by Jude Hardin
“I don’t know, Di. I’m not sure I can continue with this. Really. There are just too many pieces to the puzzle. I’m lost.”
“Everything’s under control,” she said. “That’s all you need to know. Everything except that briefcase containing the phony credentials. I’m sure you can see where that might throw a monkey wrench into the works.”
“Yeah.”
“We can’t wait for a phone call. You’re going to have to fly out to California and get that briefcase, Nicholas.”
“That’s one of the problems,” I said. “I don’t know how to find Terry Vine. I know he’s somewhere on Edwards Air Force Base, but I don’t know his father’s last name. I could fly out there and hang around, but there are thousands of enlisted people and the odds of running into Terry would be—”
“Shut up,” Di said, her irritation level kicking up about three notches. “Just shut the fuck up for a minute. Did he say anything about doing any touristy stuff while he was out there? Surely he’s not just going to be stuck on the base the whole time.”
“He said his dad was going to take him to Los Angeles, and to Disneyland, but I don’t have any idea which days they’re going to be in those places.”
“Great. Just great. Do you have any idea how incredibly fucked up this is? Do you?”
Di was still pacing back and forth, wringing her hands now, looking extremely agitated, like she might blow a gasket any minute.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “He said something about a motocross meet. At the Rose Bowl. That can’t be a regular thing, right? It’s probably just one day.”
Di sat down at the laptop and started typing frantically.
“It’s tomorrow at four in the afternoon,” she said, talking and keying the computer at the same time. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to fly out to LA tonight, and from there you’re going to rent a car and drive to Pasadena. You’re going to stay at the Holiday Inn, and you’re going to go to that race tomorrow. You’re going to walk every inch of that stadium until you find Terry Vine. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m making all the reservations and ticket purchases as we speak. Before you drive to Pasadena, you’ll need to stop at Union Station and locate locker number eleven-thirty-two. That’s one-one-three-two. Inside the locker you’ll find a black nylon tote bag. Inside the tote bag you’ll find a Glock nine-millimeter and two extra magazines. And before you ask me how quickly I arranged for that, I’ll just go ahead and tell you: It was already there. The Circle has supplies hidden for its operatives all over the country. If you had been following Terry Vine to Topeka, Kansas, for example, I would have given you a locker number at the bus station, and you would have picked your gun up there.”
“Why do I even need a gun?” I said.
“Why do you even need a gun? Let me tell you: If Terry Vine has seen the contents of that briefcase, you’re going to have to kill him.”
Diana rushed me to the Jacksonville International Airport and dropped me off at the terminal. There was no time to go home and pack a bag, she said. I would be flying to California with nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t even have a toothbrush.
I picked up my ticket and my boarding pass at the American Airlines window and made my way through security to Concourse C. The plane wasn’t scheduled to start boarding for another thirty minutes, so I decided to give my wife a call. I used one of the pay phones at the gate and called collect.
“Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” Juliet said to the operator. A click, and then, “Nicholas, what on earth are you doing?”
“I’m not going to be home tonight,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know.”
“Where are you? Why are you not coming home?”
“I have to fly to California. I’m at the airport.”
“California? Nicholas, what’s going on? And why did you call collect? Why didn’t you—”
“I can’t explain right now. I’ve gotten myself into something that I can’t talk about. Everything’s going to be all right. Just trust me, OK?”
Her voice broke. “This is just bizarre,” she said. “I don’t know what to think. You need to tell me why you’re going to California, and why you didn’t use your cell phone to call me. I’m tired of all the secrets, and all the lies. Someone has been calling here and hanging up. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
Silence. Someone was waiting for the phone, an old man in a business suit. He was standing there with his arms folded across his chest. Tapping his foot on the terrazzo floor. I gave him the finger and turned away.
“Jules, listen. This is all going to—”
“I know you were out all night last Sunday,” she said. “I heard you when you came in, and I heard you taking a shower. Would you like to explain that to me?”
Busted. Juliet could sleep through a hurricane, but she seems to have some sort of sixth sense that wakes her up when anything’s awry with a friend or family member. One time she abruptly bolted out of bed at two-something in the morning, and five minutes later she got a call from the Philippines. Her uncle had died. Ten thousand miles away. I should have known she’d be onto me for staying out all night.
“If I tell you anything, we’ll both be in grave danger,” I said. “That’s why I used the pay phone. I’m pretty sure they’re listening in on my cell phone.”
She started crying.
“Who, Nicholas? Who’s listening? I think I have a right to know.”
The Circle, I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her everything, but I couldn’t.
“I can’t tell you,” I said. “I can never tell you.”
“Then you just stay in California. Don’t even bother coming home, OK? Because I can’t take this anymore.”
She hung up on me. I tried calling her back, but she wouldn’t answer.
And it broke my heart.
I made it to the Rose Bowl at three fifteen Tuesday afternoon, forty-five minutes before the race was scheduled to start. I parked in Lot F and picked up my ticket at the WILL CALL booth.
“You’re in section twelve,” the guy at the window said. “All the way on the other side of the stadium.”
“Figures. How many people does this thing hold, anyway?”
“Over a hundred thousand, but we’re not expecting that kind of crowd today. Maybe a quarter of that if we’re lucky.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Thanks.”
I entered through Gate B and started the long trek to my assigned seat. When I got close, I stood in line at one of the concession stands and paid eleven dollars for a hot dog and a beer. I took a couple of bites as I walked, but it made me feel greasy, so I threw the rest of it away.
I’d taken a shower at the hotel, but I still had yesterday’s clothes on. They were wrinkled and they smelled and now there was a mustard stain on the front of my shirt. I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was unclean, and that everyone knew it. I wanted to hurry up and find Terry so I could go somewhere and buy some new clothes.
The Glock was tucked into the waistband of my pants, hidden under my shirttails. I’d left the extra clips in the rental car’s glove compartment. I didn’t need them. I wasn’t walking into battle. It would only take one shot to kill Terry Vine—if he had opened the briefcase. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t need the gun at all.
On the drive to the airport, I’d asked Di if there was any other way. I certainly didn’t want to shoot a fifteen-year-old kid. Not if there was any way around it. But Di made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Terry would have to die if he’d seen the phony credentials. If he’d seen them, he would be a security risk for the rest of his life. He would be able to associate the name Perry Wendell Davis, now under investigation because of the Aero-Fleck incident, with the name Nicholas Colt, and Diana wasn’t willing to take that chance.
In a way, it was Terry’s own fault. He never should have stolen the briefcase. He knew better. His mothe
r was locked away in prison for writing bad checks, and his stepfather was a lowlife drunk, but he still knew better. Now he was possibly going to have to pay the ultimate price for one stupid mistake. What a waste. I kept hoping he hadn’t opened the briefcase. I didn’t want to kill him.
I found section twelve and climbed up to my seat. There weren’t any ushers on duty. I guessed the crowd was too sparse to warrant the expense. I was glad. It meant I could move around freely without pretending to be lost every five minutes.
I had a decent view of the track, even though it was positioned more toward the other side of the stadium. It was oval, all dirt, with plenty of places for the bikes to get airborne. The riders wore colorful leather coveralls and matching plastic helmets that gleamed like shiny glass marbles under the California sun. I watched them warm up for a while, whizzing around the track and taking the jumps with what seemed like effortless precision. They zoomed up the ramps, arcing forward and crunching down nonchalantly on the other side. Invincible. I could remember feeling that way, a long time ago. Then life comes along and sticks its foot up your ass and you watch your loved ones disappear in a cloud of smoke. And the years roll by and you wonder about what could have been. You wonder what your little girl would look like now.
I guessed big-time motocross wasn’t all that different from big-time music or big-time anything. You either went at it a hundred percent, with reckless abandon, or you faded into oblivion while someone with more connections and bigger balls took your place. And you did it early, while you were young and fast and a little stupid. Carpe diem, as they say. Broken bones and broken souls don’t heal so fast when you get older.
I sucked down the last few lukewarm ounces of beer from my cup, got up and started walking around. The stadium was massive, but the upper tiers were mostly empty. With so many vacant seats up front, and no ushers guarding the aisles, it would have been foolish for anyone to stay in the nosebleeds. There was still a lot of ground to cover, but at least I knew my needle was somewhere in the haystack. Terry Vine was in the stadium, and it was only a matter of time until I found him.
“Welcome, race fans, to the one and only Rose Bowl in beautiful Pasadena, California…”
The announcer started jabbering over the PA system, and for a minute I thought about having Terry paged. I decided against it. They would undoubtedly ask me my name, and they would probably blast it over the loudspeakers for all to hear. Attention Terry Vine. Please meet Nicholas Colt at the first-aid station as soon as possible. I didn’t want twenty-five thousand people knowing I’d been at the Rose Bowl today. Especially if the kid who got summoned ended up with a bullet in his head. It was going to be hard enough to get out of there as it was. On the way to my seat, I’d seen three uniformed police officers wandering around by the restrooms, and I’d seen some other guys in suits carrying walkie-talkies. Security wasn’t exactly tight, but it wasn’t nonexistent either. I needed to watch myself.
I climbed and descended the aisles, looking left and right as I went. The race had started and the motorcycles were loud and nobody was paying any attention to me.
The Glock had a sound suppressor attached to the barrel, so I doubted anyone would notice the pop if I had to use it. It would be like firing into a pillow. No louder than a hand clap.
I made it to section eighteen before I stopped and took a break. I sat in the front row and watched the kids fly around on their motorcycles for a few minutes. These were probably the most expensive seats during football season. Right on the fifty-yard line, and on the west side of the stadium. Facing away from the afternoon sun. They were the best seats for football, but the motocross track was situated more toward the south. Sections twenty-four through twenty-eight had the best views, and that was where much of the crowd had clustered. I had a feeling that was where I would find Terry. Somewhere in those sections on the south side.
I continued my search, wondering if I might have gone by Terry’s seat while he wasn’t in it. I saw several guys sitting alone, guys who could have been his dad. Maybe Terry had gone for some nachos and a soda. It occurred to me that I might have to walk the stadium more than once. I wondered if there would even be time. I wasn’t sure how long the motocross meet lasted. If I made it all the way around and still hadn’t spotted him, I would have to start over. I was getting depressed just thinking about it.
By the time I reached section twenty-one, the sixteen-ounce Budweiser had worked its way through me and was screaming to get out. I found the nearest alcove and walked inside. There were a few people milling around, but not many. I didn’t see any cops. The concession workers looked bored.
I made it to the restroom and did my business. I stepped to the basin to wash my hands, and when I looked in the mirror I saw Terry Vine standing there behind me.
TUESDAY, APRIL 24
I am very, very sad today. It doesn’t look as though there’s any hope for Nicholas and me. He called last night and said he was flying to California. He wouldn’t say why, but I’m pretty sure I know. I’m pretty sure he’s going to see that woman.
Ericka. That’s her name.
Several years ago, Nicholas was abducted and brainwashed by the leader of a neo-Nazi militia group in Tennessee. He was renamed Alexander “Maddog” Maddox, and he was taken to Los Angeles to play guitar for a recording project, but the whole thing was really a scheme by this neo-Nazi leader to usher in Armageddon. It was utter insanity, and Nicholas was lucky to make it out alive.
Anyway, Nicholas met Ericka at the Capitol Records tower in LA. She was one of the receptionists there. After their recording session one night, Nicholas and the record producer went to the bar across the street. Ericka was there, and one thing led to another. Like it always does. Nicholas swears up and down he didn’t know who he was at the time, that he didn’t even remember he was married or anything. But I’ve always wondered if part of him knew. And now I wonder if part of him is still attracted to her.
It was a very bad time for Nicholas. His hand was crushed, and he came home addicted to heroin, and the thing with Ericka nearly destroyed our marriage. I ultimately decided to forgive him, but I’ve never been able to completely forget about the affair. It still makes me angry sometimes.
And last night, out of the blue, Nicholas calls me and says he’s flying to California. And he won’t tell me why.
In theory, I suppose he could be going there for any number of reasons, but I have a feeling it’s to see her. I’m furious about it, and I won’t forgive him this time. Not in a million years.
A while ago, I decided to call her. I looked up the number to Capitol Records on the Internet, and I sat there on the couch for ten minutes trying to work up the nerve. I finally punched the numbers into my cell phone.
“Capitol Records, this is Ericka speaking, may I help you?”
“I would like to speak to Nicholas Colt,” I said.
“Pardon me?”
“Nicholas Colt. Please put him on the phone.”
“I’m afraid there’s nobody here by that name, ma’am. Is there something else I can help you with today?”
“You know who he is,” I said. “Or maybe you remember him by the name of Maddog Maddox.”
She was silent for a few seconds, and then, “Oh. Him. That was years ago. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Juliet Colt. I’m his wife.”
More silence.
“Juliet, I am so sorry. I had no idea he was married. Like I said, it was years ago, and I—”
“He flew to Los Angeles last night,” I said. “Did he go there to see you? I need to know.”
“Of course not. I haven’t seen him or heard from him since that one time. I even called in sick the next day, and when I came back to work he was gone. I promise you there’s nothing going on between me and your husband.”
I hung up on her. I knew she would deny it. They always do.
And on top of everything else, Max Marlin called earlier. From the hospital. Said he had been in a
car accident. He’s going to be OK, but he won’t be able to work for a while. Just my luck. He did have some interesting information for me, though. Some very interesting information.
Now it’s eight o’clock at night and I’m lying in bed, crying, thinking about calling Nicholas on his cell. It’s three hours earlier out in California, and Ericka should be getting off work about now. I wonder if he’s picking her up and taking her to his hotel room.
Our eyes met in the mirror. Terry looked at my reflection, and I looked at his. The boy I saw could have been me at fifteen. Same blue eyes, same sandy blond hair, same skinny build. He was even wearing bell-bottom jeans and a wide belt and a puka shell necklace. We were alone.
“Mr. Colt?”
“Hi, Terry.”
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“You came all the way to California to talk to me about something?”
“It’s important,” I said.
“Wow. Hang on. I gotta go really bad.”
He ducked into one of the stalls and locked the door.
I stood there and looked at myself in the mirror for a few seconds. I looked rough. My skin was pale, and I had dark circles under my eyes. My hair looked like it had been dried with a leaf blower. I was starting to get more and more gray ones, on my head and on my face. My clothes were a mess. How could I have gone from such a bright and handsome young man to the gruesome monstrosity that stood before me now?
Suddenly, I didn’t feel very well at all. I felt weak and shaky and nauseated. Like I needed a fix. Like I was going through heroin withdrawal, even though I hadn’t used the stuff in years.
I was worn out. I needed rest. I needed to crawl into my bed at the hotel and stay there for a couple of days.
Terry was still locked in the stall.
“I need to talk to you about that briefcase,” I said.
“What briefcase?”