by Brad Meltzer
“How long did it take you to trust me?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Then trust me now,” Hazel said.
Butchie stared at Hazel for a moment, like he was seeing her for the first time. Above them, the helicopters came swinging back toward the course. They’d been crisscrossing the sky for a while now, training for the eventual moment when they had to go attack a city again.
“Tell me what you need,” Butchie said.
“I need to find out if someone hurt my father. Whoever my dad worked for, whatever’s going on, this thing on my neck? That’s not random.”
“Can’t disagree. You got a plan?”
Hazel went silent for a minute, rethinking it yet again. For days now, she’d been searching for alternatives, searching for anything that would help her better understand herself. All that was left was a desperate choice. A true Hail Mary. But that’s who throws Hail Marys. Desperate people. “Tell me something,” she said. “How difficult would it be to get your hands on some sodium pentothal?”
“Sodium what?”
“Truth serum. To use on me.”
32
The first thing Rabbit did once he entered Hazel’s apartment was find her guns and empty the clips. There were more bullets somewhere in this place, he was sure of that, but even so, he didn’t think Hazel was the kind of person who went on shooting rampages, certainly not in her own apartment. Rabbit figured she was angry, confused, unsure. It was time to figure out what else she was feeling.
Rabbit checked Hazel’s computer, saw YouTube, clicked the Back button, then Back again and again, to see what she’d been watching.
Johannesburg…Iran…Libya…Philadelphia. All of her dad’s greatest hits. She was searching.
Rabbit was still thinking of Hazel’s reaction when he told her about the first body—Darren Nixon—dressed in Revolutionary War gear. No shock, no sadness, and full of uncanny information. Then that second body shows up, in Dubai.
Late last night, Rabbit had done a search through every police and Bureau database, looking for any other victims who’d been dressed for a Revolutionary War battle. Almost all of them were attacked outside Colonial Williamsburg. Ten years ago, there was a reenactor who came home from work, walked in on a robbery, and ended up with a bullet in his head. Six years ago, another killed herself by hanging. Her parents found her swinging on the tree in front of their house. Five years ago, there was also a domestic violence case, a husband shot his wife, he in full colonial uniform, sitting in the front seat of their Subaru wagon.
None of them had bibles buried in their chests, like Darren Nixon and Arthur Kennedy. And none of them had ties to Jack Nash and his family.
Sure, Hazel and Skip’s dad was beloved by millions, but underneath the fan love, Jack Nash was an actor. More important, according to Rabbit’s new boss, Moten, Jack had made a few enemies himself. And so, apparently, had Hazel. Professors have good veneers, but scratch a little deeper and you’ll find obsessions.
So how’d this all tie back to Benedict Arnold? Did Rabbit even believe The House of Secrets stories, of hidden truths about our first President, or covert messages tucked into centuries-old books? Did he even believe that a bible could fit in someone’s chest?
When did people get so damn gullible? Life wasn’t a popcorn movie. It didn’t have a neat and tidy ending. Every country in the world was soaked in blood, democracies and dictatorships alike. Yet, as Rabbit knew, most people only cared about what they could see on the surface. It didn’t matter if The House of Secrets stories were factual, it only mattered if people believed them to be true.
Sliding a thumb drive into Hazel’s Mac and copying her files, Rabbit again mentally took the pieces apart, then put them back together: Forget the fact Darren Nixon was a criminal. Nixon was found facedown, in a Revolutionary War coat that once belonged to Hazel’s father. There was a lie being told there, he knew that much. Then the second body showed up, poor Arthur Kennedy in Dubai. Another lie, right there on its face.
To report the body, someone had to call the New Haven cops all the way from Dubai. Someone who must have known the cops would kick it to the Feds, and that the Feds would see what Rabbit had learned in the last twenty-four hours, which is that Arthur Kennedy didn’t actually exist until the 1990s.
No immunization records.
No high school records.
No selective service form.
Then all of a sudden, he gets his real estate license, starts living in New Haven, same house now for two decades.
In Rabbit’s mind, whoever Arthur Kennedy really was, there’s no way he was always named Arthur Kennedy. Same with Nixon. But to have those names—two Presidents—they either named themselves together or, more likely, were named by the same people. People who thought their connection would never be noticed. That was the key, Rabbit realized, and now he was again thinking of his boss Moten and the great Jack Nash.
For years, Moten supervised Jack’s work with the government. That was a fact. When Jack was in a foreign country, the TV star was proud to use his celebrity to help Uncle Sam. That’s a fact too. And yes, during those times, Jack’s missions included a search for the missing pages of Benedict Arnold’s bible. The only question was: What did Jack find—and how did it relate to these two bodies now?
All this time, Rabbit had assumed Jack was looking for the treasure. But certainly Jack couldn’t be the only one. Nixon was a criminal. Was Kennedy too? What if they’re the ones who found the bible—or treasure, or whatever it was—first, or maybe even went and stole it? Is that why they died—is that why Jack died too?—at the hands of someone who wanted his property back? Or maybe someone taking personal revenge? There was a reason Nixon’s and Kennedy’s chests were cut open. That was most definitely a message. But to whom? Nixon and Kennedy didn’t just appear from nowhere. They lived real lives. Maybe hurt real people.
According to the files, though, Kennedy didn’t have a past. So who was he? An informant? Someone in witness protection? Moten would tell him if that was the case. Kennedy’s most profound online interaction was his fantasy baseball team, the WarEagles, who were still in first place despite the fact that he’d been dead for days, a detail the rest of the league was oblivious to.
Rabbit got into Kennedy’s OkCupid account, found that he’d made a connection with a woman named Alexis. Her profile said she was a travel agent—a convenient job that Rabbit thought didn’t really exist anymore—and they’d made a plan to go visit Dubai together after a week of messages that made Rabbit miss those drunken nights with his ex-wife. The website domain name for Alexis’s travel agency was purchased a few weeks before she started talking to Kennedy. Now the site was empty, and Alexis’s profile was stripped clean, no photos, nothing.
It smelled like a scam even before Kennedy ended up dead, but for what? People got scammed every day. People like Arthur Kennedy, who seemed utterly, absolutely alone in the world? They got scammed every minute. The thing was, best as Rabbit could tell, the only thing they took from Arthur Kennedy was his life.
Rabbit ran the airline passenger list to Dubai, looking for any known bad actors. Nothing. Then there was the time of death. If Arthur Kennedy really was killed in Dubai in the past few days, Hazel and Skip were innocent. They had both been here. Rabbit saw them himself each day at the hospital.
A new player then. A big player had entered the game. Or was he here the whole time, waiting for his next orders?
Rabbit went into Hazel’s living room. He saw the empty Gatorade bottles, the meat wrappers, the outline of Hazel’s body still on her couch. He smelled people’s food cooking, could hear music lilting out through open windows, barking dogs, a crying baby. Real life was happening in Hazel’s apartment building.
On Hazel’s wall, there was something missing, a perfect discolored square that caught his eye. He opened her trash, found a photo of Hazel and some man in a desert, noticed the way the man’s hand rested low on her hip, wondered w
ho he was, why he’d been the one thing from her past Hazel decided had to go.
The intercom next to Hazel’s front door began to buzz.
“Hello?” Rabbit said.
“That you, Butchie?” a voice replied. It was a woman. One who didn’t sound surprised.
“Yup,” Rabbit said. He looked over at the wall of photos and saw the one of Hazel in midflight. Butchie. He tried to imagine what a guy named Butchie sounded like. Realized it didn’t matter. If the woman on the intercom already thought he was Butchie, he was Butchie. With a grunt, he added, “Who’s this?”
“I-It’s Mel,” she stuttered. Rabbit tried to place her accent, thinking maybe she was Hawaiian. “There’s a— I got a delivery for her.”
“Great. C’mon up,” Rabbit grunted. With the push of a button, he buzzed her in.
Sometimes real life was a carnival game. Hit the buzzer at the right time, and you get a prize.
33
Butchie drove Hazel across the bridge into Berkeley, out toward the racetrack known as Golden Gate Fields. He knew a vet out there who’d be happy to get Hazel what she needed, the so-called “real-life” version of truth serum. “They use that shit to calm the horses down if they break their legs,” Butchie told her, “before they shoot them between the eyes.”
They were in his thousand-year-old Range Rover, the color impossible to tell, maybe it didn’t have any paint on it anymore. The back of it was filled with everything from camping gear to parachutes, GoPro rigs, an inordinate number of Frisbees, boxes of Clif bars, and plastic jars filled with jerky. “Do you live in here?” Hazel asked.
“Never know when I might have to.”
As they arrived at the track, Butchie pulled into a full parking lot—it was a race day, plus that night there was a dollar concert, a Bon Jovi cover band named Bon Jersey, according to all the flyers littered on the ground—and two minutes later, a woman in red scrubs was knocking on Butchie’s window.
Her nametag read Drea. Hazel wondered when she’d lost the first two letters of her name, how she decided she couldn’t live with them anymore, how Hazel’s own parents never called her Hazel-Ann, how she’d been Hazel forever, her mother telling her they thought one day she’d be Hazy, if she was lucky.
Drea had blond hair pulled tight from her face and back into a ponytail, hoop earrings that were too big, a brown bag in her hands.
“If someone ends up dead,” Drea said, “that’s going to be a real problem. Is one of you planning to kill yourself?”
“Nah,” Butchie said. “Recreational use only.”
“Some party.” She waited a few seconds, sighed, then handed Butchie the bag. “That’s pentobarbital. That dose is going to put you out in about three minutes. You’re not going to want to be alone afterward. In case your heart stops.”
“That happens?” Butchie said.
“That happens,” Drea said. Then, to Hazel, “Do I know you?”
“No,” Hazel said, just hoping Drea would go away.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Drea warned. She was pissed now. “You a cop? If you’re a cop, I’ll—”
“I’m not a cop,” Hazel said, thinking that if Drea threatened to snitch on them, she could reach across Butchie, grab Drea’s ponytail, and pull her into the front seat, smother her with a parachute, have Butchie drive up to the Delta, dump her there, where someone would find her, but not for a while.
“You still look familiar to me,” Drea said.
“She’s got one of those faces,” Butchie said.
“You were on the news,” she said. “Your dad was famous. Mr. Spock or something?”
“Something,” Hazel said. If need be, she could rip those hoops from her ears, shove them down her throat.
“Small world,” Drea said.
“It’d be cool if you didn’t talk about this,” Butchie said.
“Yeah, like I’m going to tell people I sold drugs to Mr. Spock’s kid?” Drea said, and then headed back the way she came.
As they drove off, Hazel shot a look to Butchie, apologizing for thoughts he’d never see. In truth, Drea got lucky. But like before, Hazel sat there in silence, in disbelief about how fast, how overwhelmingly, her bloodlust hit—and how intoxicating it felt. Biting her lip until it hurt, she thought, Drea, I’m sorry. Then: Maybe this isn’t so bad. And: This is trouble.
34
Rabbit stepped out into the hallway of Hazel’s building and headed toward the elevator. Whoever was visiting Hazel—whoever this friend Mel was—Rabbit wanted a good look first. If Mel had flowers, chocolates, and a card signed by everyone in the Anthropology department, he’d let her go. If she was carrying something else, he wanted to be ready.
Two minutes later, the elevator doors opened. A thin sixtysomething Hawaiian woman stepped out, hair thin and scraggly, looking more like a cleaning lady than a friend. She had some dry cleaning draped over her arm. Harmless enough, but that cleaning bag was a good way to hide something underneath.
“How you doing?” Rabbit asked her when he walked by.
“Fine,” she said, not the least bit suspicious. Why should she be? Rabbit was a guy in a suit. Looked like a broker coming home for lunch. “Have a nice day.”
“You too,” Rabbit said, then stepped into the waiting elevator, let the door close, but didn’t hit any buttons. He counted to ten, punched the Door Open button, stepped back out. Sure enough, Mel the Hawaiian woman was at Hazel’s door.
“If you’re looking for Hazel, she’s not home,” Rabbit called to her.
The woman turned, confused. “How do you—?”
“Maybe I can help you instead,” Rabbit added, watching her right arm, still hidden by the dry cleaning.
The woman backed up just slightly, her build slight, like you could sneeze her over. “How do you know Hazel?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“We’re dating.”
“You don’t look like one of her dates.”
Rabbit pulled his badge, held it out.
“I knew you didn’t look like someone she’d date,” Mel whispered, her voice going softer, like you could tear it. “What’d she do now?”
“What’s in the bag?” Rabbit asked, pointing with his chin toward the dry cleaning.
“Clothes.”
“I can see that. Why’s Hazel need your clothes?”
“Not mine. They’re—” Mel stopped, her voice lower than ever. “I had a job interview. Billing coordinator for a company that translates Web pages. That’s a job apparently. Anyway, Hazel let me borrow…” She held up the dry cleaning, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “She said I needed something good to wear. That these might fit.”
Rabbit studied the clothes. They weren’t just nice. Based on the tags, they were brand-new. “She bought these for you?”
“I heard she got out of the hospital. I wanted to say thanks.” Mel turned to walk away, then stopped. She still didn’t make eye contact. “Whatever you think she did, Hazel Nash isn’t a bad person,” she added. “In my book, that bitch is downright glorious.”
35
United Arab Emirates
Today
Four a.m. in Dubai and The Bear is wide awake, tracking Skip Nash online through the hotspots of LA. Skip’s grabbing sandwiches at Nate ’n Al’s deli. Then he’s shopping, high-end retail, overpaying for V-neck T-shirts on Rodeo Drive. Then he’s at the valet stand at the Grove, waiting for his car, taking a photo with Clara and Mickey, who are visiting the city from Louisville, and who the day before were “wowwwwed” by the Hollywood sign.
Skip should be on a plane. Skip shouldn’t be in public. And he should be with his sister, wherever she’s hiding. Maybe the broken Hazel is smarter than she seems. Certainly smarter than Skip, which isn’t saying much.
Still, things are not working out as The Bear would prefer. If there’s not the movement he desires soon—if Skip and Hazel don’t head his way soon—he’ll post photos of Arthur Kennedy on Twitter, then he’ll get on a plane back to the S
tates, finish this.
And then, 4:21 a.m., just as he’s dressing for his run, he gets a ping. Cops called to an apartment building in San Francisco. Sixteenth Street. The Mission. A 911 call that someone might’ve been using a fake FBI badge to get inside. Hazel won’t go home to that. And this should get Skip running too. They have the best and worst of their dad in them; they’ll want to investigate. Things are starting to happen. At last.
The Bear checks the flights leaving Los Angeles for Dubai. There’s a 9 p.m. British Airways flight. Eighteen hours of flight time, a layover in London. If The Bear understands the world, he’ll have Skip Nash here soon enough. Hopefully Hazel too. Then the real fun would begin.
The Bear got ready for his run. Ten miles today, he thinks. Make sure I’m ready for all the blood.
36
California
Two hours later
This gonna work?” Butchie asked. He’d strapped Hazel into a papasan chair, one of those big rattan numbers with a flat circular pillow in a satellite-dish-shaped seat. They were in a storage unit in Oakland, down on MacArthur, where no one could hear.
Hazel tried to move. Pushed forward, then side to side. She thought it was the first time in history someone had found a good use for a papasan chair. Bungee cords secured her in place, arms crossed, so she could plunge the drugs into the basilic vein at the notch of her left forearm. “I’m good.”
Butchie flipped on the GoPro helmet that was strapped to Hazel’s head. She was facing a mirror, so she could film her own reaction. She needed to see herself, see what her body was doing when she answered.
“This is some real evil-scientist madness,” Hazel said. “My dad would be proud.”
“You really think this was his life? That he was out there working for the government, doing James Bond shit?” Butchie said. “Skiing in the Alps and then shooting someone? Sleeping with women covered in gold?”
“He was married to my mother,” Hazel said, but that got her thinking: Did she know how her parents had met? Had she even seen photos from their wedding?
