by Chris Mooney
Sebastian took another bite of his sandwich.
“You’ve been real good to me,” Link said. “I love my job, and I’ve got a great life, and it’s all because of you. First time in my life, I’m happy. Why would I want to screw that all up?”
Sebastian said nothing, chewing his food.
“I’m telling you the truth,” Link said, his voice breaking. “You’ve got to believe me.”
Sebastian looked out across the flatland, the expanse of it, and it made him feel small. Insignificant.
“Tell me about Ferreria.”
“Who?”
“Sixto Ferreria. Everyone calls him Six,” Sebastian said, turning to him, Link acting all huh? “I know you two have met.”
“I don’t recognize the name, I swear.”
“He’s one of Frank’s Internet guys. Ferreria does a lot of . . . maintenance work, I guess you could call it, on our servers. He’s around your age, about six feet, beer gut, shaped like a potato.”
“I’m not good with names. I’m, you know, more visual. You got a picture?”
Sebastian shook his head and took another bite. “You know what’s really interesting about Ferreria? He was into competitive rifle shooting back in high school. He was so good, the NRA offered him scholarship money for college. Guy was one hell of a marksman. I’m sure Paul mentioned him to you.”
Link looked weary. Despondent.
“The day Paul tried to have me killed,” Sebastian said. “A couple of hours later, he sent you a text that said, ‘Plan went south. Meet me at the place we discussed, and we’ll all regroup.’”
“I know. I know he did, but I swear to God, I had no idea what it meant. I told Frank—”
“You didn’t text Paul back, though. Or call.”
“Right, because I thought the text was for someone else. You know how you sometimes accidentally do that, right? You’re in a rush, make a mistake, whatever. So I just, you know, ignored it.”
“See, my operating theory is that Paul has to have people working for him besides that lone shooter in my neighbor’s window,” Sebastian said. “And Paul’s text—he says we’ll all regroup. Right there, that tells me there’s got to be at least three guys involved in this.”
“What did this Ferreria guy have to say?”
“This is about you. Paul sent that text to you. And Ferreria.”
“I don’t know him, never met him, I swear.”
“But you just said you’re not good with names.”
“I’m not. I—”
“So it’s possible you could have met him.”
Link’s gaze turned inward on some private thought. Or secret.
“All I want is the truth,” Sebastian said.
Link closed his eyes and, shaking, took in a deep breath of air.
Sebastian ate the last bite, spoke around the food. “Give me the truth, my man, and the good Lord shall set you free.”
Link began to sob, his chest heaving, but he couldn’t produce any tears on account of the dehydration.
“You seem like a bright kid—a good kid,” Sebastian said. “Paul is a psycho piece of shit. I always suspected he was, truth be told—and I brought him into this. That’s on me. I take full responsibility for that. What I don’t understand, Link, is why you’re protecting—”
“I’m not. Don’t you see? I’m the—I’m that thing there, the whatchamacallit—the herring. The red herring.”
“The what?”
“The diversion,” Link said. “You’re focusing all of your energy on me, so you’re not out there looking for him.”
“Oh, we’re looking for him—don’t you worry. And we will find him. What I’m hoping is you’ll come to your senses, tell us what we need to—”
Link slid off the back bumper, like he was going to faint or something, only he dropped to his knees, in the sand.
Sebastian opened a bottle of water. Christ, it was hot out here.
“Please.” The kid clutched Sebastian’s leg and looked up at him, squinting. “Please,” he said again, and then he swayed, looking like he was going to pass out. Instead, he leaned forward and grabbed Sebastian by the ankle, Link resting his forehead on his loafer and speaking into the dirt as he cried, “I swear to God, I’m telling you the truth. You’ve got to believe me. I’m begging you.”
Sebastian did believe him. Unfortunately. The kid had stuck to this story from day one, through all the torture and sleep deprivation and hunger. Coming here, treating Link like a human being again, showing him some kindness and giving him food and water while he looked out at the vast desert and, hopefully, pondered his fate—Sebastian hoped it would spur the kid into finally giving up what he knew about Paul. Maybe Link couldn’t give anything because he didn’t have anything to give.
Well, shit, Sebastian thought, and reached down and helped Link to his feet.
“My mother?” Sebastian said, propping Link back up on the rear bumper. “She was a real religious woman. I grew up with God from the Old Testament, the one who was constantly pissed off at everything that was happening in His world, and it was His—that grouchy ol’ prick didn’t let you forget it for a second. Still, back then? He was more involved, you know? Seemed to really relish playing the strict father who came home and was like, ‘What shit have you done now?’”
Sebastian sat on the bumper next to Link. “Then He sends His own kid down, hoping Jesus will somehow drill it into our heads how to live our lives, and what do we do? We crucify him. Jesus is hanging there in agony, right? Looks to the sky and says, ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’ but what he’s really saying is, ‘After all the shit I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I made—this is how you thank me? Really?’”
Sebastian shook his head, looking up at the cloudless blue sky. “What always struck me was that his father either wasn’t listening or just didn’t give a shit anymore and split, which is kind of sick when you really stop to think about it. Fathers split all the time. I get it—mine did—but if your kid’s in agony and you have the power to stop it and you don’t? You have to be a real sick son of a bitch to do that—am I right?”
Link, who had been sobbing quietly, wiped at his face even though he didn’t have any tears.
“I’d sit there in church,” Sebastian said, “listening to the priest going on and on about God’s love and mercy, and I’d be staring at Jesus all life-sized and hanging on the cross and thinking, Well, I’m screwed. He let his own kid die in agony, so what chance do I have?” He turned to Link. “That’s why people need to stick together, help each other out, be compassionate. Because He sure as hell isn’t going to do it for us.”
Sebastian stood and reached into his jeans pocket, came back with a small folding knife. He popped Link’s bindings, then handed him the other sandwich and another bottle of water and said, “Maybe you’re right about Paul using you as a diversion. Problem for me is that it’s created, you know, reasonable doubt about your loyalties.”
“Please, you’ve got to—”
“I do. I do believe you. But I’m still going to have to let you go. I can only work with people I trust one hundred percent. And I can’t trust you one hundred percent. Not your fault, okay. But I’ll always have that nagging doubt in the back of my mind, and I can’t have that type of distraction, especially given everything that’s going on. Stand up.”
Link did, reluctantly, his attention locked on the knife gripped in Sebastian’s hand.
Sebastian folded the knife, slid it back in his pocket. “This trail we’re standing on? You’re going to be on it for ten or so miles. I know that’s a lot, especially in this heat, and barefoot, but you got water and food, so you should be fine.”
Sebastian slammed the hatchback shut and took out his keys. “Keep walking until you find a white Toyota. It’s unlocked. Keys are under the front mat. I put a case of wat
er in the trunk, along with more than enough cash to get you set up somewhere. But it won’t be in California, understand? Frank finds out you’re alive? He’ll kill you.”
Link stood there, most of him covered in a fine white dusting of dirt, and eyed him nervously, his brain working overtime, trying to figure out where the trap was.
“This is where you say thank you,” Sebastian said.
“Thank you, Mr. Kane. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry for what we put you through. I know sorry doesn’t quite cover everything I’ve done, but it’s all I got, so it’ll have to do.” Sebastian spun his keys around a finger, squinted as he looked up at the sky. “Better get moving before it gets too hot.”
Sebastian started the Escalade and sighed in relief when he felt the air-conditioning. He turned around and drove past Link, heading back up the access road, and when he glanced in the rearview mirror he saw Link staring after him, skeptical and confused, like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten his life back. He was God’s problem now, and Sebastian knew God wouldn’t look after poor Link, would let him die of dehydration. There was no car waiting for him, no trunk full of money and water, but still, he had given Lincoln Miller hope, and at the end of the day, wasn’t hope the greatest gift you could give someone?
When Sebastian got a signal on his phone, he called Frank.
“Let me guess,” Frank said. “He stuck to his story.”
“That he did. Said he never met Ferreria, has no idea who he is.”
“Ferreria said the same thing about Link.”
“Are you still sure—”
“Yes,” Frank said, drawing out the word, annoyed. “I’m one hundred percent positive Ferreria didn’t access any critical information on our servers and give it to Paul. Like I explained to you, what, a hundred times now, Ferreria didn’t have root access. He just did regular maintenance work.”
“You also told me the kid was an IT whiz. One of the best. And a hacker.”
“No one has accessed our servers. No one,” Frank said. “Besides, our client files, test data—all that stuff is so heavily encrypted—”
“That it would take the CIA two decades to decrypt it, if they were lucky. You told me.”
“And I’m telling you again, since you refuse to believe me. As for the special cocktail we use with our carrier blood, that information isn’t stored on any database. Drugs we use—the only people who know about that are you, me, and Maya. We’re safe—I keep telling you that.”
“Link said something interesting.”
“Do tell,” Frank said.
“He said Paul was using him as a diversion.”
“We knew that was a distinct possibility.”
That we did, Sebastian thought. After Frank’s crew grabbed Ferreria, Frank had had a private forensic guy perform a gunshot residue test. Ferreria’s hands came back clean, but that didn’t mean he was clean. He could have been wearing gloves. They tore up his apartment, his two cars, covered all the places he traveled—they searched everywhere for a high-powered rifle and came up empty. They searched for anything that would implicate Ferreria and came up empty.
“Ferreria and his rifle skills—I told you it was too good to be true. Too convenient,” Frank said. “Still, we had to do our due diligence.”
And we’re still left with jack shit. “Paul’s been too quiet. I don’t like it. I think he’s gone into production.”
“Using what medications?”
“Who knows? If I were him, I’d get my hands on the old cancer drug Viramab. The Armenians still use it.” The Armenians were interested in making as much money as possible, by any means possible. They didn’t care about science, or the safety of their clients. Although I’m sure as hell they’d love to get their hands on my operation.
“Sebastian, everyone on the planet knows Viramab doesn’t work.”
“In the long term, no. In the short term, you can generally get good results. Paul can start transfusions, raise some money. He’s going to need a shit ton of it to get up and running. I want you to break his legs.”
“We’ll do more than that when we find him—and we will find him.”
“Not Paul. Ferreria. I want you to break his legs—and his arms, too, while you’re at it.”
“Why? For what reason?”
Sebastian told him.
After he hung up, he turned on his satellite radio and scanned through the music stations. Nothing soothed him, so he shut the radio off, went through a mental playlist of his favorite songs, picked one, and started singing, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel while praying to his Higher Power, asking for help, seeking guidance.
CHAPTER 15
EVER SINCE ELLIE had moved into the neighborhood, she had become a regular at Dinah’s Café. It was here, once or twice a week, where she would meet with Jon Carlo, Faye Simpson’s sponsor at Gamblers Anonymous. He had a broad back and a stringy black beard that, combined with his dark skin, made him appear as someone from the Middle East when, in fact, he had grown up in East LA, with his Cuban father and Puerto Rican mother. That was all she knew about him. That and the fact that he worked in some undercover capacity for the LAPD.
Dinah’s was small, cash only, and while it had the traditional decor she associated with all the diners she remembered from her childhood—the red vinyl booths arranged around windows, the counter made of gray linoleum from another century, the thick white coffee mugs that seemed indestructible—the middle of the area, with its white chairs and tables, the fresh flowers in the center, gave the place a homier, country B and B vibe. As always, the place was packed, but there was an empty stool at the counter, next to Jon Carlo.
Before she fully agreed to undertake the undercover job, Police Commissioner Kelly had repeatedly assured her every single bit of Faye Simpson’s background would come back clean. Her only job was to commit to playing the role—and she had. When she wasn’t working as a stickman, she attended Gamblers Anonymous meetings, where she shared Faye Simpson’s tragic but all too familiar story. Jon Carlo attended most of the meetings, approached her, and became her sponsor, and twice a week they got together to discuss how Faye Simpson was handling her gambling addiction out in the big world. Ellie played the part 24/7, because when it came to undercover work it was critical to assume you were being watched at all times.
Ellie didn’t carry a purse when she wasn’t working, so when she slid into the swivel chair she placed her smartphone on top of the counter, gave Jon Carlo a quick hug, and then, for the next forty minutes, over coffee and huevos rancheros, Ellie talked all about Faye Simpson’s week. Ellie made up a story about how this one time Faye got herself locked into a fantasy of driving to one of the local casinos and hitting the blackjack tables, taking the meager sum of money she had saved and using it to double her proceeds so she could pay off her creditors back in Las Vegas. It was good practice, making up these stories about Faye. Keeping the lies straight was another matter entirely.
She found she was getting good at it, though. Found how much she liked being someone other than Ellie Batista.
The bill came, and of course Jon Carlo immediately snatched it. Like her, he had to commit to the role, so he asked her—Faye—about how her part-time job was going. Faye had never specified where she worked. She had told him and the other people she bumped into at the meetings how she wanted to keep her private life private. In case Anton or anyone else had been listening or watching, she and Jon Carlo had given a good performance.
When he went to hug her goodbye, awkwardly, with one arm, he deftly slipped something into her front jeans pocket. Then he kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “Make sure you use the bathroom before you go.”
The diner had one bathroom and, hanging on the door, a humorous sign that always made her grin: four stick silhouette people—a man, a woman, a man/woman, and an alien—and
written underneath them, in bold black letters, the word Whatever and underneath that, the phrase Just wash your damn hands. Ellie found the door unlocked. She locked it immediately once she got inside, and as she fished out the piece of paper from her pocket she caught her reflection in the mirror. It still came as a shock when she saw herself, her long and practical shoulder-length hair gone, replaced by a trendy long, angled bob that brushed against her shoulders. She was a blonde now, too, and she used makeup on a daily basis. Would Cody even recognize her?
The piece of paper Jon Carlo had given her contained a phone number she didn’t recognize. No instructions.
Has to be Roland calling with an update, Ellie thought. And it was probably about the carrier she’d helped abduct the other night, Mackenzie. Roland, she was guessing, had tracked down his location, maybe even found a blood farm. Please, God, let that be the case.
The bathroom had a stall and a urinal. She grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, got into the stall, and after she locked the door she removed the lid of the toilet tank and placed it on the seat. Resting at the bottom of the tank was a phone wrapped in a clear waterproof utility pouch.
Out came the pouch, and after she dried it and her hands she removed the phone. She flushed the toilet to mask the sound of what she was doing: placing inside the pouch the phone Anton had given her, sealing it, and dropping the phone into the tank. Now she could talk freely without the threat of Anton eavesdropping.
Ellie dialed the number, her brain and heart racing with anticipation.
The phone on the other end was picked up immediately. “Hey.”
It took her a moment to find her voice. “Cody?”
“Yeah, it’s me. LAPD arranged the phone call.”
Ellie was surprised by the effect hearing his voice had on her. The two of them had talked long and hard about what the undercover gig entailed, and what she was asking him to do, which was essentially putting his life on hold for her; and on their final night together, the stark reality of what was about to happen hitting them both, she saw the pained, hopeless look in his eyes and told him he didn’t have to put his life on hold. If he wanted to see other women, she completely understood. It took something out of her, telling him that, and when he didn’t respond it reminded her just how fragile every relationship was, that the slightest curveball could kill it or send it on a path where it would slowly decay and then die. Cody rolled over onto his side, and his eyes narrowed in thought, maybe even anger, when he said, “I’m in this with you. The job, life, whatever comes our way—I’m not going anywhere until you tell me you don’t want me around. Do you still want me around?”
