We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Wydell said, "That's how it gets done. Everyone holds just one piece of the mosaic."

  "Except you."

  He withdrew a pistol from his pocket and held it contemplatively, not aiming at me. "And now you."

  I constructed a story from the muddle, as I had so many times before. Except this time it wasn't a story. I said, "You were on Caruthers's protection detail back then. You found out I was trying to talk to Callie about Frank's death, so you flew two

  agents in from some shit field office, workaday agents who wouldn't mind having a few paid days in Los Angeles. They were willing to take my life away without even knowing why."

  "They saved your life, Nick. Think about the alternative."

  "You hired Tris Landreth. And Kim Kendall seventeen years later. You met them up in Runyon Canyon. You left the film slip in my locker at the gym, tipping me to Mack's address. Then you assigned Sever to sit outside the apartment. He didn't know Mack was already dead inside. You watched from the neighboring roof, the rifle grenade locked and loaded for when I showed up. As soon as you saw that I found the planted Polaroid of Bilton and Jane--"

  "You know how many of those things I left lying around that apartment for you to find? You stepped on one in the bedroom."

  "I hear doctoring Polaroids is tough."

  "Try getting eighteen-year-old film packs, to start with."

  "You planted a bug in my truck, then told me about it so I'd trust you, so I'd ask for you if I got tangled up or taken in. You're the one who sprang me from custody, knowing I'd run to Caruthers."

  "And run you did."

  We stood in the faint mist from the faraway sprinkler.

  "You drove the dark sedan that the Bulgarians

  put Jane Everett into. And Gracie in the trunk."

  He wet his lips and looked at me with those dull, thoughtful eyes. The wind lifted a flap of his neat gray hair into a perfect float over his ear. "We didn't know about the baby--the father, I mean-- until late in the game. If she'd come to Vice President Caruthers earlier, we would've been able to work something out. But she was angry that he'd moved on. What did she expect? You've seen June, for Christ's sake. But Jane Everett"--he shook his head, exasperated, a tourist whose wife won't stop shopping--"this little girl had delusions. Hormones--you've seen how they get when they're pregnant. She dropped this thing in his lap at the start of her third trimester. There was a scene up at El Encanto--I barely got her out of the lobby before June checked in."

  "Jane got angrier," I said. "Made demands. You were trying to work it out with her, but she was getting impatient, unmanageable. Somehow it got back to Bilton's camp that there could be an opportunity there. Everything looked good until Charlie took point on it for Bilton. Dug up the dirt. Jane Everett, scorned lover, was more than happy to give Charlie what she had. Ultrasound. Paternity test. But instead of bringing it to his boss, Charlie brought it to Frank, wanting to make a little coin. Except Frank wasn't buying."

  For all my assertiveness, the statement hung in the air like a question.

  "No," Wydell said. "He wasn't. He came to Caruthers. It never would have occurred to Frank I was already working on containing her." I didn't confuse it with remorse, but the regret was audible.

  I took a moment, the night air stinging my eyes, my breath clean and crisp in my lungs. "Frank assumed Caruthers would want to handle it decently." Even though Wydell smirked at my last word, I continued, "But since Frank told you guys about the ultrasound and paternity test, you learned that Jane Everett was putting together evidence. And that told you it was a problem that wasn't gonna go away on its own. You needed to shut her down permanently. And once it got to that, Frank made clear he wasn't willing to play ball. And since he knew the stakes, he refused to give up his source, because he knew you'd kill Charlie, too."

  I pictured Frank on his car phone in the garage, talking about the threat to Caruthers. A political threat.

  I said, "So you shot him."

  Wydell looked at me, an odd blend of contempt and respect. "Frank was no saint. He just wasn't as bad as the rest of us. He wasn't running to the press or riding off to rescue poor Jane Everett. He wanted it to go away. Just like Caruthers did."

  "But Caruthers took steps."

  "I didn't go to the house to kill Frank. I wanted to know who his source was, sure, but I went to get

  him alone, to have one more chance to convince him he couldn't be neutral on this. Stakes were way too high."

  "Right. When you murdered Jane and the baby, Frank would've gone public. You had to clear the way by getting him out of it."

  "He had a choice. Right up to the end. But Frank was the stalwart type, duty, all that. He couldn't see the bigger picture."

  "The bigger picture," I said.

  "That's right. Jane Everett and her baby, they didn't fit into it."

  "No one's life is worth more than anyone else's." My words sounded familiar. Then I realized I was quoting Frank.

  "Of course not. But some people's lives take precedence."

  "So that night?" I asked. "You had Tris lure me out so I'd shut off the alarm."

  He seemed genuinely sympathetic. "Oh, no. Just to get you out of there. I knocked at the back door. Frank let me in himself. You've been living with that all these years?"

  A tear obscured my right eye but wouldn't fall. I saw Wydell, warped, through the glassy veil. "You just didn't want a witness."

  "You were a kid, Nick. I couldn't talk with you there. And I didn't want to have to kill you, too, if it came to it."

  "You were there when I got home."

  "Yes. A nice, friendly visit. Once he saw it was me, he even set the gun down on the coffee table. I wanted to resolve it with him. Come to an understanding. But we couldn't."

  "He wouldn't say who had the master docs."

  Wydell shook his head regretfully. "He was bleeding out, but he wouldn't say. It took much longer than I'd planned."

  "I thought killing him wasn't the plan."

  The reel played in my head, familiar from countless screenings. The bang of the garage's side door against the outside wall. Frank pointing, not at the key in the alarm pad as I'd always thought but at the open door beyond. The dying utterance he'd choked out. W. . . ? W-why? Not a word, not a question. But the first syllable of the name he'd been trying to tell me: Wydell.

  I said, "By the time you got Jane to give up Charlie's name, he'd vanished. And didn't reemerge until a few months ago to make the senator a discreet business proposal."

  The sprinkler stopped abruptly, the relative silence broken by my breathing.

  Wydell gestured at me with the gun. "So you're pretty fucked here, Nick. Every agency's on alert. But I can present a solution to you. Get this mess

  cleaned up."

  "That's what you're good at, I suppose."

  "Yes, I am. And right now I'm your only option."

  "Well," I said, "not the only one." I spread my

  arms, like a scarecrow, or Jesus Christ in a wind-breaker. "Check me," I said, "for a wire."

  "I could rip that thing off you. Torch the recording."

  "It's a live feed. To--as you types like to say--a secure location."

  "How about I hold you down and start breaking things until you give instructions to whoever's on the other end?"

  I reached under my shirt and tugged the wire free. Then I broke it in half and threw it toward the outfield. "Point of no return," I said.

  His lips set with amusement, and he scratched that crooked nose with a single long finger. "You're still a stupid kid. With all my years in the game, you really think I'd give you a chance to record me?" He tugged a little black box free from the back pocket of his pants and held it up. "Pink-noise generator."

  I unzipped my jacket, let the flap fall, revealing a device of my own. "Pink-noise filter."

  I wished Induma could have seen the look on his face. Her gadget did look pretty impressive hanging there. I watched Wydell's expression change. His foreh
ead lined, and then his cheeks quivered. His perfect posture didn't alter, but his head canted forward an inch or two.

  He came at me fast, fist laced around the gun, swinging to break teeth. Sidestepping him, I grabbed his wrist and yanked his elbow forward

  until it locked and then bowed the wrong way. It didn't snap. It just yielded with the gentle crackle of a fresh sprig bending. I rode his shoulder down, driving his face onto the pitching rubber.

  His breathing was tight and gave off a whistle from his throat. I peeled the gun from his grip, then stood over him. Wydell didn't move.

  "Leave," I said. "Forever."

  His breath shoved a furrow into the dirt of the mound. "You're letting me go?"

  "On the run. Yes. If you stop, you know what'll be waiting for you."

  "Why don't you turn me in?"

  "By first light every major law-enforcement agency will be looking for you. There won't be a safe place for you anywhere in the country. You won't be able to walk down the street or board an airplane. Who you've been, who you are right now, will cease to exist." I took a step closer, and he cringed a little. I said, "I'm not gonna turn you in because this is gonna be so much worse."

  My finger had found its way through the trigger guard. His eyes were closed in fearful anticipation, but I pocketed the gun and walked away. When I reached the edge of the field, I paused and looked back. He was still lying there, flat on his face, his arm bent grotesquely out to the side like a broken wing. I could hear his labored breathing. He might have been crying, but I wasn't sure.

  Chapter 48

  UCLA was awash in bodies--in lines, at checkpoints, staggering as one when someone lost footing--a great human press, filling Dickson Terrace. Flashes popped and signs waved and groups chanted dumb couplets from behind saw-horses. Thousands of people sat on the ground in the quad, concert style, craning to see the giant video screens suspended from steel cables overhead. The chosen ones tunneled to the checkpoints at the broad steps of Royce Hall, where they handed over security passes as if purchasing the right to be patted down, wanded, and walked through metal detectors. Purses and cell phones rode conveyer belts through X-ray machines. Agents with tight, muscular faces peered out over the sawhorses, putting their rope-line skills to work, searching out hands in jacket flaps, the woman who wasn't grinning, the dusky-skinned young man in a too-heavy coat, beads of sweat running down temples. Cops wore riot gear, agents wore earpieces, and I wore Charlie's rucksack slung over my shoulder.

  Hiding in the crowd, I watched the giant video screens, which showed the C-SPAN logo and the blank debate stage. Katie Couric's voice rumbled through powerful speakers. The mighty roar of applause compounded as she introduced each candidate.

  The picture was surprisingly crisp. Caruthers and Bilton took their places on low-backed stools before acrylic podiums, inadvertently mirroring each other's posture--casual lean to the outside, head cocked with interest and humility, hands laced across a knee. A lush, royal blue rug bearing the presidential seal stretched beneath the candidates, designating the boundaries should either man decide to pace or roam. Couric perkily continued, "The debate s town-hall format will permit prospective voters to address their questions directly to the candidates. We ask that you line up in either aisle in front of the microphone, and make sure to introduce yourself and speak clearly when it s your turn. "

  I took a moment to collect myself, to quash the rise of fear in my chest, and then I shoved through the elbow-to-elbow press gaggle and made my way toward the checkpoint.

  The speakers conveyed the first question, a woman, shrill with nerves. "Hello, my name is Cynthia McGinty. My question is for Senator Caruthers. You've said we need a change in our policy in the Middle East. But can we really be blackmailed by the likes of bin Laden into changing our views? Can we really rethink our position because of threats and violence? "

  Jasper Caruthers's smooth voice, a marked contrast to the timidity of his interlocutor's. "The question in my mind, Cynthia, is whether we can

  persist with failed policies simply because we fear looking like we 're willing to learn from the past. "

  Black town cars were pulled up onto the walkways and the patio before Royce Hall. Their tinted windows were dark and emotionless, the eyes of predators. The day had gone from Southern California bright to confused dusk. The buildings that had gleamed just fifteen minutes ago now looked cloaked and grainy.

  Caruthers was still going on about reacting to different cultures and updating stances, but finally the next audience member stepped to the microphone: "Hello, my name is Bill Little, and my question is for President Bilton. As an educator I've had a hard time understanding the cuts you've advocated while pushing through tax breaks for wealthy corporations. ..."

  My hands moved back and forth, tapping my pants on either side. Was I really going to do this? I realized I was holding my breath, and I exhaled so hard that static tinged my field of vision. I'd gone without oxygen for the past minute. Nice and subtle, Horrigan, teetering red-faced through the crowd.

  Adjusting the rucksack, I approached the line of agents, none of whom I recognized. Robotically crossed arms, hair slicked back, asshole-handsome faces murmuring in polite monotones, "Hands, please. Can I see your hands? Hands." Their eyes swiveled past me. One pressed a finger to the

  flesh-colored earpiece melded into his head and grinned a sharp grin, a Presidential Detail alpha dog baring his perfect teeth. I recalled Frank's old crack about the Presidential Protective Division guys: Two holsters--one for the gun, one for the blow dryer.

  Bilton's detail was running the show, of course, but Caruthers had his faithful crew--five or six agents, according to Wydell--at least one of whom was likely stationed outside, on the lookout for me. Though Caruthers's men didn't know the whole backstory, they'd proved they were all too willing to bend laws to protect their principal.

  President Bilton's answer continued, a low-register drone. I sneaked a glance at one of the suspended screens. The bombardment of democracy continued. "I'm Patsy Ryan, and as an elderly person I feel great concern about rising health-care costs. President Bilton, if reelected, would you . . ."

  I walked along the building, glancing at the cordons blocking the side doors. Behind me the viewers sitting in the quad jeered and clapped, news crews moving among them, bulky with equipment. It was an angry year, an angry election, and the voters weren't afraid to play hardball. "I'm John Quinn, and I'd like to know what the president has to say about the sweetheart deals with war contractors--"

  A muscular college girl stepped aside, leaving

  behind a wall of her floral perfume and clearing my view to the building. By the last side entrance, his eyes raking across the crowd, stood Reid Sever. He was about twenty yards off, behind a line of sawhorses and police officers. I hesitated for a panic-stricken moment that stretched out like a warbling piano note.

  I rotated away. Caruthers's enormous figure loomed on the screen above me. He had his head bent down, a hand clamped to his cheek, intently focused as Bilton continued to string together catchphrases and slogans. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sever's face lift and freeze with sudden focus. My heart started palpitating.

  I turned my head, just barely. Sever was speaking into his wrist. Looking across the quad. There was another Secret Service type--he looked like Brown--touching his earpiece. And relaying what he was hearing to the guy next to him. Alan Lambrose.

  Then all three looked directly at me. I ran.

  Sever hurdled the sawhorses, shouting into his wrist. Rucksack bouncing on my shoulders, I plowed into the heart of the crowd, stepping on legs, tripping over college kids. People scattered, shouting complaints until they saw Sever coming, his Glock clear of the holster. It didn't take long for the news crews to pick up the disruption. Glinting camera lenses swung over to capture me --zooming in from either side, leering from strategically parked vans, coasting overhead on a crane like Peter Pan in a bad stage production.

  I made m
y way to the heart of the quad and turned, holding my arms wide. The energy of the crowd pulled to me, an electric charge. There were cameras everywhere, people's eyes. Could I actually bring this off? Agent Brown was on Sever's heels, as were several of Caruthers's other agents I recognized from the jogging detail and Induma's walkway. They spread out, closing in on me from all directions, pants whistling as they ran. Innumerable pistols aimed at my head. I waited for the crack of a gunshot, the kiss of jagged lead. People rose, first those nearest me, then in waves, an astonished standing ovation. I thought, at the same time, This might actually work, and, You '11 be shot.

  "I'm Nick Horrigan!" I shouted. My voice wasn't thin or trembling. It was clear as a goddamned bell. "And I don't have a weapon on me. I have--"

  But Sever hammered me, wrapping me up, and then the others were there, too, frisking me. Someone ripped the rucksack off my back. There was movement all around us, a windup to a stampede. One of the agents shouted, "He's unarmed! Unarmed/"

  "What's in the rucksack?"

  "Styrofoam peanuts." The guy was dumping it

  as he answered.

  "Nothing else? "

  Black shoes stomped near my face, barely missing, as more agents jockeyed for position. I stayed perfectly still, not wanting to give them an excuse to shoot me. An iron bar of a forearm pressed across the back of my neck, grinding my cheek into the ground. Through the ankles and moving bodies, I glimpsed the post supporting the giant horn speakers.

  A familiar voice: "My question is for Senator Caruthers, and it's on behalf of someone who couldn't be here tonight. It s on behalf of Gracie Everett."

  Despite the lawn smashed to my face, I felt a blast of triumph.

  I was hauled roughly to my feet. Cuffs pinched my wrists. I twisted to see the nearest giant video screen, and there Induma was, two stories high, holding the ultrasound aloft so the light streamed through it.