by Paul Heatley
Phone in hand, she dials a number. The door is closed behind her, but she glances back through the glass, watching the foot of the stairs.
The cigarette is an excuse. She came out here to make a call. A man answers. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, gets straight to business. Knows that Carly cannot talk for long. “What do you have?”
“He was on the phone last night, just after midnight,” she says. “He was talking to one of the analysts.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. If he said the name, I didn’t hear it.”
“What did you hear?”
“That whoever it is, he doesn’t have anything. Can’t find a thing.”
“Anything in the house?”
She blows smoke. “Nothing. I’ve looked around. He’s not getting close, nowhere near.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
Carly grunts. She watches the stairs, antsy.
“What about the survivor?”
“Anthony?” she says.
“He was the only survivor.”
“He was off the books. Ben got him on drug dealing. He got a notification from a station in Harrow, strong-armed him into going undercover, or else he was facing a lengthy prison sentence. It wasn’t his first strike, and he had a pregnant girlfriend. So he took the offer. Didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“The dead Mexican?”
“That’s her.”
“Did Anthony find anything?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“Be sure.”
“I will.”
“We’re too close now for this to get fucked up, is that clear?”
“I’ve got it.”
“We’re nearly done here. One last thing.”
“Shoot. Fast. I gotta go. He could wake up.”
“Eric has a task for you.”
“Oh?” Carly takes a draw to disguise the shake in her voice. This is unexpected.
“He’s in Fort Worth. He wants you to go to him.”
“Send me the details. I’ve gotta go now. I’ve been out here too long.”
She hangs up. The cigarette is barely smoked, still more than half left, but she stubs it out, flicks it to one side, then goes back inside. Her phone buzzes in her hand. It is the details, how to reach Eric. She hits ‘Mark As Read’ so it doesn’t show up on her screen, slips her phone and her pack of cigarettes back into her jacket pockets, then tiptoes back upstairs.
Ben is still sleeping. Carly is relieved to see this. She brushes her teeth, gargles mouthwash, then goes to wake him up.
19
Michael calls Harry around, to his home. Harry comes to the back door. “Let me take a guess what this is about,” he says.
“You’d probably be right,” Michael says.
They’re in the kitchen, take a seat at the table. Linda is already there. “You all right, Harry?”
“I’m good,” he says, leaning down, an arm around her, to kiss her on the cheek.
“How’s your girlfriend?” Linda says as he straightens back up.
Harry rolls his eyes, takes a seat. “Jesus Christ, I guess that depends on the day of the week.”
“We can talk personal lives later,” Michael says. “I didn’t call you here for pleasantries. We gotta talk business.”
Harry nods, serious. “The phone calls.”
Michael nods back, solemn. “The calls that saved that motherfucker’s life.”
“You should’ve taken his phone,” Linda says. “Could’ve looked for yourselves.”
“Didn’t foresee this as being the situation,” Michael says. “Thought we were gonna torture and waste the son of a bitch on the night. How we supposed to know someone was gonna tip him off?”
“All we know for certain,” Harry says, “is it wasn’t anyone present.” He circles his finger in the air, indicating the three of them sitting at the table.
Michael and Harry are lifelong friends. They trust each other, perhaps more than Michael trusts Linda. They love each other. They’re like brothers. They each know how the other thinks. Michael cannot conceive of Harry betraying him, and he knows that Harry feels the same.
“Ronald was with us when we found out about Anthony,” Michael says. “Plus, he’s old school as all hell. He wouldn’t do it.”
Harry nods along with this. “Peter wasn’t with us when the call came through.”
“Peter ain’t said where he was. You ask at the bar?”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “And I was subtle about it. He wasn’t there.”
“Unless he was with a girl, only other place he would be is with his brother.”
“Bingo,” Harry says.
“You think it was his brother?” Linda says.
“It’s looking that way,” Michael says. He turns back to Harry, “Only thing is, you saw the look on Peter’s face. You know as soon as he left here after the last time, he went straight to see Steve. He would’ve questioned him.”
“I’m sure, but would he give him up?” Harry says.
“If Peter knew for certain? Yeah, I think he would, for sure. Peter’s loyalty is to us, it’s to our cause. It ain’t to his blood, especially not if his kin is a goddamn traitor.”
“You think that was his real name?” Harry says suddenly. “Anthony?”
“That’s what the chick told us it was,” Michael says. “But who the hell knows? Maybe she just said it that way ’cause she knew that’s what we’d be familiar with.”
“Yeah, well, whatever his name was, Anthony spent most of his time with Steve.”
“Dealing?” Linda says.
“Yeah,” Michael says. “Someone joins our ranks, they don’t just shoot straight to the top. They work their way up.”
“He seemed awful eager to climb fast, though,” Harry says.
“Mm.” Michael grunts, nods, remembering. “Didn’t think anything of it at the time. He was always asking questions. Just thought he was passionate about it all.”
“Me too, man,” Harry says, “me too. Son of a bitch fooled us all.”
Michael puts his elbows on the table. “But did he fool Steve? Did Steve know – that’s the damn question. The two of them spent a hell of a lot of time together. They got friendly. Maybe Steve already knew Anthony was a rat, and he was keeping his secret. Hell, he could’ve known he was involved with a spic, too, for all we know.”
“Steve’s heart ain’t ever been in this life,” Harry says, “not really. Never has been. He only sticks around ’cause his brother makes him. Could’ve been he was helping Anthony out, feeding him information, on the promise that Anthony would help him get out, get him a new life with his buddies in the FBI, get him into the program. We hadn’t got Anthony when we did, we could be looking at a court date sometime in our near future, and who’s that in the witness box? Skinny Steve Reid.”
The three are silent then, considering this.
Michael is the one to break it, saying what they all know to be true. “If Steve’s responsible – if he knew, if he made those calls, however far his complicity in it might go – then we’re gonna have to do somethin’ about it. Somethin’ about him.”
“It’s gonna break Peter’s heart,” Harry says.
“Peter’s gonna have to walk away from it,” Michael says. “Ain’t like we’d ask him to do it his own self. No, I wouldn’t ask him to get his brother’s blood on his hands like that, even if he is the race traitor who got us into this mess.”
A silence falls again, each of them contemplating their next move and the circumstances that brought them to this instance.
It is Linda who breaks the silence this time. “One thing that I keep wondering about,” she says, “is why he was undercover with y’all in the first place. Like, what was it he was hoping to find out?”
“Drugs,” Michael says.
“It’s always the drugs,” Harry agrees.
“Where they came from, how much we’re selling,” Michael says. “That’s all the
y care about. And all those other undercovers they got that night, I can guarantee it was the same for all of them.”
“Goddamn,” Linda says. “Trynna take money outta our pockets.”
Michael and Harry both nod along. “They wanna see us starve,” Michael says. “But that’s just how it is for good, hardworking white Christian men in this country.” Linda and Harry mumble their agreement. “It’s always been the goddamn same.”
20
‘Shriek’ did not give Tom her real name. However, she did give him her address in Lubbock.
They spoke only briefly on the phone. “I understand you’re a friend of Dark Claw 89.”
She chuckled. “Friend is a strong word. We only know each other from chatrooms. I’m not sure I’d call someone I’ve never met face to face before a friend.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I’m guessing you’re the friend of his cousin,” she said. “I was told you might call.”
“Here I am.”
“Here you are.”
“What are your rates?”
“It’s not exactly by the hour. It’ll depend on what you’re bringing me, and I only accept cash.”
“I’ve got cash.”
“So what is it you need?”
“I’m not gonna discuss it over the phone. It’s an in-person deal.”
“Fine,” she said. She gave the address. “Call me when you’re outside the building, I want to get a good look at you first. I like what I see, you can come up. I don’t – well, you’d better start running, ’cause I’ll be calling the cops to report a prowler.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Now, Tom sits outside the building. He’s circled it a couple of times already, checked it out, made sure it’s clear. He calls her. “I’m here.”
There’s a pause; then she says, “Which one are you?”
“I’m in my car.” He tells her which one it is.
“Then get out so I can get a good look at you.”
Tom has already picked out her window. He gets out of the car, but leaves the door open. If she hangs up without another word, he’s straight back inside, he’s driving off. He waves.
She doesn’t say anything for a while. Tom has to check she’s still on the line.
“All right,” she says, finally. “I’ll buzz the door. Come on up.”
Tom makes his way inside the building, takes the stairs up to her floor, wondering what about his appearance has made her let him in. He knocks on her door. He sees her spy hole darken momentarily; then he hears bolts slide, a key turn. The door opens, but it remains on a chain.
“Mr. Rollins,” she says. He can only see one blue eye, can’t get a good look at her through the narrow gap.
“That’s right,” Tom says.
She looks him over again, up close now. “All right, then,” she says, reaching a decision. The door closes, the chain is slid off, and the door opens again. “Step inside.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Tom says, getting over the threshold before he speaks, the door closing behind him. “What do the people look like that you turn away?”
She brushes past him, through into the front room. “It’s more of a feeling,” she says. “It’s never failed me yet.”
She takes a seat at her setup. There are three computers. A lot of wiring. A lot of components that Tom does not understand. He gets a good look at her while she’s turned away. Her hair is cut short, shaved around the sides and back, bleached blonde and spiky on top. She’s wearing a band T-shirt and ripped black jeans, with Doc Marten boots polished to a shine. “Mostly I look out for cops,” she says. “I can always tell a cop. Spot them from a mile away.”
“They gonna be so bothered if you threaten to report a prowler?”
“You’d be surprised,” she says. She looks him over again. “You’re military. Ex-military.”
Tom doesn’t answer, though he’s impressed. Instead he looks around for a place to sit. She does not have sofas. There is a folding chair leaning against the wall. He takes it, sets it up, sits.
“Well?” she says when he looks back. “Am I right?”
“I think you already know the answer to that.”
She grins to herself, satisfied.
Save for the light coming from the monitors, the room is in darkness. The curtains are all drawn. There are empty Chinese cartons pushed to one side on her desk, an empty pizza box forgotten on the floor. Behind her setup are band posters – Nine Inch Nails, Godflesh, Skinny Puppy, Ministry – and she wears a Fear Factory T-shirt.
“You’re getting a good look,” she says.
“I’ve never been in a hacker’s home before,” Tom says.
“Maybe you have, and you just didn’t realize it. They ain’t all the same. You don’t know Dark Claw 89 personally?”
“Never met him. What’s your real name? I’m not gonna call you ‘Shriek’ to your face.”
She laughs. “Fair enough. It’s Cindy.”
“Cindy what? You know both of mine.”
“Vaughan.”
Despite the remnants of junk food lying around, Cindy does not look like this is her sole diet. She’s thinner than he expected, a little thinner than she perhaps ought to be. Her skin is pale, porcelain, from the lack of sunlight. He wonders if she ever leaves her apartment, or if she only goes out at night.
“So what have you got for me, Tom Rollins?” she says.
Tom reaches into his pocket, pulls out the burner phone sent to his father. “I have a long shot,” he says. “There has been one call made to this phone. I want to know where it came from.”
She raises an eyebrow. “On a burner phone?”
“I said it was a long shot.”
“And you weren’t lying.” She reaches out, takes the phone from him. She whistles low. “All right. Sure. Hell, it’s a challenge. A new one.”
“Ain’t something you’ve had to do before?”
She swivels around, phone in hand. “Not quite. Let’s see how this goes, huh?”
“You got an idea of time?”
“Nope.” She starts plugging things in, typing.
Tom sits back, folds his arms, doesn’t bother watching her work, try to figure out what she’s doing. None of it makes any sense to him.
“So who called you?” she says without turning.
“It wasn’t to me.”
“No? Then why do you care?”
“It concerns me.”
She leaves the computer doing something, turns back to him. She studies him again. “Are you AWOL?”
“You are good.”
“I told you as much. You’ve got the look – though I’ll admit, you don’t look as shifty as some of the fugitives I’ve dealt with.”
“You deal with many fugitives?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“What do they need from a hacker?”
“Well, I also forge documents.” She winks at him.
Tom stores this information away, keeps it in mind.
“What are you running from?”
Tom shrugs. “I saw a lot of things I didn’t agree with, and I was the only one who ever seemed to care. Well, me and Dark Claw 89’s cousin. I guess he could stomach it more than I could, though. What are you doing there?”
“Tracing the call,” she says without looking back. “Searching for pingbacks from cell phone towers. It’s gonna take a while. I might have to decipher some noise yet.” She looks around the room. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Then go down the block to the deli on the corner and get us a couple of sandwiches. I’ll take ham and swiss on rye. Your treat, right?” Her eyes sparkle.
“How could I say no to that smile?” Tom says, getting to his feet.
When he gets back, Cindy is leaning back in her chair, looking very satisfied with herself, victorious. “Found it,” she says, holding out her hands.
Tom reaches into the bag, pulls out her wrapped sandwic
h. He hands it over. “Where is it?”
She tears open the paper, bites into it. “Narrowed it down to a street in Dallas,” she says, chewing. “But I can’t get a specific house.”
“Have you written it down?”
She holds out a piece of paper. “Everything you need.”
Tom pays her, then goes to leave.
“You’re not gonna eat?” she says as he reaches the door.
“I’ll have it in the car,” he says.
“Gotta jet, huh?”
He nods.
“I’m sure I’ll see you again some time, Tom Rollins.” There’s a playful tone in her voice, and her eyes are sparkling again.
Tom looks back at her. She swivels side to side in her chair. He winks. “I reckon you just might.”
21
The team still need a few items to go with all the fertilizer they currently have. Chuck puts Dix on the case. Sends him out to make some enquiries. Dix is gone a full day and night. When he returns the next morning, he has a seller.
“Russian,” he says, talking with Chuck in the back office of the former warehouse they have commandeered. “Goes by the name of Vladimir.”
“And he has what we need?” Chuck says, leaning back in an old chair that looks like it might fall apart at any moment, a leftover from when the warehouse was still operational.
“Says he does,” Dix says.
The others are killing time throughout the building. Waiting for some action. Al is taking a nap. Jimmy and Pat are playing cards, gambling with bullets.
“You get anything else on him?” Chuck says.
“He asked a lot of questions. Who we were, why we needed it, but I think he was just busting balls for the most part.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That he didn’t need to know. He just laughed at that. He didn’t give a shit, not really. Like I say, busting balls.”
“You arrange for a buy?”