by Paul Heatley
Ben isn’t sure if his heart is still beating. He turns his head to the side of the bed where Carly usually sleeps. The pillow there is still indented with the shape of her head. His eyes go across the room, to the closet where he has hidden his old laptop, the one that was hacked.
His stomach sinks.
“You still there?” Tom says.
Ben grits his teeth. “I’ve been so blind,” he says.
“What?”
“All along. I’ve refused to see it, but it was right in front of me. It’s her. It was her all along.”
“You know who the mole is?”
“I …” Ben doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but at this point, he doesn’t think that is what he’s doing. “I think so.”
The laptop. It was never hacked. Gerry said as much. She watched him. Saw him type in his password. She accessed it for herself, either while he was sleeping or downstairs or out.
“But why?” he says, thinking out loud. “Why would she do this?”
“Who, Ben?” Tom says. “Who are you talking about?”
“Did she get close to me just to do this?”
“What’s her name, Ben?”
Ben is about to answer; then he clamps his mouth shut. “Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow, I’ll confront her about it. Tomorrow, one way or another, I’ll know.”
“Who is she, Ben?” Tom says. “What’s her name?”
Ben hangs up. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. This is for him, not Tom. He has to ask her. He has to.
He feels like he’s going to be sick.
47
Anthony called the police in Harrow, asked them about Alejandra’s body. They tried to ask him if he knew anything about that night, if he knew who had shot her and why. He lied, said he didn’t. Said he was her cousin, and he’d only just heard what had happened.
The cops will be looking for him, since his father snuck him out of the hospital. He’s a witness to what happened that night, to the death of Alejandra. He can’t tell them who he really is. Luckily, they buy his lie. Believe he’s her cousin. They put him through to the coroner’s. Her body has been cremated. No one came forward to claim her.
“I’m coming,” Anthony said.
“And who are you, sir?” the voice on the other end said. “Are you family?”
“I’m her boyfriend,” Anthony said. He didn’t lie this time. “I’m the father of her child. The child that was still inside her when you burned her to ash.”
He was holding the phone tight against the side of his face. There were tears in his eyes.
“Oh,” the voice said, suddenly quiet. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Now Anthony is going back. He’s returning to the town where it all happened, where it’s still happening, but he’s not thinking about his brother or the Right Arm of the Republic. He’s thinking only of Alejandra, of the baby.
Jeffrey is with him. He’s driving. Anthony is in no state to do so.
“It’s gonna be uncomfortable for you,” Jeffrey said before they left, “on the road, in your condition. Don’t try to be a hero. If you’re in too much pain, if you need to stop, you just say so. You need painkillers, you need to throw up, you need to rest, anything, just say the word.”
They’ve been on the road for two hours now. The journey has been in silence. Anthony is sore, he is uncomfortable, but he will not admit it. He will not do as his father said and tell him so. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to rest. He just wants to get Alejandra and their child. He can suffer anything for this.
He looks out the window. They listen to Springsteen on the CD player. Earlier, Jeffrey had asked, “If you ain’t gonna talk, you mind if I put on some music? It’s gonna be a long trip for me otherwise.”
“Please yourself,” Anthony said. He’d known his father would put on the Boss. He’s not sure he’s ever heard him listen to anything else.
With every mile, they get closer to Texas. Back to her. She’ll return to him. Anthony keeps telling himself this, his teeth gritted, trying not to make a sound to give away how sore he is. His back hurts, his arm hurts, but it is his head that is the worst. It feels like it’s splitting open again, like all the healing his skull has gone through thus far is being undone.
It’s hot, too. Even with the air conditioning blowing. Anthony feels sweat drip down his spine.
Jeffrey begins to pull off the road.
“What’re you doing?” Anthony says.
“Gas stop,” Jeffrey says.
While his father fills the tank, Anthony gets out of the car, takes a walk around the building to stretch his body, try to clear his head. The pains abate, for now. When he gets back to the car, Jeffrey is waiting for him. He’s bought snacks, too.
“Hungry?”
“Not right now,” Anthony says. The sight of the candy, of the chips, makes him feel sick.
Jeffrey puts it all on the backseat, then pulls out, back onto the road.
Another ten minutes pass. Anthony wants to ask. Wants to know. He can’t keep it to himself any longer. “Have you heard anything from Tom?”
“No,” Jeffrey says. “But I’ve been keeping an eye on his progress.”
Anthony looks sidelong at his father. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I’ve been checking the news.”
“And?”
“He’s killed a few of them already, far as I can tell. But, y’know, he’s a pro. He covers it up, makes it so it ain’t so obvious. If I didn’t know what I was looking for, I wouldn’t see it.”
Anthony takes a sharp breath through his nose. He shouldn’t have asked. “You get any names?”
“I saw names,” Jeffrey says. “But they didn’t mean anything to me.”
“You didn’t think I’d wanna know?”
“I didn’t think you were gonna ask. You’ve been real stubborn about this whole thing.”
“I’ve got a right to be stubborn.”
“I didn’t say you don’t.”
“You shouldn’t have called Tom,” Anthony says. “You never needed to call him.”
“So you’ve said.”
“And I’ll keep saying it, because it’s not getting through to you.”
Jeffrey doesn’t respond. Anthony looks at him, staring straight ahead. The sinews flex and tense in his father’s jaw. He’s gritting his teeth. Hard, by the looks of it.
“You had no right,” Anthony says.
Again, Jeffrey does not say anything.
Anthony turns away from him, back to the window. He tells himself, every minute that passes, they get closer to Texas. Closer to Alejandra.
They continue the rest of the way in silence. It’s not comfortable.
48
Beth has left for work. Harry is still in bed, lying back. He’s not wearing anything save for his underwear and the blanket tangled in his legs. He’s smoking a cigarette and flicking through his phone. Looking at old photos that he hasn’t looked at in years. Peter is in them. They’re all in them, all the council of the Right Arm and a few other members. He can’t remember who took the pictures. There are shots of Peter and Ronald, Peter and Michael, Peter and Harry. Harry is with Michael. They were all hanging out in the bar where Peter was killed. They were having a party. Harry can’t remember what for. Celebrating some kind of victory, maybe a big sale. It might’ve been after a successful hunting trip out at Michael’s cabin. They hold up beer bottles. They’re all smiling, laughing.
Harry’s eyes are burning. He closes the pictures on his phone. He clears his throat, presses his palms into his eyes, then takes another draw on his cigarette.
His phone begins to ring. He looks at it, surprised. It’s Michael. “Hey.”
“What’re you doing?” Michael says.
“Nothing,” Harry says, confused, feeling as if Michael can see him, can see his near-teary state, is demanding to know what has gotten him so worked up. “I’m still in bed.”
“In bed? You sleeping? I
wake you?”
“No, I wasn’t sleeping. What’s up?”
“I’ve been trying to call Ronald. He ain’t answering. You heard from him?”
“I ain’t tried to get in touch today. What d’you need him for?”
“You know what I need him for.”
Harry grunts. “You’re bringing that forward, huh?”
“I don’t see any point in holding out any longer,” Michael says. “You saw him yesterday.”
“That’s right.”
“How was he?”
“Fine. He was fine.”
“You live closer to him – how long’s it gonna take to get dressed, get over there and check in?”
“It’ll take two minutes to pull on some jeans and a shirt, about twenty to get over there.”
“I don’t like not hearing from him. Not with what’s going on, what’s happened to Peter. Go check on him, make sure he’s all right, then get back to me. And if he is all right, kick his damn ass and ask him why the hell he’s left me hanging.”
Harry is already getting out of bed, reaching for his jeans crumpled on the floor. “I’m on my way,” he says. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
Harry pulls on his clothes, then hurries from the house. He doesn’t run, but he’s walking faster than he ordinarily would. Drives a little faster than normal, too. When he gets to Ronald’s house, he sees his car parked in the driveway. Harry parks behind it, knocks on the door. There’s no answer. He tries the handle. It’s locked. Harry has a key. Ronald gave him his spare in case anything ever happened to him and Harry needed to get inside to get at their goods. He unlocks the door, enters.
“Ronald,” he calls to the house, “it’s me. You home?”
Ronald doesn’t respond. The house is eerily silent. Harry pulls his gun from his waistband, from under his jacket. He holds it down low, in both hands, feeling on edge. He glances into the front room, but he’s not there. Harry sucks his teeth, aware of how loud his footfalls are on the bare floorboards.
He goes upstairs, checks the rooms there. They’re empty, too. On the way back down, he picks up on a smell. It’s familiar to him. It worries him. It’s the smell of death. The smell of a body voiding itself.
Harry goes to the back of the house, to the kitchen. The only room he hasn’t investigated. He should have checked it before he went upstairs, but he thought for sure Ronald would just be sleeping. He hoped Ronald was just sleeping. If he was in the kitchen, he would have responded to Harry’s calls.
Ronald is in the kitchen. He’s tied down on the table, a wet towel over his head, some water still dripping to the floor. His face is covered, but Harry knows it is him.
He makes sure the room is clear, that there’s no one else here, or outside the window, before he steps into it, goes to Ronald. He presses two fingers to the side of his wet neck, searching for a pulse. There isn’t one. He’s dead, but Harry already knew this, really.
He backs out of the room, still clutching the gun. He leaves the house, hurries back to his car. Drives away from the house, from the killer who may still be lurking. He parks down the road, looks around, checks his mirror while he pulls out his phone and makes a call to Michael. “Ronald’s dead.”
“Shit,” Michael says after a sharp intake of breath. “What happened?”
“Looks like he was tortured.”
“Tortured?”
“Waterboarded.”
“What the fuck? Who we dealing with, here?”
“If they’re friends of Anthony’s, they were probably asking about us. Trying to find out who was involved, where we’re at.”
Michael is silent while he considers this. “You’re right,” he says. “Ain’t nothing else they could’ve been asking him about.”
“They’re picking us off,” Harry says. “First Peter, now Ronald. What we gonna do? We can’t just sit around, let this happen.”
“No. Fuck that. We strike back. Get yourself over here. We’re gonna have to do this alone.”
49
Ben goes to Carly’s home.
All day, he has had to be near her with the suspected knowledge of who she really is, and what she has done. He’s had to force smiles, small talk, to act comfortable. To be himself, how he usually is. And all the while, he’s been watching her, searching for some kind of clue that would give away her true nature.
Nothing. She hides it well. She looks the same to him as she always has.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said, coming up on him from behind, surprising him.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got that look on your face, when you’re thinking about something; you’re getting yourself all worked up.”
The inside of his mouth tasted like blood. He’d been chewing hard on his cheek, so much so he’d had to move to the other side of his mouth. “Just work stuff,” he said.
She nodded, made a face like she understood, because she was living it too. “Are you free tonight?”
“No,” he said, almost too fast. “I’m not, sorry. I’ve got work to do. I’m swamped.”
“Sure,” she said, like no big deal. “Maybe tomorrow, then.”
He nodded.
He hasn’t shared his suspicions with anyone. He can’t. Can’t run the risk of anyone tipping her off, helping her out. Being on the same side as her.
He can’t trust anyone.
He’s felt sick all day. Carly has not been the only one he’s viewed with suspicion. He’s looked upon all of his fellow agents with wary eyes.
Now he’s pulling up outside Carly’s home. He hasn’t driven straight over from the office. He’s circled a little first, given her a chance to get home. More than that, he was building up his nerve. Preparing himself.
He rings the doorbell, and she’s surprised to see him when she answers. “Oh, hey, I thought you were gonna be busy,” she says. “You get all that work done?”
“Almost. Can I come in?”
She lets him in. Ben goes straight through to the front room. He waits until she joins him, until she gets in front of him so he’s blocking the way out; then he doesn’t waste any more time. “Are you the mole?”
Carly blinks at him. “Uh, what?”
Ben runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, over his ragged cheeks. “Did you leak the details from my laptop?” he says, speaking slowly. “Did you go onto my laptop, find out about Anthony, and tell the Right Arm of the Republic? Did you tell all the other cells about all the other undercovers and informants? Did you cause the purge? Are you the fucking mole?”
Carly takes her time answering. She tries to play it cool. “I don’t know what to say to that, Ben.”
“Then just answer the question.”
“Ben, I shouldn’t have to answer. You should already know. Do you really think I could do such a thing?”
Ben chews his cheek, feels a piece of flesh come off in his teeth. He looks into her face, into her eyes. He wants to believe her. Doesn’t want to think this could be true. That she has betrayed him. That she was with him only to betray him.
Carly looks right back at him. She’s not backing down. She’s looking into his eyes. She’s daring him to doubt her.
“I need you to answer me,” Ben says, but his voice is weak, it wavers. It’s lost the authority he was earlier able to imbue it with, before she spoke.
“You know I didn’t, Ben,” she says. “You know it wasn’t me. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Ben bites his lips now. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s losing the situation.
Then there’s a voice. A new voice. It comes from behind him. It’s familiar.
“I don’t know that,” it says.
Ben turns. It’s Tom.
“I don’t know that at all. What I do know is that my brother’s bones were broken, his skull was fractured, and his pregnant girlfriend was murdered in the middle of the road. So now you can look me in the eye, and you can tell me what you’re telling him.�
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Carly doesn’t look so calm anymore. “Ben, who is this?” she says. She takes a step back.
Ben is as surprised to see Tom as Carly is. “What’re you doing here?”
Tom doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead at Carly. He hadn’t liked the sound of Ben on the phone. He came to Dallas. Has followed him since he left the office. Followed his loops around the block, then to here. Had a feeling that if Ben was involved with the woman he suspects might be the mole, that he may not have the nerve to follow through on his accusations. Tom sees that he was right.
“Get out of my house,” Carly says. “Both of you. Get out. Now.”
“Or what?” Tom says. “Answer the question.”
Carly looks between them both. Her eyes silently plead with Ben. Ben can’t look back at her. He gives the room to Tom.
Carly sees this. She grits her teeth. Looks back at Tom. Her earlier, cooler demeanor returns. “So who are you?” she says. “His heavy? Running around doing his paranoid wet work?”
She’s backing up. Tom notices. He watches her.
“What’s he got you doing, huh?” she says. “You said something about your brother, about his girlfriend – what happened to them?”
“I think you know what happened to them,” Tom says.
She backs up into the coffee table, knocks the edge of it. The remote control falls, hits the ground. Tom thinks she did it on purpose. Carly looks back to see what has fallen. She raises her hands. “I’m just going to pick that up,” she says.
“Leave it where it is,” Tom says.
“Just calm down, big boy,” Carly says, already lowering herself, lowering her arms, reaching.
“Stand up,” Tom says.
She snorts at him. “Relax,” she says. “I just hate mess, is all. Ben will tell you it’s true. Isn’t that right, Ben? I can’t leave it lying there. It’ll drive my OCD crazy.”
As she reaches the ground, the remote control, she moves faster. Her hands lash out. There is a gun strapped to the bottom of the coffee table. She pulls it loose. She stands, spins, but Tom has been watching her, expecting this. Ben sees her pull the gun, too. Tom’s own gun is already out. He fires, hits her in the arm, the one holding the gun. She drops it instantly; it hits the floor with a louder clatter than the remote. Ben fires a second after Tom. Carly jerks with the impact of Tom’s shot. As Ben’s bullet reaches her, it hits her in the chest. Through the heart.