We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "Airlifted this morning."

  "And the bacon?"

  "Family recipe from the Mahatma himself."

  "I thought he was a vegetarian."

  "Eat your damn breakfast, honky."

  "I think only black people are allowed to say 'honky.'"

  "What are Indian people allowed to call you?"

  "Non-engineer."

  "Clever, for a fugitive." She slid my plate across the counter.

  When we were done eating, I helped Induma clean up, then put on my rucksack. She eyed it,

  looking worried.

  I said, "I can't wait any longer. I've got to find Baby Everett, get word to her, something."

  "You don't think Steve'll be able to find her?"

  "Maybe not in time." I took a breath. "That's why I called Caruthers."

  "You called Caruthers?"

  "His aide. Alan Lambrose--the bow4ied conduit. Caruthers just flew down from Sacramento, and he can see me in an hour. He offered to help when I met him. If anyone'11 know how to locate a person . . ."

  "We still don't know for sure that Caruthers isn't implicated in some other way. Trying to outbid Bilton for the ultrasound, whatever."

  "This'11 be his test, I guess. If he has his guys grab me, we'll know he's implicated."

  "Nick. You're wanted. Caruthers ought to have his agents arrest you regardless."

  "Alan checked. He said there's no arrest warrant out on me."

  At this, her mouth opened a little.

  I said, "Bilton's crew is busting ass to track me down, but they're keeping it off the books for obvious reasons."

  She blew a wisp of hair out of her face, keeping her stare on me. "They want you on terrorism charges, Nick. Which means if they do get you, you have no rights. You're willing to bet your life on Caruthers?"

  "To warn Everett? What else am I supposed to do?"

  "What if Caruthers's crew leans on you to give them the evidence?"

  "I'm counting on it. I don't mind Caruthers playing politics as long as I can get to the girl."

  Induma laced her hands across the top of her head. Stared at me.

  I said, "If you need me, don't use your home line." I dug in the rucksack, handed her the extra throwaway phone.

  Still she said nothing.

  "I'll be careful."

  She tossed me the car keys. "That's all well and good, but you're the smallest part of the equation."

  Chapter 36

  Standing in the middle of the street, sweating like an idiot under the midday sun, I turned a full circle. Alan Lambrose had given me a cross street and a time. No phone number, no address. So here I was, on a quiet residential slope, like a street hustler waiting on a Cadillac.

  From down Santa Monica Canyon came the purr of well-maintained engines, the crackle of asphalt beneath tires, and I turned nervously to face downslope, my grip tightening on the manila envelope. Rising into view first were the convoy SUVs with their tinted windows, wavering in the blacktop heat like a mirage. Then two joggers, barrel-chested with slim waists and weighed-down fanny packs. Two motorcycle cops, Poncherelloed out with tan forearms and aviator

  sunglasses. And then, struggling up the slope, an additional RoboJogger at either side, came Caruthers. His T-shirt spotted with sweat, he looked notably human amid the seemingly mechanized procession.

  The lead jogger approached swiftly, smelling of deodorant, his hand in his unzipped fanny pack. I recognized him as James, the Secret Service agent who'd stood post in Caruthers's conference room. How easy it would be for him to slap cuffs on me and shove me into one of the waiting SUVs. But instead he said, "Sir, if you don't mind?"

  He waited stoically while his counterpart frisked me. Then they nodded at Caruthers and gave us a ten-yard standoff, facing away, ready for incoming threats. As Caruthers approached, slightly wobbly on his venerable knees, the SUVs pulled in around us, sealing us off from the open roads. Caruthers leaned over, catching his breath. "I'm sorry about this, Nick. You know how it goes."

  "Doing their job."

  His eyes took in the Band-Aid on my cheek. "They always do."

  "Still no warrant out on me?"

  "Nothing official, at least through our channels." He pursed his lips. "You know that's probably bad news, right?"

  Pain throbbed through my head, a party favor from the impromptu surgical shindig. I glanced nervously at the jogger-agents, intently facing

  away from us. "Can we talk a bit more privately?"

  Caruthers said, "James," and the men nodded and slid to the far side of the SUV perimeter.

  I remembered the president's velvet-smooth voice through the phone, his veiled warning for me to steer clear of Caruthers: You wouldn't want to meet with someone like that, Nick. Certainly not twice. What might this rendezvous bring down on me?

  I gestured at the agents. "They've seen me. Us, together."

  "We were seen together a few days ago, too. What's the difference?"

  "What I know now. Who they tell."

  "This is my detail, Nick. I trust these men. Plus, I deal with folks all the time. As do all my people. No one can know what came from whom."

  "They can guess."

  "They sure can. I'm not going to pretend there's no risk involved. You're too smart to buy that pitch. Listen, son, you called me. If you're too uncomfortable to talk ..." He waved an open hand at the road.

  Grimacing, I looked at all that assembled manpower, all those concealed weapons that could be swung my way at a moment's notice. Caruthers's challenge brought back Frank, sipping his coffee in the dark, the TV screen finally at rest, having shown run after catastrophic run of JFK's limousine. All you can rely on is a man s character. Not

  what he says or promises, but what he does. What you do is the measure of a man.

  I sidled a half step closer. "Would you believe that Bilton was behind a massive cover-up?"

  I waited for the shift behind the eyes, the stalling-for-time grin, the nervous glance to the agents. But either Caruthers had a heightened tolerance for conspiracy theorists or he'd learned never to rule anything out. He worked his gum. The coarse hairs of his eyebrows twisted this way and that over those intense irises.

  "It's part of the job description of the chief executive," he said. "It depends--"

  "On what's being covered up."

  He nodded. "Bilton's a gray suit and a trademark, a company man. He's subject to the pressures we're all subject to, but he yields to them a little more readily than the rest of us, flows with the prevailing current. He knows he is where he is because powerful forces wanted him there. So why reflect, let alone resist? His principles are convenient and poll-tested, and that means he can be convinced of anything."

  "That's a political answer."

  "I'm a politician, Nick. Now, can we get on with whatever this is?"

  "It wasn't Mike Milligan in that nuclear power plant. It was a former California State Police officer named Charlie Jackman."

  Caruthers's brilliant green eyes held on me until

  I looked away. He dotted his forehead with the hem of his shirt and blew out a breath. "The crime-scene reports and DNA analysis say different."

  "They were made to say different."

  "Okay, so what was a former California State Police officer doing in San Onofre?"

  "Jackman worked Bilton's detail when Bilton was governor."

  "Go on."

  I slid the ultrasound from the envelope and handed it to him. "I believe that this shows the illegitimate daughter of President Bilton."

  "Looks like a fetus."

  "And she was born seventeen years ago. There's a paternity test, too."

  He held the ultrasound to the sun. The human curl, bulb head and bean body. "Jesus." He looked around, as if for somewhere to sit, but settled for putting his hands on his knees, the stiff sheet bowing to the side. He was still breathing hard from the run. "Jesus, Nick. And the paternity test is conclusive?"

  "All the attention I've been
getting sure as hell shows it's real. But as for court-of-law conclusive? I'm not a lawyer. I'm not an agent. I'm just a guy who got pulled into the wrong situation."

  He cocked his head. "We both know you're not as uncomplicated as you like to pretend. So let's drop the pretense." His mouth was drawn, etched with innumerable tiny lines. The sun came through his hair, turning it gold.

  I said, "Charlie was in the process of selling the evidence back to Bilton. He got the first payment, but they tried to raid his place to get the goods. He bolted, then upped the stakes at San Onofre. So they blew his head off his shoulders, making me an unwitting accomplice and almost killing me while they were at it." I tapped the ultrasound. "If this leaked, it'd knock family values on its ass."

  Caruthers looked thoughtful, a kid finding the golden ticket in his Wonka bar. Agitated, he pulled the nicotine gum from his mouth and winged it to the side of the road. It hit a mailbox post and stuck. "Did you see this morning's Times? They're off my divorce now and onto June's. Planted letters to the editor. Nonpartisan advocacy groups are up in arms. Concerned Citizens for Traditional Values are . . . well, concerned. Bilton's nipping at my heels." He handed the ultrasound back to me.

  "But? "

  The nearest post-stander's head swiveled at my tone.

  Caruthers asked, "What is this, Nick?"

  "It's an ultrasound."

  "Right. It's not an issue. And you want this campaign to be about issues as much as I do. This is something Bilton could use and lose no sleep. We can't. Because I don't care if Andrew played grabass with some woman nearly two decades ago. If / pretend to care or if a leak traces back to my supporters, the voters'11 smell the hypocrisy before

  Chris Matthews can open his yap." He shook his head, irritated at his options. "No, this thing is precisely the kind of petty political distraction I've spent the last two years decrying."

  "Charlie might not think it's so petty."

  "By your description Charlie was an extortionist who threatened to blow a hole in a nuclear power plant. Now, I'm sure Bilton had his Service henchmen dick around with this somewhere, but we're in spin terrain, and a spin game goes to the incumbent. Here's another bit of transparency--I can't use something that's not airtight." His green eyes took on a calculated, if self-amused, glint. "I can always reconsider come the last week of October." His smirk vanished, his face texturing with concern. "I appreciate the risk you took in getting this to me. I hope I don't seem unappreciative."

  I waved him off.

  His penetrating green eyes held on me. "Right, " he said. "You need something. You wanted to trade."

  "Yeah, but you're not interested in dirt. Some politician you turn out to be."

  His lips curled with amusement. "Maybe I can still help?"

  "It's just, this girl ..." I shook the ultrasound in an attempt to resuscitate my position. "She's still just a kid. Seventeen is a scary age to have people after you. I think she's in danger, and I don't have any way of tracking her down."

  "Last name Evers?"

  "Everett."

  "And the mother's name is Jane? I can't exactly go running this up the flagpole, but I have plenty of avenues, and I promise you I will figure out how to get the proper authorities on this."

  I nodded my thanks.

  "That's all you're asking for?" His voice held a note of incredulity.

  "Yeah. That's it."

  "How about that," he said. "You finally found something you want."

  The agents firmed, one after another. A Honda reached the slant-parked SUVs and turned, the driver intimidated into offering an apologetic little wave.

  "If I get clear of all this," I said, "maybe I'll register."

  "Bilton needs all the votes he can get." He smiled and turned to go.

  "Wait, I. . ." It came out louder than I'd wanted it to.

  He paused. I felt his eyes on me, and then he leaned toward me, trying to pick up my gaze. "What?"

  "So no one . . ."I had to stop, clear my throat. "No one ever brought anything like this to you when you were vice president?"

  "Oh," he said. "Oh. You mean Frank. No, I'm afraid he never did." I must have looked crestfallen, because he paused to piece it together.

  "Because Frank had no good reason not to show me that ultrasound seventeen years ago"--his face softened with sympathy--"unless he was using it to extort Bilton."

  The breeze blew against my face, numbing it further.

  Caruthers said, quietly, "Frank and I never discussed something like this."

  My lips were dry. "And should I believe you?"

  "You're too smart to believe any politician, Nick. And I'm too smart to trust a conspiracy nut. And yet here we are."

  He took a step away, then paused for a moment with his back to me before turning. "I don't know if it's inappropriate to say in light of all this, but I think Frank would've been proud."

  I looked away so he couldn't see my reaction.

  Caruthers nodded solemnly, and then stepped toward the agents. The joggers swung over to his sides, running in place until he got moving. The SUVs purred around in front of and behind him, and he started steadily uphill, a lone man pulling a convoy.

  Chapter 37

  I accelerated along Ocean Avenue, the Pacific whipping by beyond the cliffs to my right. I was gripping the prepaid cell phone so tightly my hand cramped. "Why should I stay and risk my life for

  some seventeen-year-old girl I've never met? I told Caruthers about Baby Everett. I told Steve. They can handle it now. I'm not a cop."

  On the other end, Induma said, "True. You're not."

  Craving open air, I screeched over into a slant parking space and climbed out, slamming the door behind me. "Bilton's agents are on my heels. If I keep looking, I could lead them right to her. I could wind up getting her killed."

  "A valid concern."

  "I don't give a shit about politics. Or Bilton. I don't owe anyone anything."

  "No one's maintaining you do."

  "I've done everything I can." My voice was shaking.

  Induma just said, "Nick."

  I crossed the strip of lawn and leaned against the rickety rail fence. Below and beyond, past the Pacific Coast Highway, stretched a quarter mile of sand and endless water. The sun was low, filtering through the puffy clouds in magenta and violet. It reminded me of the circle of sunset I'd watched from the tunnel where Homer had hidden me. I looked down at my shirt, the one I'd pulled from the cardboard box behind the church. That stupid scrolled lettering--Forgive Us Our Trespasses.

  "Frank knew about Baby Everett," I said, "but he kept it from Caruthers."

  The weight of the implications hung between us.

  I heard Induma shift on the couch, maybe stand up. She said, "You're trying to clear Frank. I know that. But if you're gonna keep prying at this, you have to do it knowing that you could damn well confirm your worst fears."

  The phone was trembling at my cheek. I said, "I have to get out of here." I hung up. Drew in a few deep breaths. Then returned to the Jag. I could leave it somewhere for Induma later, in some other city. I stared at the rucksack in the passenger seat, then at the broad curb drain, at the ready for all those L.A. hurricanes. Three steps and I could shove the rucksack through into the sewer and be rid of all this. Five yards and a push. I could leave the bundled hundreds curbside for the homeless folks camped out along the grass.

  Instead I backed out and rode down the Santa Monica incline, merging onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Blending into traffic, I headed north, away from the city, away from Bilton and ultrasounds and the charred remains of Mack Jackman. I was now one of those cars I'd heard thrumming overhead from the tunnel, one of those fortunate souls with somewhere better to go. Just as Homer had told me four days and a lifetime ago, I was a runner, not a fighter. And just as he'd said, people

  don't change.

  I had better reason to run now than I ever did. I was trying to run away from Frank's being dirty. I couldn't stay and face the possi
bility that everything I'd gone through these past seventeen years was for someone who wasn't worth it. The thought alone knocked the fight out of me, left me resigned to the only life I'd always feared. I deserved-- motel rooms and transient work, dark memories and 2:18 wake-ups. As bleak as that seemed, I'd take it over losing Frank all over again.

  I flew through Malibu, past the fish-taco joints with the washed-out surfers counting gritty change from neoprene pockets, past the Country Mart where movie stars park their Priuses between jaunts on Gulfstreams, past the impeccable and untrodden green lawn of Pepperdine. I kept going, past rocky state beaches, past VW buses out of seventies horror films, past falling-rock signs and even a few falling rocks. Somewhere around Paradise Cove, my cell phone rang.

  I pulled it out of my pocket. Checked caller ID. Induma. I flipped it open.

  "They got Homer."

  The words moved through me, an icy wave. After a time I said, "Where?"

  "They took him from his parking space outside Hacmed's store. Hacmed tried to call you. His stock of throwaway cell phones, I guess they have sequential numbers. He called the last one in line before the one on his rack. The one you left here rang, so I picked up."

  "Okay. Give me a ... I need a minute. Sorry."

  I hung up and pulled over onto the hazardous

  shoulder, my hands bloodless against the black steering wheel. Vehicles shot past off the turn, rocking the Jag on its stubborn English chassis, one or two offering me a piercing blare on the horn as an after-the-fact fuck-you.

  I don't know how long I sat there, but when I looked up, the sun was a shimmering remembrance on the water at the horizon. A few seconds later, the dark waters extinguished the last dot of yellow.

  I waited for a break in the headlights, then signaled and U-turned, heading back to whatever was awaiting me.

  With mounting dread I drove to the corner mart, pulling the Jag around back. I stared across at the white parking-space lines.

  What if they'd killed him already, just to send me a signal? He'd be easy to wipe off the map. I'd read the newspaper stories from time to time with perverse interest--a body discovered weeks or years after the desperate end, skeletonized in a chimney, bloated in a well, rotting in the trapped air of a by-the-month motel room. Lost souls who didn't punch in to work or have family dinners on Sundays. No one to miss them. No one to notice their removal. No one to care until a disruptive odor, a heap of chalky shards, or some other gristly matter gummed up life in progress or a real-estate inspection.