by A. B. Jewell
“I’m gay.”
“Are you accusing me of being racist? God, I smoked one damn cigarette! I mean, one doobie. For, um, glaucoma. I’m not a racist!”
“You’re not a racist, fine, good. Is it possible—the voice-mail thing?”
“Of course. Are you, like, disabled? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“So you’ll help me out.”
But I was already walking again.
“C’mon, pal!” he yelled.
I pushed him out of my head and put the pieces together or made my best guesses. Floyd had been in contact with the Tarantula but then had programmed his voice mail so that if the Tarantula called it would seem like the voice mail belonged to Danny. Why?
Of course!
He had done that for my benefit. He realized that I’d taken the dead Tarantula’s phone and didn’t want me to figure out that he (Floyd) and the Tarantula assassin had been in contact. That, at least, was my theory. Only way to prove it would be to get Floyd to fess up, and I’d have to find him first.
I arrived at the motorcycle and straddled it and thought some more. If I was right, why was Floyd in contact with the Tarantulas? How did they all connect together?
I remembered that I had another piece of evidence to explore and I pulled it from my pocket: the transcript from a college called Colester, located in Maine. It was for a freshman named David Skellow. He’d attended Colester two years earlier. I called up the Colester web page and found a link to “student and alum fotobook.” It was password-protected.
In the Gooble browser, I typed in “David Skellow” and I clicked for “images.” They started to materialize, and the first few belonged to people who, from their advanced years, I doubted were freshmen. Then I got a direct hit—a picture for David Skellow that I recognized.
“No way,” I heard myself mumble.
My phone rang.
“Watch out,” the person said by way of a greeting.
“Tess?”
“I just got another message from my dad. It says: ‘Watch out!’”
“What does that mean?”
“Beats me. But Daddy hated exclamation points, so I thought it might be important.”
“Gimme a break.”
It was all I could do not to hang up. I laid my head back on my neck, thinking. “Tess, I’ve got a question.”
“Sure. Sorry, it’s hard to hear you. I’m underneath the table.”
“Why?”
“Daddy was warning me about something. I’m sure of it.”
“Okay, listen. Did Danny attend college?”
“What? No! What?”
“Did Danny attend Colester College?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Tess! I’m looking at a picture of a kid who attended Colester College and he’s a dead ringer for Danny.”
“My son has been very clear that he, y’know, did not attend college and that college is something that people go to if they, um, can’t do. He can handle things on his own. School of hard knocks and all that.”
“Cut the bullshit.”
“Please don’t make things any worse. I love him and he thinks I’m a terrible, greedy person.”
“Hold on.”
Down El Camino No Real, I saw them coming. Two MINIs, fire red. Half a block away. Tarantulas for sure.
I turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine.
“It’s the Apocalypse!” Tess yelled. “That’s what he was warning me about!”
“That’s my motorcycle,” I said. “Not the Apocalypse.” I didn’t add: Holy shit, could Captain Don have been warning me? From beyond? But how?
As the MINIs neared, I gunned it west on Page Avenue, the phone still to my ear. “AHHHHHHH!” I could hear Tess shrieking, and I could imagine that she was mistaking my six hundred horses for something terrible. “Lester. Hold me!”
I let the phone slip into my pocket and watched the MINIs fade with my speed.
Then I saw the same MINIs in front of me. I thought for a second I was going nuts when I realized, with a glance in the rearview, that the pair was still behind me and this was another set, matching, fire-red MINIs.
I skidded a sharp right onto a side street and hit the accelerator. Bad move, I realized instantly. This was an industrial park, which I promptly surmised was likely a closed loop. A glance behind me showed four MINIs. I could feel the cool comfort of weaponry beneath my heavy jacket as I kept straight ahead on the park’s main drag. Arteries to the left and right offered little possibility; both ended in a cul-de-sac. When I neared a dead end, I took the last artery right. It ended abruptly in a parking lot where a curved two-story building wrapped around the cul-de-sac and a bit of a crowd; there was some shouting in the parking lot near the front—about twenty-five yards from me. Calm suddenly washed over me. This wasn’t as challenging a situation as I’d initially thought. MINIs, no matter how many, couldn’t chase me over the grass between these buildings and back out to the main drag. I could see my exit—a paved alleyway between the building directly in front of me and one next to it marked The Cloud.
I turned the bike to go and looked back to discover the four MINIs were following. But three of them had stopped at the right turn to this artery while one glided forward slowly, its driver waving a white flag out the window. I put my feet down on the ground and steadied the mechanical beast I was riding. I put my hand inside my jacket and pulled out the smaller of the guns. I left it hanging by my side. The MINI stopped fifteen yards from me. The passenger door opened. I recognized Dutch Abraham, the son of Deuce. Holding a white flag in his left hand, he raised his arms, surrender. The driver remained seated.
I wasn’t buying it.
I did a quick look around. Behind me, the crowd seemed to be engrossed in some action taking place in their midst but I couldn’t figure what. In front of me, the MINIs remained stopped while Dutch Abraham made his way slowly in my direction. No weapons, near as I could tell. A smattering of parked cars nearby might’ve provided cover for a Tarantula, but it didn’t stand to reason that one of them had anticipated my arrival here and had hidden.
“May I approach?”
I gestured with the gun. Come on ahead. Dutch didn’t much look like he wanted to do that. He looked stricken.
“Come on, kid. I won’t shoot you unless you give me a reason.”
He looked over his shoulder at the MINI driver, who nodded, as if to say: go ahead. Dutch took two steps forward. Then another two. Ten feet away. “Close enough,” I said.
He looked at his watch.
“Seven hours. You have seven more hours.”
“You like the family business?”
He tried to square his jaw, I could see it. The adolescent had no chest to puff out but made an effort nonetheless. “What matters in this world is what you do, not how old you are, Detective.”
That nonsense mantra again. “Killers,” I said. “Your dad can dress it up any way he wants to but that’s what they are and what you’ll be.”
“He said you’d do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to test my loyalties. That’s what the smart ones do, he told me. So forget about it. You’ve got seven hours.” He took another step forward.
“Did he tell you I’d shoot you if you got too close?”
“He said you’d threaten to. Then he told me that we do things the right way. I am duty bound to tell you that you have seven hours to get us the thing you promised you’d get us or the other thing will happen that we promised would happen.”
“Yeah? Did he tell you what thing that is?”
“No.” He kicked the ground.
“He’s going to kill my husband.”
Dutch was looking down.
“After torturing him,” I continued. “That’s the family business.”
He looked up, searching, trying like hell to look the part.
“This your first assignment, Dutch?”
“Fir
st one for AP credit. I’ve gone on deliveries. Seven hours. Capiche?”
I snorted a laugh. “I get the picture. Get the hell out of here.”
He took another step forward. I raised the pistol. He mouthed something I couldn’t make out. I kept the gun trained in his direction.
“Seven hours,” he said, and then looked me dead in the eye, “or he’ll be swimming with the dolphins.”
He looked quickly down. Out the window of the MINI, a Tarantula craned his neck. “Let’s roll, Dutch.” He looked at me. “Seven hours,” he said.
“I did that already!” Dutch said to the Tarantula.
The Tarantula looked at me, then at Dutch. “Did you give him the survey?”
“Oh yeah.” He reached into his back pocket.
“Don’t even think about it, kid.” Finger on the trigger.
“Take it easy.”
“Don’t talk to me that way, you little shithead.”
“Easy,” said the Tarantula in the car. “That’s Deuce’s firstborn you’re talking to.”
“Good for him. He tries anything and I’ll blow a hole in his face and then yours.” I almost laughed at my macho talk, but I was trying to make a show of it. Dutch had tried to send me a message—the dolphin thing—I was almost sure of it. If so, I didn’t want him busted.
“If you got something for me, reach slowly into your pocket and take whatever it is and put it on the ground.”
He did as I said. A moment later, he’d dropped a folded square of paper on the ground. He turned to go.
“Dutch”—the Tarantula leaned out—“give him the instructions.”
The kid turned back to me. “It’s a survey.”
“What?”
“Your experience is important to us. The Tarantulas value your feedback. This short, one-page survey will help us learn how to improve the user experience.”
“Get out of here, you little shitbag.”
“Tell him ’bout the online thing,” the Tarantula said.
Dutch rolled his eyes. “Of course, if you prefer, you can take the survey online. We’re in the middle of a transition. Starting next year, we will be interacting with our users only online in an effort to save paper and respect the world’s precious natural resources.”
“You’re drug dealers and killers.”
The Tarantula yelled: “You can also scan that and e-mail it back if that’s easier.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Let’s go, kid,” the Tarantula yelled. Then to me: “Seven hours! Six and change.”
“I told him!” Dutch said.
He walked to the car and climbed inside. The MINI turned and exited, the other Tarantulas with it. I listened to my heartbeat and the voice inside my head: swim with the dolphins.
The kid was telling me something.
“Did you see that? Did you see that shit?” a voice said from behind me.
I turned to find a twentysomething dude with a bag slung over his shoulder. Behind him, the crowd dispersed. It occurred to me that he wasn’t talking about the thing that had taken place with Dutch but was referring to whatever took place at the front of the parking lot. I eyed him. I didn’t care what he was talking about, but he took the moment to keep talking. “You know that’s been building, right? It was going to explode anytime and, boom, there it went. Are you with corporate? Nice ride.”
“Just a bike messenger.”
He looked skeptical, almost dangerously so. Like he might rat me out to someone or start spreading rumors about the weirdo in the parking lot. He was a purebred engineer, so unconcerned with appearances that he resented them, the way a homeowner resents a spider, the kind of guy who liked to show how smart he was even if it made him look awkward, maybe especially if it made him look awkward. I had to play along for a second, let him get his windbag out.
“What happened?”
“Brawl over the last Level Three charger. Guy from HR and the woman who heads direct marketing and they got to the last electric car charger at the same time. My friend in QA saw it from the beginning. At first, they were telling each other how much they liked the other person’s car and how great it was for the environment, but then they just dove for the charger. They were rolling around on the ground and everyone was yelling “fight, fight, fight.” And she leveled him. Leveled! Like the Black Widow from Land Beyond. Bloodied his nose. She hooked up her car and walked over to him and told him she really did like his car and she’d do a quick charge and text him when the charger was free. And you know what?”
“What?”
“This company is going places.”
The dolphin, I thought. I knew how I could find out more.
“That’s exactly the kind of people we need in marketing,” he said. “If you want to make the move to a company with a big upside, I could introduce you to someone.”
I had already revved the engine and started on my way.
Twenty-Four
ON THE WAY to my destination, I drove by Floyd’s. Still no presence I could detect. Still no answer on his phone.
While I was paused, I called Lieutenant Gaberson. “Fitch,” he answered. “This is fucked up.”
“How’s that?”
“Where are you at?”
“Around, Lieutenant. Why do you ask?”
“This is weird, that’s all. We tracked the phone number—Terry’s. It’s . . . well, as far as we can tell . . . I’m not sure how to say this. It’s off the grid.”
“Like turned off?”
“Maybe. I guess. It’s putting out a signal but from parts unknown.”
“So Terry might’ve taken his phone with him and then the bad guys turned it off. Or they could’ve tossed it somewhere to throw off the scent.”
“Fitch, I asked you where you are but I obviously know where you are: you’re on the Peninsula, Menlo Park if I’m not mistaken,” the lieutenant said.
“You’re freaking me out.”
“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to show you how easy this is. We’ve got this new phone surveillance technology. I put in the phone number and voilà. Of course, I wouldn’t use it without the proper warrant. Nor would I ever, ever, intercept the contents of a conversation.”
“What do you mean he’s off the grid? What if the phone is turned off?”
“Could be. But before I go any further, we’ve got to clear something up.”
“What’s that?”
“This is our last conversation.”
“Is that right?”
“Fitch, give me your word. I’m sticking my neck way out. I already warned you. We’re facing a shit storm of legal trouble over the Adderall bust. Now you’re dragging me into something with Deuce. They could sue us until we have to privatize. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I don’t think you do. To the cops, you are persona non grata.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I’m signing on the dotted line. Now, for shit’s sake, what have you got?”
“Okay, Terry’s signal is down now, his phone probably off. But before it went dark, it went . . . I don’t know. Like he’s gone into the ether or a place with a different frequency. Only time I saw something like this was when we tracked a guy to North Korea, y’know, a totally different nation-state. He was importing counterfeit ‘My Other Car Is a Tesla’ bumper stickers.”
“Like Terry’s out of the country?”
“Maybe. Gone international.” He paused. “Also weird. Same for the Deuce. You asked me to track him. He’s in some international locale but I can’t get a read on it.”
“What the hell?”
“Fitch, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Did Terry leave a note?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think that Terry . . . is it possible that he . . .” Long pause. “How’re things at home, is what I’m asking.”
I figured what he was getting at—that Terry had picked up and left me. “Sure, Lie
utenant. Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it.” There was no way. But it was in this moment that I realized I never 100 percent trusted the lieutenant and so he could think what he wanted.
“My old lady left me,” he said. “Said I hogged our bandwidth.”
“Is that all you got?” I asked. “On Terry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I gotta run. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“What’d I say?”
“I gotta run.”
I hung up.
One more quick call. After the second ring, Danny picked up.
“Hey, kid, you want to know who killed your grandfather?”
“Who is this?”
“Wrong day to be playing games, Danny.”
I told him where to meet me.
I fired up the bike and headed back to the Palo Alto Hills. This was getting old but I was getting close, I sure hoped. Six hours and five minutes. I didn’t doubt now that they’d kill him—Terry. Not if I was right about the scope of things. When billions of dollars are at stake, you don’t leave any witnesses.
AS I NEARED the Donogue residence, I saw an old Volvo parked outside the gate. Danny sat inside, slunk down. I parked behind him on the dirt shoulder, walked over, and let myself in. I pulled the smaller of the guns from my left pocket and laid it across my lap.
“Howdy, Danny, or should I say David?”
“Who?”
“David. Skellow.”
He reached for the door handle. I reached for the gun. He paused.
“This has nothing to do with my grandfather.”
“Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t. I’ll be the judge.”
Lines creased Danny’s forehead. He looked every bit the college freshman, razor burn from when he’d last shaved, sweat on his lip, fidgety, not yet three-quarters a man.
“It’s not a crime to go to college,” he said through his teeth.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
He turned to me. “So what’s the big deal?”
“That’s my point, Danny. No one cares that you went to college.”
He cleared his throat. “What happened with Grandpa?”
“I don’t think so. Not until you answer my question.”
“Which is what?”
“Who are you—Shirli? You heard the question: Did you go to college?”