We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "What makes a great man?"

  "The man himself." Frank smiled that half smile, but it faded when he took in my expression. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  He studied me. "We say what needs to be said in this family."

  It was the first time he'd ever called us a family. My mouth twitched a few times as I tried to figure out what I wanted to say without embarrassing myself. "Why do you think Caruthers's life is worth more than yours? That just seems stupid to me."

  He nodded gravely. "No one's life is worth more than anyone else's, not even the vice president's. Caruthers does what he does to serve the country, and this is what I do."

  He got up, set down his empty coffee cup, and I rose to head back to my room. As Frank passed, he hugged me. I was stunned--my arms didn't rise from my sides. His shirt was warm with body heat, and I could smell the aftershave mixed with the sweat of a day's work, and I felt my throat close though I didn't know why.

  He said, "Don't worry," then wiped his mouth and walked down the hall to his and my mom's bedroom.

  That night I moved his picture in front of my dad's in the frame on my nightstand. He didn't say anything about it.

  After that, things began to change. Over the next few months, Frank got more and more paranoid. He checked the phone lines for taps. He came up with different hiding places for various weapons so he'd never be caught defenseless. A K-bar beneath the trash-can flap, a .22 in the ice maker. He said they'd taught him--in the military and in training--where to hide things, but who knows where some of it came from? For the first time, he missed a day of work. Then another. Callie and I confronted him once, worried, but all he said was, "There have been some unusual concerns at work." That was all we could get out of him, but one night I got up for a midnight glass of water and overheard him sitting in his truck in the garage, talking on his car phone about a threat to Vice President Caruthers.

  A week later I caught Frank standing at the front window, two fingers through the curtain. His other hand rested on his hip-holstered Glock, and when I asked what was out there, the gun almost cleared leather. As he shook his head and moved past me, mumbling, I thought I heard an engine turn over and then a car drive away.

  I wondered why a federal agent was creeping around his own house peering out windows, but I didn't say anything. Maybe I didn't want to think about the implications. Maybe I was afraid of what the answers would be.

  What could be dangerous enough to scare Frank?

  For a time I stood in the cold hall, looking at the master-bedroom door, debating walking over there and knocking. But I kept my mouth shut and my concerns to myself. I'd wait. Whatever it was, Frank could handle it.

  He was dead within the month.

  Chapter 4

  The helicopter banked hard around a stretch of coastal hills, knocking me back to the present, and the giant nuclear power plant loomed into view. There were maybe fifty police cars, lights blinking. Army cargo trucks and Hummers, even twin tanks guarding the western perimeter, cannons swiveled to face the dark sky over dark water. Cops and agents had surrounded the containment domes and set up a perimeter outside the rectangular building housing the spent-fuel pond. Powerful spotlights illuminated the scene in broad

  swaths of yellow.

  The trail of destruction left by the terrorist's SUV told a tale of its own. A smashed gate arm at the checkpoint, a path blazed through the brush, and an overrun section of chain-link fence, flat on the ground, aligned with a second, identical breach in a second fence. Curls of tire lay on the ground past the fallen concertina wire, just inside the compound. A clipped generator box continued to throw up sparks. Thirty yards of concrete scored by the Jeep's metal rims. And at the end of the trail, angled up the three broad concrete steps and embedded in the doorway as if of a piece with the building, was the red Cherokee I'd been watching on TV mere hours ago from the anonymity of my bed.

  We descended into a typhoon of dirt and sand. Soldiers cleared the makeshift landing zone, squinting against the gritty wind. My left knee was bouncing. This couldn't be real.

  We set down with a thump, and the overhead whirring finally began to die away.

  There was no more time.

  "We need you to do this now," Wydell said. He held out the cell phone to me.

  I reached out an unsteady hand and took it.

  Sever leaned over and tore open the helicopter door. A number of agents jogged toward us, assault rifles bouncing on their slings.

  Wydell grabbed my shoulder. "Get him away from that spent-fuel pond. Don't give him the phone unless he's away from the water. A few steps is enough. He claims to be loaded with explosives. Given this guy's volatility . . ."

  I nodded, my stomach churning. "You sure you guys know what you're doing?"

  "Who do we call in case of emergency?"

  Not the answer I was looking for.

  An agent reached in and clutched my arm, tugging me. "This is him?"

  The seat belt jerked me at the waist, and I fought the buckle free and stepped out. Kicked-up dust coated my lungs. I coughed, and then a wet sea breeze blew the air clear, chilling me through my thin clothes.

  The agent hustled me forward, Wydell and Sever behind us. Dozens of men stopped talking into phones and radios and to one another; scores of heads pivoted to watch me. I drew even with the line of Hummers and soldiers and agents at the perimeter, maybe thirty yards back from the spent-fuel building. The crashed Jeep was lit up as if onstage.

  I heard Sever's gruff voice behind me. "Go on."

  I turned and looked at him. Wydell, at his side, nodded urgently. "Good luck, Nick."

  All around us sharpshooters crouched behind Hummers and cop cars. A young Latin soldier had the end of his crucifix between his lips, sucking it. I stared back at the empty, unprotected ground between the perimeter and the building. A stretch of concrete that even the soldiers and agents didn't

  dare set foot on.

  I stepped out from cover, my Pumas padding

  across the concrete, the broken plastic of my left sneaker giving off its maddening click. A spotlight tracked my movement. Twenty yards. The wet wind came off the Pacific, biting at my arms, my neck, my bare ankles. I was shivering. In my thin T-shirt and pajama bottoms, I felt naked, oddly self-conscious yet dissolved into my surroundings at the same time. I sensed every part of my body and everything around me--the cool air filling my chest, the grind of stray sand particles underfoot, the tuning-fork vibration of my arms. Ten yards. I braced for flame to burst out of the building and engulf me. The scrapes in the concrete from the tire rims grew deeper as I approached. And then I was there.

  The violence of the Jeep's collision with the doorframe was striking. The double doors had been flung back into the building, one tilting from a hardy hinge, and the wall around had crumbled to accommodate the broad snout of the vehicle, which perfectly plugged the hole it had created.

  I stopped and looked behind me. The perimeter seemed miles away. All those trained men and women, tucked behind cop cars and cargo trucks. I felt suddenly isolated out in no-man's-land.

  I climbed the three wide steps, reaching the bullet-riddled back of the Jeep--a few of the plant guards with machine guns must have figured out, late, where it was heading and opened fire. The rims had been worn down, one bent on the axle.

  My voice sounded thin. "It's Nick Horrigan!" I shouted. "Don't shoot me. I'm just here because you asked for me."

  To get in I had to slide through the Jeep's broken rear window and claw my way through the crumpled interior, not-so-shatter-free glass pinching my hands. The front half of the vehicle was buried in the embrace of the caved-in wall. The deflated air bag had been shoved aside, and the windshield had been kicked out so the guy could slide protected from vehicle to building. There was blood on the steering wheel, the dashboard.

  I rolled down the gnarled hood and tumbled to the floor amid a scattering of windshield pebbles. Checking that the cell phone remained in my
pocket, I stood. The spa-blue water, lit from within, set the walls and high ceiling aglow. Monitors recessed in consoles flashed readings. The reek of chemicals and something more sinister burned my nose, my throat. Tanks and generators lurked at the dark edges, adorned with neat mazes of pipes and endless coils. Set with respectful clearance to the center of the enormous building

  was the pool.

  At its end, like a swimmer contemplating a dive, stood a man in ripped clothing, dimly illuminated from the rising glow. The man from the photo, though older and in far worse shape. His shoulders were slumped unevenly, as if from injury, his head lowered on his neck. His face was badly lacerated,

  a section of cheek lifted to crowd his left eye. Unruly blond hair, dulled with age, swirled up and out. His eyes jerked back and forth, almost uncontrollably, but his posture remained perfectly still.

  Slung over one shoulder was an army-green rucksack, his hand buried in it up to the wrist.

  My throat was so dry the words seemed to stick. "I'm Nick Horrigan."

  With two fingers he beckoned me forward. His elbow was torn open, probably from the crash, and blood pattered at the lip of the pool. A crimson drop hit the crystal-blue water and blossomed.

  I couldn't move at first, so he beckoned again.

  I headed forward on legs that decided they didn't belong to me. The air, dense with humidity, felt almost liquid. I drew even with the pool and stared into the perfectly still aqua water. Down at the bottom, packed maybe ten inches apart, were the spent-fuel rods, benign-looking bundles. Not a speck of debris in the pool--it was maintained with a care suitable to the awesome lethality it contained. My Pac-Man shirt, damp with sweat, clung to me.

  The blue light played over the man's bloodied features. That wide, wild mouth. He hardly moved as I approached, but his dark pupils shifted, tracking my movement.

  "Do you know me?" I asked.

  He raised a hand, pressed a shh finger to his lips. I stopped. I was maybe ten yards away. His toes were over the edge of the pool. He swayed a little, then took a step back. I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

  His weary features barely moved. "Did they give you something?"

  His voice was a low rasp; it took me a moment to realize I'd understood him. "What? Oh. A phone."

  I pulled it from my pocket.

  His hand slid out of his rucksack, matching the movement of my own. He held a black, cigarette-size box with three bars of red light and a recessed button.

  I stopped breathing.

  He eyed the phone in my hand, grimaced as if disappointed that I'd broken my end of some bargain, and lowered his thumb to the ominous little box.

  My entire body went rigid. "Wait a second!"

  He pressed the button.

  When I dropped my hands, which still existed, I saw the man staring at me with a puzzled expression.

  He looked from my face to the small black box in his hand, seeming to put the two halves of the equation together. "Pink-noise generator."

  I took a gulp of humid, bitter air. Sweat burned my eyes. I used the collar of my T-shirt to wipe my forehead. "Pink noise?"

  "Subaudible. Pretty much plugs up any frequency they're listening in on."

  "I'm not wired."

  "Yeah, but you can bet your ass that cell phone they gave you is." He crouched and set the little generator on the floor at his feet, right at the edge of the pool. He flicked his bloody head. "Come here."

  I remembered Wydell's warning to get him away from the water. I wanted his rucksack moved away, too. "I'm not going near that pool," I said.

  "The radiation won't hurt you. Not unless the water boils off."

  "Is that what the bomb's for?"

  "There is no bomb," he said impatiently.

  "I. . . What? What are you doing, then?"

  "I needed the bomb threat to get you here." He took a crooked step toward me, away from the pool. I responded with a half step back, drawing him farther. He raised a hand to the laceration on his cheek, the loose section of flesh shifting under his gentle touch. His grimace held more resignation than pain. "They'll kill me the minute they get me in a scope. I'm not getting out of here alive, and if I do, they'll make sure I disappear." He drew nearer, walking on a tilt, until we were at arm's length.

  I was breathing hard, trying not to bounce on my shoes, but my body wouldn't obey. When he swayed closer, I snatched the rucksack from his

  shoulder and shoved him away. He stumbled back a few steps and made no move to retaliate. I was shocked at myself, the panicked burst of courage, how easy it had been. With shaking hands I rooted furiously through the rucksack, but it contained only a handgun, two stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with purple bands, a notepad and pen, and a change of clothes.

  I dropped the rucksack. "There's no bomb?"

  He shook his head and started to say something, but a coughing fit doubled him over, blood spraying from his mouth. The coin-size drops looked like oil in the dim blue light. Finally he straightened up.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  "I'm Charlie. I knew your stepfather."

  "How? How do you . . . ?"

  He swayed on his feet, his eyes glassy with pain or from the crushing pressure of the situation. "I made an awful mistake. But maybe you can set it right. I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life. He's the only guy I ever trusted a hundred percent."

  "If you were friends, how come you didn't come

  to the funeral?"

  I was bluffing; I hadn't gone either. I'd gotten dressed for the service but hadn't been able to stop vomiting long enough to make it into the car with

  Callie.

  "I was scared shitless," Charlie said. "You

  would've been, too. That's what this is about. That's why I needed you here. Frank always talked about you. Years ago. Years. If there's anyone I can trust to do the right thing, it'd be Frank's kid."

  "I'm nothing like Frank Durant. I'm not even his kid."

  But Charlie didn't seem to hear me. "I prayed to hell you still lived here. L.A. I didn't know who else . . . what else can be done. But if anyone can figure it out, it's you. At least from what Frank said. I don't have anybody else."

  "How do I know this isn't a setup? How do I know you and Frank were really friends?"

  He moved toward me again, ignoring my questions, digging in his pocket. "Here. Here. Take this. Hide it."

  Something glinted in his blood-streaked hand. A key.

  He grabbed my arm, shoved the key into my palm. It was brass, maybe two inches long, sturdier than a house key. "Hide it now. On your person."

  His sleeve was shoved back almost to the elbow. On his forearm, in a faded tattoo blue, was the familiar kanji script.

  TRUST NO ONE.

  I stared at the tattoo, stunned. Then I crouched and wedged the key through the cracked plastic window in the heel of my sneaker. With a push it fit into the air pocket. More drops of blood tapped the floor, the tops of his shoes.

  His voice sounded loose, pain-drunk. "Your life is now on the line. I'll explain to you. I'll explain to you everything you need to kn--"

  The cell phone they'd sent me in with rang in my pocket, shrill off the concrete walls. We both started, and I jerked upright. We faced each other, a few feet apart, bathed in the antiseptic glow of the pool. I pulled out the phone again.

  He gestured for it. "I'll buy us another few minutes."

  I handed it to him. He took it and staggered back a half step. Moving his injured arms gingerly, he unfolded the phone.

  Charlie winked at me with that flesh-crowded eye. "Trust no one." He spit blood, raised the cell phone to his face, and said, "What?"

  A white flash of an explosion replaced his head atop his shoulders, the concussion sending me in a slow-motion float back through the roaring air, and then into darkness.

  Chapter 5

  A few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, Callie left for a class she had saved up for at the Art Institute of Chicago.
It was May, but already sweaty summer weather, and I headed out to see Backdraft with a few teammates. We stopped off after at our weekend hangout, the original Bob's Big Boy, one of Glendale's few cultural landmarks.

  Isabel McBride. That's what the shiny new name tag, positioned left of her cleavage, announced. She was in her late thirties, with lush auburn hair, prominent breasts--grown-woman breasts--and a fringe of bra lace showing where her shirt was unbuttoned. She had a firm, lipsticked mouth and a few creases by her eyes when she smiled, which she did at me every time she leaned over to serve or clear. We all laughed and whispered and shot knowing glances to show how unnervous we were, and when I went up to the register to pay, she caught my wrist and said, "I get off shift at one. I have a daughter at home, but I could slip out to meet you and maybe teach you a few things."

  "I'm seventeen," I blurted. "I live with my mom."

  She glanced down at my Glendale High letterman's jacket and said, "Baseball? Meet me at your pitcher's mound."

  I nodded, having lost the capacity for speech.

  When I got home that night and opened the front door, Frank was standing in the hall as if he'd been waiting there for hours, though I knew he'd responded to the scratch of my keys in the locks. "Good," he said, turning back to his room.

  I was thinking about Isabel McBride. The way that shiny hair curled around her collarbone to touch the top of her chest. The faint wrinkles in her neck that her tan had missed. She'd had a child. Though I was less experienced than I wanted to admit, this opportunity had stepped forth as if from the pages of a stroke mag, and there was no way I was going to miss learning whatever she was interested in teaching me.

  "Frank," I said, "lemme keep the window open tonight. It's like a hundred out."

  He stopped and scowled at me, as tired as I was of the old argument. He looked wearier than usual, yet wired at the same time. "Comfort doesn't matter," he said. "Security matters."

  I lay on my bed and read, urging the clock on my nightstand to move quicker. At twenty to one, I slid from my sheets. I carried my shoes, wearing my socks to stay quiet down the hall. Frank had left his door open, and I could hear his even breathing issuing from the dark room. I stole into the kitchen, managed to get the waterproof magnetic box out of the garbage disposal without making too much noise. The key inside fit an alarm panel in the kitchen wall, by the door to the garage. I disarmed the system and slipped through the back door, locking the knob but forgoing the heavy-duty Medeco dead bolts that slid home with wall--