‘You said he was from the FBI. Are you sure you got that right? He’s on the Special Crimes Unit? At the Tampa Field Office? You sure about that?’
‘Yes.’
Agent Mitchell pushes his pen again. Click.
‘Listen carefully. I called my friend at the FBI. There is no Special Crimes Unit, Jimmy. There is no agent named Tom Mitchell. Not any more. Agent Tom Mitchell was killed five years ago, in Long Beach, doing undercover work. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
I manage to squeeze a sound from my throat, just a whisper. ‘Yes.’
‘You need to get away from him. Do not get in his car. Do not be alone with him. Can you get away?’
I look around. We’re standing in the middle of a parking lot. It is surrounded by chain-link fence. A red Honda pulls into the lot. Two middle-aged black women are in the car.
‘I think I can make it,’ I say, nonchalantly, as if I’m agreeing to meet him for drinks after work.
‘I’m coming in on the red-eye,’ Gordon says. ‘I’ll be there first thing in the morning. I’ll call you when I land. We can deal with this together, Jimmy. I’ll get you out of this mess, I promise.’
‘Thank you, Gordon.’
‘I’ve worked too hard on you. You’re the fucking salvage operation of the century. I’ll be damned if I’m going to find you cut up into little pieces in a plastic bag. Now get the hell away from that asshole.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I will. Talk later.’
I hang up, put the phone in my pocket. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say to the man who calls himself Tom Mitchell.
He shrugs. His voice is polite, melodious – a true Southern gentleman’s. ‘No problem, Mr Thane. You ready to go, now? I’ll take you over to my office. If you’d be so kind as to seat yourself in my automobile.’
He clicks the top of his pen once more. Click.
That’s when I see his hand. How did I not notice it before? His right hand – the one gripping the pen – consists of four fully-formed fingers, and one mutilated remnant – a pinky that is just a red raw stump.
I step away.
‘What’s the matter, Mr Thane?’ he says, smiling. ‘You look a bit feverish. Why don’t you have a seat in my car. I don’t want you to faint from this heat.’
He circles around the car, towards me.
‘Get away,’ I say.
‘Mr Thane? What’s wrong?’
‘I have to go.’
‘Go?’ He holds up his hands, to encompass the parking lot and the empty streets beyond. ‘Go where?’
I run.
‘Mr Thane, you don’t have a car!’ he calls after me, sounding more amused than menacing.
I sprint past rows of cars, towards the parking lot exit. Just past the fence, a black Lincoln Town Car pulls up, and waits at the front gate, blocking my path. Through tinted glass, I barely make out the driver. It’s Ryan Pearce, the medical examiner.
I turn to the other direction. Agent Mitchell is coming my way, approaching slowly and deliberately, with his hand in his jacket pocket. ‘Mr Thane,’ he calls out calmly. ‘You know who I’m looking for, don’t you? I simply need your help to find him.’
Nearby, the red Honda pulls into a parking spot and cuts its motor. The two black women – both large, in colourful blouses – hoist themselves from the car. Each holds a big Starbucks cup.
‘Ladies!’ I call out to them, as I sprint in their direction. ‘Ladies, a moment of your time!’
They look up. Like all women, they’re prepared to be polite to any man who calls them ‘ladies’, with a gentle voice. Indeed their faces have expectant, almost radiant expressions.
Then they see me. I imagine how I must look to them: sweat-drenched, red-eyed, crazed – probably high – and racing towards them. Their faces abruptly change.
The woman nearest the driver-side door is overweight and she wears big owl-eyed sunglasses, giving her a surprised and wide-eyed look. I stick Amanda’s gun to her head. ‘I need your car keys.’
She glances across the parking lot at Agent Mitchell. He’s running towards us, arms pumping.
‘Now!’ I yell. I slap the Starbucks cup from her hand, as if that’s the one thing preventing a brisk response. Warm caramel macchiato splashes my pants, and I look down to see a dollop of whipped cream on my shoe.
But the slap seems to do the trick. ‘All right,’ she says, handing me her car keys.
Agent Mitchell yells, ‘Stop that man! Stop him!’
The owl-eyed woman looks to him, her expression managing to convey the impracticality of his request. I squeeze past her, into the Honda. The seat is too close and I bang my knees on the steering wheel. I twist the ignition, put the car into reverse, and peel out.
Smashing into the car behind me.
There’s a crash, and crunching metal. My head smacks the head-rest. I pull the gear back down into drive, and the car surges forwards. I cut the wheel, turn, and floor it.
The Honda races through the parking lot, its little engine whining. Up ahead, the wooden gate arm is down, and beyond it, the black Lincoln waits, parked perpendicularly across the exit. As I accelerate, I see Pearce’s fat face behind the tinted window, as it changes from merely self-satisfied, to alarmed, to – at the very last second – quite terrified and rigid, as he grips the steering wheel and braces for impact.
The Honda crashes into the gate arm, sending wood splintering, and then into the hood of the Lincoln.
I hit the Town Car sidelong at the wheel well – and the bigger car spins ninety degrees, like a compass needle on a magnet. I scrape past, metal rubbing metal, chrome peeling and curling from the Lincoln’s right side.
In the rearview, I see Agent Mitchell running towards the Town Car. He pulls open the passenger door and leans inside. That’s the last I see of him, or Ryan Pearce, because I turn left, and speed down the empty street; and when I next look behind me, they’re gone.
CHAPTER 47
When I return to Amanda’s apartment, I know immediately that something’s wrong. I knock on her door, but there’s no answer. I try the knob, and it opens.
The apartment is empty. There’s no sign of a struggle, but, even so, things don’t look right. The air conditioner is off. The lights are on. The pillows are askew on the couch. Her purse lies in the middle of the floor, as if dropped precipitously.
Amanda is gone.
I go to the window and peer through the Levolor blinds. Are they waiting for me outside? There are two dozen cars in a parking lot, an asphalt basketball court, two black men shooting hoops. No Russians that I can see.
The cellphone in my pocket rings. The Caller ID says: ‘Anonymous’.
I answer. ‘Hello?’
‘Mr Thane?’ The voice on the line is male, quiet, precise – not someone I recognize.
‘Who is this?’
‘You know who I work for.’
‘Yes. You work for—’
‘Please, Mr Thane. Don’t say his name.’ A pause. ‘I’m watching you right now.’
I step away from the window, push my back against the wall.
‘Not through the window, Mr Thane.’
I look around Amanda’s apartment. There are a dozen places to conceal a camera: the framed watercolour that hangs over the couch, the thermostat on the wall, the metal clock on the coffee table, the smoke detector on the ceiling.
‘Yes,’ the voice says, ‘a lot of possibilities.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m very sorry about your wife. I’m sorry you had to see that.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Things have gotten a little… ’ He pauses, searches for the right words. ‘Out of hand,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry for that. But we can fix them. We can make everything right again Mr Thane.’
‘How can you do that?’
‘Come, and I will explain. We’re all waiting for you. Amanda, too.’
‘Where?’
‘Look down at the table.’
‘Not that table,’ he says. ‘To your left.’
I turn in the other direction, to the end table near the couch. On it lies a single piece of paper. It’s the same stationery that Agent Mitchell found in my house – the cuddly bear jumping for honey. If at first you don’t succeed, bear with it and try again.
On the paper, written in cursive woman’s handwriting, is an address: 17258 Pine Ridge Road. It’s not Libby’s handwriting.
‘That’s where you’ll find her,’ the voice says.
‘Did you hurt her?’
‘Not yet,’ he says.
CHAPTER 48
Of course it’s a trap. Why else would they call, and tell me where to find her, if not to lure me to a place I should not go?
But I don’t care. I feel a desperate craziness – the same craziness I feel when I’m high: I’m ready to tangle with anyone, to try anything – wild sex, sloppy bar-room fights, more drugs – it doesn’t matter – bring it on.
I’d like to take Amanda’s gun from my pocket, feel its heft, be comforted by it. I have never fired a gun in my life, yet it somehow feels familiar hidden there. I go to Amanda’s computer, and use Google Maps to find the address where I’ve been told to go. I study the route intently. Then I’m off, back downstairs, and into the Honda.
I drive for fifteen minutes, following the directions I have memorized. The route takes me through dense residential streets, into commercial neighbourhoods, and then into sparse areas barely inhabited at all – dark brown fields, empty office parks, industrial buildings with few cars and no people.
The place I’ve been told to go is a desolate building in a wide expanse of brown grass. It is some kind of warehouse – a box of corrugated steel, hangar-sized, with four tractor-trailer-height loading bays in front. No windows. No signs. The lot is surrounded by fence, which is topped by razor wire. There are two gates – front and back – but both are open. I drive into the front, and park beside three other cars in the lot.
I get out of the Honda. I take the gun from my pocket, and I approach the building.
Three of the bay loading doors are shut tight against the heat; but the fourth door is half-open, rolled three feet off the ground, invitingly. I bend under the door.
Inside, the building is almost dark. I am assaulted by the smell of cat piss. The only light comes from the door I just entered; sunlight spills onto concrete in a perfect rectangle at my feet. Beyond that rectangle, I can just see a wall of black PVC strips, hanging in a curtain from the ceiling – a baffle to keep cold air inside during loading and unloading. I push aside the strips, and walk through.
It’s darker here, and my eyes still haven’t adjusted from the brilliance of the sun. I squint. Through the gloom I can make out what look like long rows of tables and benches, industrial equipment stacked on top, piles of garbage on the floor. The smell of ammonia is overpowering. It’s not cat piss, I know. I’ve visited too many secret apartments, too many houses that smelled like urine, too many kitchens where glass beakers and Bunsen burners sit on countertops beside loaves of Wonderbread and Milano cookies. The smell of ammonia means one thing. A meth lab. The smell of this much ammonia means something else. A meth lab of industrial proportions.
They know I’m here, of course. So there’s no point in sneaking around. I shout into the darkness, ‘Hello? Who’s here?’
My voice echoes. The room sounds hard – metal and glass and concrete.
‘Amanda?’
I walk further into the building, my left hand outstretched into the dark, my right hand holding Amanda’s gun. Twenty yards in, the blackness is total. My foot steps onto something glass; it pops and shatters. Pieces of glass tinkle on the ground, and my shoes crunch as I walk.
‘Amanda?’
I advance into the darkness. I trip on something. It’s metal, and I kick it as I regain my balance. It skitters across the concrete. ‘Who’s here?’ A noise ahead – human. Breathing maybe, or crying.
‘Amanda? Is that you?’
I follow the sound, deeper into the warehouse. My foot kicks something soft. I stop and kneel. In the darkness, I can barely make out a human form. I reach out to it. It feels wet. There’s something sticky on my fingers. The thing is breathing under my touch, laboured, and I hear wet bubbles in its lungs. ‘Amanda?’ I whisper.
But it’s not Amanda; I know that. It’s too big, and it wears some kind of man’s jacket. I stand. At the far side of the room, I see a crack of light – a doorway.
I go to the light. I feel with my fingertips along the wall. The wall is steel, warm from the sun outside. My hand brushes a light switch. It flips with an industrial click, and then, above me, sodium lamps buzz, and the room is awash in cold white light.
There are long metal tables that run in parallel along the room. The tops are cluttered with beakers, tall metal stands that trail rubber tubes down to the ground, brown glass bottles that look like huge mason jars. Canisters of paint thinner are stacked beneath the tables, hundreds of them, and dozens of propane tanks the size of small dirigibles. There’s garbage everywhere: discarded bottles, empty tins, rubber tubes and stoppers on the floor.
In the centre of the long aisle lies the man that I kicked. He is crumpled on the floor, between two of the metal tables. His face is turned away from me.
On the far side of the room, near the PVC curtain where I first entered, three men sit in a row, slumped against the wall. I walked past them in the dark, unaware of their presence.
They have black bullet holes in their foreheads. There are circular powder burns around each wound, like little puckered lips in their skin.
They were shot execution style, while standing. I know this because on the wall behind each man is a circle of blood and brains, head height, and then a vertical line of blood made when each man slid to the ground. It looks like graffiti, like three upside down exclamation marks – marks of surprise – maybe the surprise the men felt when the bullets came.
Next to the dead men, Amanda sits. Her eyes are open. She is breathing. She stares straight ahead. She doesn’t seem to notice me.
‘Amanda?’ I run to her.
She looks up. There’s a glimmer of recognition. ‘Jim… ’ she says, very softly. Then she buries her face in her hands, and starts to cry. It’s a silent cry – her body shudders and she rubs her eyes – but no sound escapes. I notice her hands are coated with dried blood.
I kneel down beside her. ‘Are you hurt?’
She hugs me. ‘No.’ She buries her face into my shoulder. ‘Oh God… Oh God… ’
‘What happened?’
‘It was terrible… ’ Her body shakes, wracked by sobbing. ‘It was horrible… What they did… ’
‘Who did?’
‘They came to my apartment,’ she whispers. ‘They had guns. They took me. They told me they were going to kill you.’
‘Who did?’
‘They did,’ she says. She points at the three men beside her.
‘They did?’ I look at the men. They don’t seem very dangerous. Because they’re dead. ‘If they brought you here, then who killed them?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. It was… ’ She stops. ‘It was a man. He was tall. He had long dark hair. He was dressed in black. He told me to shut my eyes. He spoke in Russian. I thought he was going to kill me. But he just… ’
‘He just what?’
‘Disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ I say. I am uncertain. What does she mean? That the man hid in the shadows? That he vanished?
Across the warehouse, someone moans. It’s the man that I kicked in the dark. He’s still lying on the ground, struggling to pull himself along the floor.
I leave Amanda and go to him. I keep my gun pointed at his head. His face is turned away from me. His body rests at the end of a long trail of blood. He has crawled a dozen yards, swabbing the floor with the wound in his chest. A puddle of blood grows around wher
e he lies.
I tap him with my foot.
‘You,’ I say. ‘Look at me.’
He turns. It’s the velociraptor – my neighbour from across the street.
His eyes are missing. They are just purple oozing slits – swollen and empty. Jelly and blood are smeared across his cheeks.
‘Who is that?’ he asks. He grabs my pants leg.
I step away from his grasp. ‘Jim Thane,’ I say.
‘Jim Thane,’ he repeats, and smiles, as if my name is funny. ‘Jim Thane,’ he says again. He reaches out, but his fingers can’t find me.
‘Who did this to you?’
‘Who do you think did this to me, Jim Thane?’
I feel someone behind me. I turn to see Amanda. She has wiped the tears from her eyes, but the blood from her fingers has left faint pink lines, barely visible on her white skin.
I turn back to the velociraptor: ‘Why were you spying on me?’
‘I was told to keep an eye on you,’ he says. ‘A funny expression. To keep an eye. Don’t you think? Given the circumstances?’
‘Where is he? Where do I find him?’
‘You don’t want to find him. Trust me. No one wants to find him. He will find you, when it’s time. I know he will.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I have never seen him.’
‘How can you work for someone you don’t see?’
‘Ah,’ he says, with something like delight. ‘Would you like to hear how I met him?’
‘Yes.’
He smiles. ‘Come closer.’
‘Jim, be careful,’ Amanda says.
I step into the puddle of blood spreading across the cement. I keep the gun pointed at the man’s head. ‘Tell me.’
‘There was a man once,’ he says. ‘His name was Kopec. He was the one who hired me. Me and my friend – the one over there, with the bullet in his head – do you see him?’
I could ask, ‘Which one?’ – but I don’t. ‘Yes,’ I say.
‘We were in Modesto, doing our thing. Buying a little, selling a little. We came to his attention. Maybe we sold a little too much. Yes? You understand?’
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