No Way Back

by Matthew Klein

  Mitchell tilts his head and stares at me. He looks wary. Is this a joke designed to make him look foolish? ‘Watching you?’ he repeats.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  I lead him to the front of my house. The door is unlocked. I push it open and we enter. The foyer is cool and dark.

  ‘Look,’ I say, directing him into the living room. ‘The grandfather clock, it’s really—’

  But in the living room, the grandfather clock, which I last saw shattered and broken, is gone. There are no springs or shards of glass or warped metal on the floor. There’s just a small indentation in the carpet, barely visible, the shape of the clock’s base.

  ‘It was right here,’ I say.

  ‘What was, Mr Thane?’

  I do not answer. I run up the stairs into the bedroom. The ceiling fan is gone, too: no longer on the floor, where I left it. The plaster above the bed has been repaired – touched up, painted, perfectly dry.

  ‘Mr Thane?’ Mitchell asks, from behind me. I turn to see him in the doorway, holding out a piece of paper. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’

  He hands it to me. It’s a single sheet, from the magnetic pad that Libby stuck on the refrigerator. It’s a picture of a cartoon bear, jumping into the air, trying to grab a beehive dripping with honey, but not quite reaching it. Below the picture is printed: ‘If at first you don’t succeed, bear with it and try again.’

  Below this inspirational message is a woman’s handwriting.

  Jimmy –

  I’ve had enough. I can’t live with your violence any more. First Cole. Now this. You scare the hell out of me. I need some time alone. Don’t come after me. I’ll find you when I’m ready

  Mitchell explains, ‘It was on the kitchen counter. That her handwriting?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But she didn’t write it. They took her. I saw them.’

  ‘Who took her?’

  ‘The Russians.’

  ‘Who’s Cole, Mr Thane?’

  ‘My son.’

  ‘You have a son?’

  ‘No,’ I say. Then: ‘You don’t believe me.’

  No answer.

  I say, ‘I’ll show you their house. Come with me. You’ll see for yourself.’ Even as I say it, though, I’m losing confidence. I know exactly what we will find in the Russians’ house.

  But I lead him downstairs, and through the foyer, and back into the blast-furnace heat. I walk through the front yard, and across the street, to the velociraptor’s house.

  ‘Where are we going, Mr Thane?’ Mitchell calls out behind me.

  ‘Trust me,’ I say, trying to sound confident.

  I wait for the agent to join me on the Russians’ porch. He walks slowly, looking uncomfortable and wary.

  I knock at the Russians’ door. There is no answer.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ I say.

  ‘Now, listen, Mr Thane, I can’t just walk into someone’s house—’

  I turn the doorknob. The door opens easily, gliding on its well-oiled hinges, revealing a dark empty foyer. There is no furniture in the room.

  Mitchell peers through the open door. ‘Looks empty.’

  I go inside. The room is warm. No air conditioning. Mitchell remains at the threshold, considering. Then he shrugs and follows. The foyer, and every room visible from it, is empty. No furniture. No sign of habitation at all. No Russians. No Libby.

  ‘They lived here,’ I insist.

  ‘Who did, Mr Thane?’

  ‘Ghol Gedrosian’s men.’

  He arches his eyebrows dramatically. ‘Ghol Gedrosian’s men? They all lived together? In this house? Sort of like a college fraternity?’ His voice is full of mirth. ‘Why on earth would they do that?’

  ‘To watch me.’

  ‘To watch you?’

  I walk to the living room, where just yesterday I saw banks of recording equipment and rows of flat-screen televisions on the wall.

  ‘See?’ I say. I point to the wall, triumphantly, where there are still unmistakable signs of screw holes in the plaster, at the exact level where the televisions were mounted.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The holes. That’s where they put the TV monitors.’

  ‘Mr Thane, I think we ought to leave here. First of all, I don’t have a warrant, and second of all… ’ He shrugs. ‘Well, second of all, it’s goddamned empty.’

  He takes my shoulder and urges me from the house, shutting the door behind us. We’re back in the heat again. ‘Now, Mr Thane,’ he says. ‘I’m going to be honest with you. Because I like you. I actually do. Which surprises the hell out of me. I’m not sure what’s going on, and I’m not sure why you called me here. But I will tell you something. You do seem a bit… peculiar today.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth. Ghol Gedrosian’s men kidnapped my wife.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘That’s what you’re telling me. But this note seems to imply something else.’ He holds up the note from Libby.

  ‘You think I’m lying?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. I think you smell pretty bad, and your eyes look red as the devil’s. What would you think, given your history, if you were me?’

  Before I can reply, the phone in Mitchell’s shirt pocket rings. He takes it out, glances at the incoming number, holds up a finger to me. ‘I have to take this,’ he says, and answers the phone. ‘Yeah.’ A pause. ‘Yeah, he’s right here. Black Mercedes?’ Another pause as he listens to the other end of the conversation. ‘Yeah, all right. What’s her name?’ He listens in silence, nodding. ‘All right. I think that’s a good idea. We’ll be right over.’

  He hangs up. He looks at me thoughtfully.

  ‘Where’s your wife’s car, Mr Thane? That beautiful new Mercedes you bought for her?’

  I’m about to answer, ‘I left it in the Fort Myers Greyhound terminus,’ but something about his face, and the tone of his voice, tells me not to.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t in the driveway when I got here.’

  ‘Well, they found it,’ he says. ‘It was over on Pine Island.’ He looks intently at me. ‘The problem is there were three people in it. Two dead Mexicans in the back seat, and a hooker with her throat cut, in the trunk.’

  CHAPTER 45

  ‘The Mexicans are Zetas,’ Mitchell explains, driving his Chevy Impala onto the Crosstown Expressway and merging recklessly into traffic. ‘Now, the Zetas started in California, but they’re everywhere today, Mr Thane, including Miami and Tampa. Even here in Fort Myers, it turns out.’

  I’m in the passenger seat. Mitchell steers casually, just his right fist against the wheel, and he’s craning to look at me every few seconds, gauging my reaction to his gangland sociology lecture. I nod politely, but between last night’s meth, my recent discovery of cameras in my house, and their subsequent disappearance, I’m ready to hurl my granola bar into his lap.

  I fasten my seat belt.

  Mitchell continues, ‘These boys we found, they were just thugs, three weeks out of Raiford. No great loss to the State of Florida, if I may be so blunt.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘What happened?’ He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘I won’t lie to you, Mr Thane. You’re probably going to want to get your upholstery replaced. Whoever did it had a field day with those hombres. I’m guessing they needed some information. Poor assholes didn’t stand a chance.’ He shakes his head. ‘Now, the girl – she’s more interesting. Especially considering what you’ve been telling me. You want her life story, or just the highlights?’

  ‘Highlights.’

  ‘According to my colleague – that was my partner on the phone; he’s part of the Gedrosian Task Force I told you about – the girl is a hooker from Vegas. Well, not really a hooker. I guess you’d say she was in the hospitality industry. Worked for Gedrosian, servicing high rollers. Ten or fifteen Gs for one night. Good Lord, Mr Thane, what the hell does a woman do that’s worth fifteen thousand dollars a night? Don’t answer that.’ He h
olds up his palm. ‘Anyway, she goes by the name – well, went by the name… Danielle Diamond. Ever hear of her?’

  ‘Why would I know a Las Vegas hooker?’

  He gives me a mischievous look, as if to ask, Why wouldn’t you know a Las Vegas hooker? Out loud he merely suggests, ‘I thought, since you were a customer of Mr Gedrosian’s, maybe you two had met.’

  I don’t take the bait, and remain silent.

  ‘Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘I thought we would swing by, take a looksee. That way you can tell me if you recognize the girl. They didn’t torture her, if that’s a concern. Afterwards, you and I can head over to my office and file a report.’

  ‘Report?’

  ‘Missing Persons, Mr Thane. For your wife. If you still want to go through with it, that is.’ His meaning is clear. If you still want to insist you didn’t threaten her and make her run away from you.

  Twenty minutes later, we arrive at a pink limestone building, square and institutional, with a sign that says: ‘County Medical Examiner’. The building is set far back from the road, behind a tall chain-link fence and a wide grass border, as if the place were designed to withstand an onslaught of people clamouring to visit the morgue. Or an onslaught of bodies clamouring to get out.

  We park in the gated lot, and I follow Mitchell into the building. I notice that, as we enter, he stops chattering, and he drops the aw-shucks good-ol’-boy banter. Maybe he feels the same queasiness about morgues and dead people as I do.

  At the front desk he flashes his ID to the rent-a-cop, and signs in. We’re waved through a buzzing electric door. On the other side, we nearly run headlong into a big bearded man, who comes racing towards us from around a corner. Everything about the man is huge: his head, his ham hands, his barrel stomach that pops over his belt, his oversized white lab coat.

  The big man stops suddenly, just inches from Agent Mitchell’s nose.

  ‘Whoa there, Ryan,’ Mitchell says calmly, holding very still and making a point not to flinch.

  ‘Damnit, Tom,’ Grizzly Adams in a Lab Coat says. ‘You have the worst timing. You caught me on my way to the candy machine. Walk with me, will you?’

  From his heft, it appears that we had a good chance of catching him on his way to the candy machine, no matter what time we showed up. He leads us down the corridor. The air is chilled. The walls are painted cinderblock. Mitchell says, ‘I suppose I should introduce you two. Ryan Pearce, this is Jim Thane.’

  Ryan Pearce nods, not bothering to slow down. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He’s clearly got candy on the brain.

  Mitchell adds, ‘It was Mr Thane’s Mercedes.’

  Pearce stops. He turns to me with a look of deep concern. ‘Aw, shit,’ he says. ‘I’m truly sorry about that.’

  ‘Mr Thane hasn’t seen his car yet,’ Mitchell explains. ‘It was brand new, though. A gift for his wife.’

  ‘You’re shitting me,’ Pearce says. He makes a tsk-tsk sound, and begins walking again. ‘Ain’t that the damndest thing? Maybe you can return it. There’s some kind of lemon law, isn’t there? Less than thirty days and you get your money back? Just claim you didn’t notice the bloodstains when you drove it off the lot.’

  At the end of the hall he stops at the candy machine. ‘Three Musketeers?’ Pearce says, looking at me first, then Mitchell. ‘My treat.’

  In fact, a candy bar sounds good right now. I crave sugar. You always do, after a night on crank. But I shake my head.

  Pearce shrugs. He sticks a dollar into the machine, presses the button, and a 3 Musketeers plops into the dispenser below.

  He peels it open and pops it into his mouth. Two bites and it’s gone. ‘Damn, I love nougat,’ he says, through a mouth full of the stuff. ‘No idea what the hell it is, but it’s so goddamned good.’

  ‘Hate to cut into your lunch, Ryan,’ Mitchell says, ‘but we’re a bit pressed for time. We gotta file a missing persons after this. You mind showing us the girl?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Pearce says, agreeable now that he has had his chocolate. ‘You bet. Come with me.’

  The big man leads us back down the hallway, the way we came, and we turn left at the main entrance, following a sign that says, ‘Cooler 1’. We pass two sets of automatic hydraulic doors that glide open as we approach.

  At the end of the long hall, Pearce pushes a heavy metal door; and we find ourselves in a walk-in cooler. The air is cold and burns the inside of my nose. In front of us are six rows of small doors in the wall, twenty across. These hold bodies.

  ‘I’m hoping Mr Thane might recognize her,’ Mitchell says.

  Pearce licks his chocolatey fingers, wipes them on his white smock. ‘All right, let me show you. Autopsy’s not ’til tomorrow. But I think the cause of death will be pretty obvious. They were very thorough.’

  He walks to the coolers. There’s a tag on one of them, scribbled in a messy hand, ‘Danielle Diamond’.

  Pearce wraps his beefy fingers on the door handle, twists, and pulls out a platform that slides towards him on metal rollers. A body lies beneath a white sheet.

  Pearce says: ‘We’re positive on the ID. Matched her prints. She has quite a record. Twelve arrests for prostitution in the past five years. Vegas is cracking down. Trying to be more family friendly. More Disney, less blow jobs.’

  ‘Now that’s a slogan I can get behind,’ Mitchell says. ‘More Disney, less blow jobs. Wonder what that sounds like in Latin.’

  ‘Magis Disney, minus BJs,’ Pearce suggests. He looks down at the corpse. He gestures to Mitchell, a polite ‘after you’ twirl of the fingers.

  Mitchell grabs the sheet, near the dead woman’s shoulder. He turns to me. ‘Now I hope you can help us out here, Mr Thane. Maybe you can recognize this girl from your… well, your various travels. Maybe in California, maybe in Florida. Who knows – maybe you two met in Las Vegas. On some sort of business trip, away from the wife.’ He clears his throat. ‘Mr Thane, may I introduce you to Danielle Diamond, aka Sandra Love, aka Dierdra Starr, aka DeeDee Starr.’ He pulls the sheet.

  My wife, Libby Thane, lies lifeless on the gurney. Her eyes are closed. A long black slit, the colour of road tar, stretches across her neck, a wound so deep that a tap on her head would sever it from the body and send it rolling to the ground. Her skin is pale and bloodless, as white as the sheet that hid her.

  ‘Mr Thane,’ Agent Mitchell says, ‘do you know this woman?’

  I use every bit of self control I can muster to stay perfectly still, to keep my feet planted firmly beneath my shoulders. I feel the earth shifting, and for a moment I think I will faint and hit the cement with my chin. But I take a breath, and I stay upright, and I turn to Agent Mitchell, who is staring at me. I return his stare.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I have no idea who this woman is.’

  CHAPTER 46

  I rush out of the morgue. I slam the door of the cooler room, race down the hall. Agent Mitchell runs after me, trying to keep up. ‘Mr Thane,’ he calls. ‘Mr Thane, wait!’

  I don’t slow. I don’t stop. I just run, past the security door, into the tiny lobby, and into the heat.

  Five steps across the parking lot and I hear Mitchell calling for me. ‘Mr Thane, please!’

  I let him catch up. He’s sweating and out of breath. ‘Mr Thane, wait. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not used to seeing things like that.’

  ‘No, sir. No one is.’ He regards me thoughtfully. ‘I guess you don’t recognize her, then.’

  ‘No.’

  He looks at me cautiously, as if he doesn’t quite believe me. But then again, who can blame him? They just found two dead Mexicans and a murdered whore in my car. I’m not exactly in the running for Citizen of the Year.

  ‘Come on then, Mr Thane. Let’s head over to my office, and we’ll start the paperwork.’

  ‘Paperwork?’

  ‘Missing Persons. Isn’t that what you wanted? To find your wife, Libby?’ The answer to his question is that I have already found my
wife Libby. She is lying on a gurney, with her throat open. Except maybe her name isn’t Libby. And maybe there never was a Libby. And maybe the woman I married ten years ago, the woman who was a waitress at The Goose, back at Stanford – maybe she never really was a waitress – but instead was a hooker named, variously, Danielle Diamond, or DeeDee Star.

  ‘Of course I want to find her,’ I say.

  Mitchell puts his hand on my shoulder. We walk together to his car. I’m about to let him guide me into the passenger seat when a loud musical trill startles me. It’s Amanda’s cellphone, in my pocket; its ring is unfamiliar. I look down at the incoming number. Gordon Kramer.

  I step away from the car, and away from Mitchell, and gesture for the FBI agent to wait. ‘Hello, Gordon,’ I say.

  Gordon’s voice does not sound the way I expect. What I expect is the typical Gordon Kramer: gruff, take-no-bullshit, Roman Centurion, drop-and-give-me-twenty. What I hear is high and strained – quavering with some emotion that I can’t quite identify. ‘Jimmy,’ he says, ‘are you with him? Is the FBI agent with you right now?’

  I look at Agent Mitchell. He’s standing a few yards away, on the other side of the car, staring into the sky.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’re about to drive over to his office.’

  ‘Listen, Jimmy,’ Gordon says, and now finally I recognize the emotion in his voice. It is something I have never heard before in Gordon Kramer.

  It is fear.

  ‘I asked around,’ Gordon says. ‘That name you told me. The Russian. You should have told me before. Damn it, Jimmy, you should have told me right away! You should have told me everything. I could have helped you. I could have prevented all this—’

  He stops. I can picture him at the other end of the line, pacing, rubbing his huge hand over close-cropped grey hair, the way you rub down a deerhound after a good hard hunt.

  He says: ‘Jimmy, listen to me. Just answer yes or no. Don’t say anything else. Just yes or no. The man you’re with right now – you said his name is Tom Mitchell. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Agent Tom Mitchell is smiling politely at me, waiting for me to finish my call. He takes out a pad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He clicks the top of his pen. Click.