We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "Gracie would have been old enough to vote next year. But she was murdered when she was thirteen days old. Along with her mother. "

  A hush passed over the quad, all faces suddenly intent on the screens. The agents around me stiffened and looked at one another, suddenly aware that their crew had been drawn out of the building. A breeze lifted a few of the Styrofoam peanuts from the grass, underscoring my ruse, that Caruthers's men had been diverted out here in pursuit of an empty rucksack, leaving no one inside to

  shut down the senator's surprise interrogator.

  Caruthers sat frozen on the stool--one loafer on the rug, the other touching the footrest as if to keep its bearing. Those brilliant green eyes were lit with alarm. An odd quiet spread through the quad, everyone sensing that something unscripted was taking place. Heads turned, voices hushed, people pointed.

  Every set of eyes focused on that black and gray film, on the eighteen-week-old curl of Gracie Everett. For a brief moment, she was the center of the universe.

  Induma said, "I have here as well the paternity test revealing that Grade's father was then-Vice President Caruthers, and a recording implicating him in the murders. "

  Caruthers wilted back into his chair. The lights shone through his green eyes, his unruly hair.

  "You have consistently implored us to question our leaders. To hold them accountable. You said that no man is above the law. You said that every American, no matter his post, no matter his privilege, can be faced down, called to answer. My question for you, from Gracie, is, will you answer?"

  The agents' hands stayed dug into my arms, my neck, but none of us moved. We stood together, frozen, heads tilted back, taking in the spectacle playing out inside and overhead.

  Caruthers rose with great dignity, set his microphone on the stool, and walked from the stage.

  Chapter 49

  I was held for nearly two weeks on the Mack Jackman murder while the storm brewed, Induma disseminating information from outside, agents and representatives of all stripes poking and prodding at me until it was obvious there was nothing more to get. We turned over the one hundred eighty grand, the ultrasound, the paternity report, Charlie's bone-chip analysis, and the recording of Wydell on the pitcher's mound. I'd done nothing wrong, or at least nothing that the circumstances didn't necessitate. They even opened up Frank's murder file and found nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Having a new ally in the incumbent president probably didn't hurt matters. Charges were dropped, and I was released a few weeks before the election.

  Returning home, I saw that my place had been ripped apart. Carpets torn up, plumbing extracted, holes punched in the drywall. It would have been easier just to move, but I decided to stay. Rebuild. It's been a few months, and the place is now functional, but it needs some more cosmetic work. I've been told that these things take time. And, finally, I feel like I have time.

  The world, needless to say, is no better for what I have done. Caruthers lost. I can't say we made him lose, but we sure made him not win. I was his October surprise. Or, more accurately, Gracie

  Everett was. She lived only thirteen days, but she mattered.

  I didn't vote.

  The night of his acceptance speech, my old friend Andrew Bilton called to express his gratitude and tell me I was a patriot. But he's still a mediocre human and a worse president. Who would you rather have? A leader who is unthinkingly loyal to opinions you disagree with? Or one who is insincere about opinions you share? A fool or a hypocrite? Too often, it seems, these are our only options. I don't know the answer. Looking at the state of the Union, I don't even know that I'd do the same thing over again. All I know is what I did. And I've been told that what you do is the measure of a person.

  A few weeks after the election, Caruthers was indicted. The connective tissue between him and the murders is thin, but his link can be lab-tested and DNA-analyzed. People were crushed. There were mournful columnists and genuinely dazed talking heads and vehement staffers, holding their devastation beneath an angry veneer of denial. There were even some tears when the news cameras found the right Man or Woman on the Street. I won't say it was like when Bobby Kennedy was shot--neither is it that time, nor is Caruthers such a man--but it was a reminder to everyone that we might be too far gone to have heroes anymore. Maybe that's a good thing.

  They made a big show of getting him right when the Senate adjourned. Steps of the Capitol Building and all that. The footage has become another tabloid favorite, as overplayed as O.J.'s Bronco hightailing it down the 405 or those Boeing 767s disintegrating into dust and flame. Caruthers being led, handcuffs glinting at the sleeves of his five-thousand-dollar suit. "This is an outrage," he says, "and I look forward to defending myself against all charges. I'm not concerned in the least." But in a clip they showed later of him outside the courthouse, he was raising both cuffed wrists to get a trembling cigarette to his lips. Those charges keep proliferating, from murder to destruction of evidence to conspiracy to obstruction of justice to that new blue-chip favorite: perjury. James Brown took a sweetheart deal to roll, and then two more guys went snitch, and the word is the DOJ's putting that mosaic together, piece by piece.

  June has stopped showing up for court dates, and there are rumors she will file for divorce.

  Wydell turned up dead last week in Altamira. In the black-and-white morgue photos, he looked like a homeless person. That neat fifties hairdo grown out into a tangle. Curls of facial hair. Dirt-blackened cheeks. He'd been stabbed in the kidney with a screwdriver for sleeping in a bum's nook on the port, and he'd dragged himself behind a tire-repair shack and bled out.

  Given the outstanding arrest warrant and the Interpol red notice, they'd done a fine job freezing his money. He had no address or bank account or telephone in his name. His first few weeks, he'd shacked up with his ghosts in a shitty motel in Veracruz, collecting tequila worms and venereal diseases and burning through what little cash he'd taken. I know how the walls closed in on him at night. I know the bitter taste of panic that greeted him when he woke. I know how he watched people's eyes when he passed them on the street. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Knowing he could wake up in prison the next morning and every morning after that. Of everything that can grind away at a person, being anonymous is the worst. You give up your power, a bit at a time, until you feel like you're not much of anything at all.

  It was shocking to see how poorly a federal agent had fared in just two and a half months on the run, and I must confess a pang of pride at how long I, a nobody kid, had managed. I'd been cracked and damaged, but they hadn't broken me.

  I'm inclined to think that Wydell took the easy way out by dying. It's much harder to shoulder the weight of memory, to reconcile with the past, to turn and face your troubles. It's much harder, but I'm finding it worth the struggle.

  I am sleeping through the night again. There is an immense power in holding no secrets. I have protection now, in my story's being public. If I died, the right people would ask the right questions.

  Callie's sketch of Frank hangs boldly in my living room, over a crumbled stretch of drywall. I'd like to think it looks over me, but I know that's not the case. As I recently learned, people are eager to live with stars in their eyes. The problem is, they block out reality. No wonder we want to hide from reality. It's ugly. Brutal. But it can also be graceful, and it offers comforts I'm still acquainting myself with. There are surprises there, not all of them unpleasant.

  I thought I had a simple life before. But I didn't. Simple is going for walks and not checking behind you. Simple is strolling past security cameras and not bothering to turn your head. Entering a restaurant and not scouting the exits. Passing a dark sedan and not having your palms sweat. I'm not saying I'm able to do these things all the time, but I know what they feel like now. It's a start. A fresh one. Day after day.

  I pulled in to Induma's driveway and sat with the radio on, trying to figure out how I could possibly convey my gratitude to her.

  Through the open b
linds, I could see her flashing back and forth in the kitchen, cooking herself into a frenzy. I got out but left the truck running. She was not cooking for me, and I didn't want to intrude.

  The Jag rolled in behind me. Alejandro. He jogged over and gave me a hug. He smelled musky, some Rodeo Drive cologne Induma had no doubt selected.

  I said, "I'm glad you guys made up."

  "We have a do-over of our anniversary this weekend. But I give her the gift now because I can't wait." Proudly he tugged a Tiffany blue gift case from his waistband and opened it. A silver charm necklace. He studied my face. "What?"

  I said, "She can't wear sterling. Gets a rash."

  The case closed with a snap. He turned away, cursed in Spanish.

  I said, "Hold on."

  Back in my glove compartment, the small red jewelry box remained where I'd shoved it weeks ago. The engine hummed, the radio played. I sat and looked at those sapphire-chip earrings. Then I brought the box to Alejandro.

  He opened it and whistled. "The sapphire look amazing."

  "Yes," I said, "and it's her birthstone."

  "Damn, Nick. You the Casanova."

  I folded his hands over the box. He hopped, excited like a little kid, then hugged me tightly and started for the door.

  I said, "Capra or Howard Hawks."

  He paused.

  I said, "Her favorites. Check out the revival theaters. She loves late matinees. For dinner take her to Inn of the Seventh Ray, up Topanga. It's all

  organic, and they have plenty of vegetarian stuff. Get a table close to the creek and you can hear the frogs, maybe even see a coyote. Then go to Shutters for hot chocolate. It's the best in town, and they serve it in giant mugs. There are great sofas. The pier's right there. Go for a walk after. It gets cold, so buy her gloves before to surprise her with."

  A few faint lines appeared in that smooth brow. "But you take her all these places already."

  "No," I said. "I never did."

  Relief. That broad smile. Then it faded. An understanding of sorts passed between us. He nodded and headed inside.

  I stood on the concrete of the driveway. From my truck's radio, the Stones were telling me I can't always get what I want, though I didn't require the reminder just now.

  Alejandro appeared in the kitchen window. Hugged Induma from behind. She spun, surprised at the jewelry box. Opened it. Delight. The flash of those gorgeous white teeth. She kissed him, held up the earrings, put them on. Even from this distance, they looked just as I imagined against her dark skin.

  But if you try sometimes . . .

  I got into my truck and drove off.

  Chapter 50

  I pull up to the big white house and park right in front, in plain view. In the passenger seat, a brown paper bag from Whole Foods, crammed with groceries. I don't get out just yet. It's eight o'clock and dark out. I take a deep breath, tug at the door handle.

  Steve answers, and we shake hands and make awkward small talk. And then Callie appears, bustling and excited at his shoulder. "Oh, my, and look what you brought." Her face gleams with almost aggressive pleasure.

  Two glasses of red wine wait on the butcher block of the kitchen island, and Steve pours another. Emily sits at the table, reading the dictionary, running her hand, buried in a sleeve, down the rows of words. She glares at us from beneath her hood and stomps upstairs before I can say hello.

  Steve curses. Callie starts unpacking the bags, feigning more interest in each item than seems plausible. Steve leans against the refrigerator and sips his wine, staring off at nothing.

  Passing, Callie squeezes his arm. "She's okay."

  Steve says, "I should go up."

  I say, "Why don't I?"

  Steve looks at me, and I cannot read his face. He shrugs. "Okay."

  I climb the stairs, followed by the sounds of Callie chattering below. She seems happy, giving off that first-date glow. How easy it all seems if you're willing.

  Emily has pried some of the Scrabble letters off her door so it reads just EM. I can see the hardened globs of glue from the vanquished three letters. I think, This is good.

  I knock.

  "Go away, Dad."

  "It's Nick."

  "What do you want?"

  "To come in, for starters."

  "Fine."

  She'll allow it, but she'll be unhappy about it.

  I enter. She sits on the bed, back to the wall, knees drawn to her chin. She holds an open book down at her shins. I do not know how she can see the book from that angle, but she is intently focused on it. Her hood has fallen away to reveal her face. The maroon and blond streaks are growing out, and her face is so pale it's pasty. She looks much younger than her thirteen years. The TV is on, and two joysticks are plugged in, Space Invaders doing their mechanical march across the screen.

  Her eyes don't leave the book. She says, slowly, "The only thing I liked about you was that you didn't like them."

  I nod, which is stupid because she's not looking at me. I stand there, lost in the quagmire that is a teenager's mood. The Space Invaders do not seem to pick up on the high-stakes drama.

  I wonder how Frank would handle this. I take another step toward the TV, sit heavily, and pick up the remote. Emily watches me from above her knees. I click Two-Player Game and do my best, but I always sucked at Space Invaders. The dot-matrix jellyfish chug across the sky, their laser blasts eating away at the bases until my ship fizzles and dies. The second player is up now, but I don't say anything, don't turn my head, don't offer the other remote. It just sits there on the carpet beside me. Emily stares at the screen as the lasers cascade and take out her ship. I play again, wait out her untaken turn, and finish the game, even though she never rises from the bed. When the game is over, I start a new one. I do pretty well this time, clearing a few stages before dying under an alien barrage. The screen flashes Second Player Ready.

  I remember Frank knocking on my door the night we moved into his house. How he came in and regarded me, his mouth pulled to the side. Before I can think, I am speaking his words: "What do you want me to not do?"

  Her gaze lowers again to the page. The silence stretches out so long that I am certain she won't answer, but I force myself to sit still, to wait, to

  take it on her time.

  Finally she clears her throat. "Don't be all weird

  and brotherly when you're around. No siding with them against me. And don't talk down to me like I'm some kid." Her eyes are moist. She will not look up.

  I turn back to the flashing screen. I say, "I can manage that."

  Emily puts down her book, crosses the room, and sits next to me.

  She picks up the joystick.

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