, Robert?”
“No,” Dad said, “I suppose not.”
“There’s a hole to be filled. The program Burke pioneered works. Whispertown works. The numbers don’t lie.”
I watched Dad carefully. He’d manipulated those numbers himself, knew better than anyone that any benefits from the Whispertown initiative were offset by the negative effects on the community.
Dad wasn’t telling.
“What’s this got to do with us, Bertram?” I asked.
“The Dustin Burke situation has exposed you to information you wouldn’t have been privy to otherwise. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“So we are out of the Program?”
“On the contrary. This is sort of like someone being exposed to a virus, surviving, and being stronger for it. They are able to help the doctors and researchers make everyone stronger.”
Dad said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. Your family will be the control group. You know the deal, and we monitor you all the more closely to see how you reside within the Program while having full knowledge of the Program.”
“Which means—” I began.
Bertram cut me off. “You’re now going to be scrutinized more closely than ever before.”
“There’s something you should know, then, Mr. Bertram.” Dad wrung his hands. “My wife did not go shopping. She left me. Abandoned us.”
“That is . . . unfortunate.” Bertram took another sip. “Normally, we’d consider your cover compromised over this. We might still, depending on what the higher-ups say. I wasn’t kidding when I said WitSec was not interested in funding another relocation for you. I can probably push to keep you in, particularly with your new roles in the Whispertown initiative. But Donna’s protection is forfeit. Nothing I can do about that.” To me, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Unprotected witnesses don’t last long on their own, he’d said so himself. Mom was already dead to him.
More screeching then. My chair sliding back, my hand snapping forward, grabbing Bertram’s open bottle and squeezing a geyser into his face. He coughed and sputtered. I was halfway upstairs before he stopped.
An hour later, Bertram scraped his bumper again leaving our driveway, and Dad stood at my door. I made sure the bag I’d packed was safely concealed. I’d wait until nightfall to leave. I had a little money, and I knew tricks for getting more. I guess I’d be forfeiting my protection, too, but screw it. Safe living wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Not in this town.
On my bed, my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling. Dad stood silent over me for a long time. I made myself not speak first, no matter how awkward it felt. Keep Quiet champion of the world.
Finally, he asked, “You think I gave her up, don’t you?”
“Should I think something else?”
“You heard what he said. We’re going to be scrutinized more closely than ever. Unless your mom’s ‘shopping trip’ lasts a year, they would’ve figured it out eventually.”
I sat up. “You didn’t have to help.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
“How else was I supposed to convince Bertram that we’re cooperating?”
I paused. “Aren’t we?”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “After you left, Bertram went on to tell me the vice mayor, Terry Bolling, will take over the Whispertown initiative. He worked with me and Burke on the crime stats. He’s going to want to keep this thing going, keep the government money flowing into the community. Same thing with Sheriff Hill. Same with a lot of people in the know.”
“How does that help us?”
“Bolling’s an idiot. He’ll let me do most of the work. I’ll have access to all the city systems. I can use their resources to track your mom.”
“You’ll have access to the money you were helping Mayor Burke take, too. Right?”
He didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. “We’re going to need traveling money.”
“What?”
“Once we have what we need, once we find your mom, we’ll go to her.” His stare intensified. “Together.”
I sat up, swung my feet to the floor. Stood toe to toe with him, eye to eye. “Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t know if you have much reason to. But I’m asking you to try. I’m going to be better, Tony. I hope you stick around to see it.” He backed away, left me.
His words lingered. As did Mom’s.
Forgive him . . . for your own sake.
I wasn’t in the forgiving mood, not toward either of my parents, but I could be patient. Dad might be better. He might step up, track down Mom, get us the cash we needed to live on the run. He might take care of his family, for once. Or not.
I’d follow his lead. For now.
But I’d keep a bag packed. Just in case.
CHAPTER 49
DAD MET ME BY THE DOOR as I tried to leave.
“I’m coming back,” I said, with a little snap I might not have gotten away with yesterday. Like I said, a lot had changed.
He stepped aside. “Okay. Try to make it back before six. We should eat together.”
A lot.
I needed a new bike. Mine was in a ditch, with the frame bent, thanks to Zach. Good thing Mom left her car keys behind. Dad burst through the door when I started the engine. “Nick!”
“I’ll be home by six.” And I motored away, unlicensed and unconcerned.
Someone once told me the laws in this town were a little lax. He was right. When in Rome . . .
A charred, black crater remained on Reya’s lawn. The Beetle wreckage had been taken away, and a number of cars hugged the curb, a familiar Jaguar among them. I parked across the street, queasy at the thought of seeing Miguel Rios. He wasn’t the one who cut Eli and watched him bleed, but using his daughter as a bargaining chip didn’t make him much better.
The Cruz house, once one of the better-kept homes in this part of town, now featured melted, drooping siding and big plywood patches over broken windows. Dustin Burke left his mark all over. I knocked on the door.
Reya’s parolee cousin—whose name I still didn’t know—answered. “Little homey,” he said. “Come in, come in.”
A small crowd inside, like the first time I came here, but with different energy. Not happy, exactly, but settled. Everyone carried some sort of cleanup tool, a broom or a dustpan, a mop. In the center of it, Mrs. Cruz was in the same chair she’d been in when I first met her. This time, she was horizontal, her right leg raised in a lavender cast and a gauze strip circling her head. Miguel sat in an adjacent armchair. The two of them spoke quietly until I entered.
“Hablando del rey de Roma,” said Mrs. Cruz.
I looked to Miguel.
“‘Speak of the devil,’” he translated. “We were just talking about you, friend.”
Friend? “Nothing bad, I hope.”
“I owe you thanks, Nick Pearson. For saving my daughter,” Mrs. Cruz said. “Because of you, I did not lose everything.”
I stared at my shoes. “How are you, Mrs. Cruz?”
She touched her bandage. “I have a hard skull, Nick. I’ll be fine.”
Miguel spewed a belly laugh and patted her thigh, the good brother. He left his seat to hug me, pulling me close. I’d showered thirty minutes ago, and I felt like I needed another bath.
He said, “You’re a good man, Nick Pearson. A good, good man.”
“How’s your grandson?”
His loose, friendly embraced tightened. He released me, backed away, his face unreadable. “Hungry. And gassy.”
“Eli, right?”
He blanched at the E word. “Elijah. His middle name, sí.” To Mrs. Cruz, he said, “A strong name and an excellent memoriam.”
I said, “Little Eli’s lucky to have someone like you taking care of him and his mother. If only his namesake could’ve seen how much you care.”
Mrs. Cruz squeezed Miguel’s hand. “He would’ve been proud, hermano.”
Miguel’s welcoming demeanor had chilled. Eli proud of him? We both knew better.
“Nick?” Reya stood in the hall wearing cheerleader sweats, her hair tied in a ponytail. It should’ve made her look young, but she seemed aged since yesterday morning. Did I look that way, too?
“Come here,” she said, leading me to her room.
I wished Mrs. Cruz and Miguel a good day, relieved to be alone with Reya again. She sealed us in her space, where several thick layers of plastic, anchored by staples, covered her boarded-up windows. I spread my arms, wanting her near. She took a seat at her desk like she didn’t see me.
Dropping my arms, I said, “You didn’t tell your mom about Miguel and the mayor.”
“It’ll come out eventually. Everything will.” Her words felt cryptic. I think she wanted them to.
“How are you?”
“Eli’s flash drive is gone. Like you thought.”
Oh. “The cops took it, huh?”
She swiveled her chair. “See, that’s thing. Miguel sent Angelo and some other guys to watch the house. They put up the plywood and stood guard until Mami left the hospital and got me from the station.”
“Who’s Angelo?” It was all I could think to say.
She tapped her cheek three times, a trail of tears. So that was her cousin’s name.
“No cops came here, Nick.” She stopped like she’d asked me a question and expected an answer.
I dug myself deeper. “Dustin, maybe? We don’t know what he was doing before he picked us up.”
A heavy sigh. “How’d you know all that stuff about bump keys and picking locks?”
“TV.” I feigned offense. “I told you that.”
“What about making a murder look like self-defense?”
“Making a— What are you talking about?” I didn’t have to fake anything. Where’d that come from?
“Zachary called me last night. He told me he tried to talk to you about squashing the beef between you two, and you flipped. He said you were talking about murdering him and you knew how to get away with it.”
“Oh my God. Him and his goon squad snatched me off the street. The only thing he tried to squash was my head.”
“I knew that part was bull. Me and him have enough history for me to tell when he’s lying. He wasn’t lying about the murder stuff.”
“Is he dead? I played him to get through a bad situation.”
“Only him?”
“What are you—?”
She punched up the media player on her computer, a freeze-frame from one of Eli’s video journal entries. Him in a familiar Superman tee, though I couldn’t remember when I’d seen it on him. “I thought—” I cleared my throat. “I thought you said you couldn’t find the flash drive.”
“I couldn’t. I spent an hour tearing this room apart.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“I copied the videos to my hard drive. They were the last things I found, and when I saw it was him, talking, I wanted to save them. To hear his voice. I meant to copy everything, but I got sidetracked with the one secured video, then you came over, and . . .”
I knew the rest. Boom goes the Beetle.
The way she looked, I got the sense like she wanted me to say something. Now. I felt a clock ticking, counting down. But she didn’t ask the question. “Nick, did you take the flash drive?” I wasn’t going to volunteer a confession. I wasn’t raised that way. Plus, I was thinking of the wrong question.
The clock expired.
“Fine,” she said. “That’s how you want it.”
“Want what?”
“When I couldn’t find the flash drive, I decided to take a crack at that one video.” She tossed a spiral notebook that I caught one-handed. It was filled with our failed password attempts. “Only took me three tries.”
The third password in the book was “El M3jor D1a,” the name of their father’s community paper.
Reya tapped her space bar, resurrecting Eli. “—don’t know what to do. I thought I was wrong before. But now, I’m almost certain that he’s one of them. Nick is one of the Witness Protection kids.”
CHAPTER 50
ELI KEPT GOING, EACH WORD WORSE than a Dustin Burke punch. “It was weird that he deleted the pictures I took of him—like I wasn’t supposed to notice—but okay, nothing definitive. A lot of people don’t like having their picture taken. I went to his house, and, I d
on’t know, I thought if he was a criminal’s kid, there’d be guns and stolen watches on the table, like Sons of Anarchy or something. No guns. Meat loaf. Then Saturday he asks—demand—that I tell him about Whispertown. What’s that about, right?”
I remembered the Superman shirt. It was the Monday after I caught Dad at city hall, when Eli was being a slave driver about the Yell. I’d thought inefficiency was his Kryptonite because of that stupid shirt.
“Yesterday, I tailed his dad.”
No.
I already knew what he saw. Dad, somewhere, meeting Mayor Burke and confirming Eli’s suspicions.
The next thirty seconds were painful, hearing Eli speculate about my true origins and being 100 percent right. My dad was one of the rogues in his stolen reports, I was in town under an assumed alias, the government was protecting us from killers. Columbia University wasn’t wrong. He would’ve been one heck of an investigative reporter.
Watching him, while Reya watched me watching him, I felt like the meat of a banana, every layer of protection peeled away, waiting for the first bite.
Eli continued, tugging off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. “When I started, it was all about ‘my big story,’ words on a page, my face on camera. Every day it’s getting more real. Pilar, her douche bag baby daddy, now Nick. I thought exposing Whispertown was the right thing. Now, I’m not so sure. Not if it hurts people I care about. Nick’s not some low-life pimp, or a drug dealer. Maybe the rest of the rogues aren’t so bad either. I—I need to think. There’s gotta be a way to make this work for everyone. I’m already in at Columbia, it’s not like I need a big sto—”
Reya stopped the video. “Is he right, Nick? Is Nick even your name?”
Lie. A hardwired response so strong, it felt like electricity sizzling my nerves.
No more.
“Yes,” I said, “he’s right. Nick’s not my real name. It’s Tony Bordeaux. Or it was until four years ago. . . .”
I told her as much as I could muster in a sitting, only stopping when she interrupted with questions. Everything she asked, I answered. Including the truth about the flash drive.
