Double Cross

by Carolyn Crane

  Packard was investigating the list for a connection to the Goyce family. No wonder he didn’t find anything. There probably isn’t even a name like that. It seems crazy that it would come down to that.

  I have the clue and I’m free. Everything’s new.

  I grab my phone to check the time. Ten in the morning. Shit. As I flip it closed, it occurs to me that the last name Joyce actually rings a bell. Where have I seen it? Did I come across the name in my research? Back when I was looking for details to give the teams in the field?

  I scan the room for Packard’s laptop. If I can get to my search history I can probably find where I saw the name. And find Otto.

  I walk into the dining room. The table’s bare. I head to Packard’s bedroom, flick on the light, and pause. I’ve never been in here. It’s simple, spare, and clean, with gleaming hardwood floors and white bedding, and a stack of books by the bedside table. Nice. But no computer. Kitchen next. His counter’s strewn with coffee cups, candy wrappers, and sections of the Midcity Eagle. I shuffle them around. Nothing.

  I check the foyer and his leather case on the table by the door. Keys, wallet, papers. Would he have left the laptop at HQ?

  I grab my phone and call Francis. He’s there, of course. I have him check Packard’s desk for the laptop. “I’m looking at it,” he says, “but no sign of Packard.”

  I grab my purse and jacket. “Sleeping.”

  “Really?” Francis says.

  Considering the amount of tranquilizer he drank, he’ll be out for hours, but I don’t say that. I tell Francis I’m on my way over to check the laptop. I have a lead to the Dorks’ location. “Get a few guys together; this is a concrete lead.”

  He grunts. It’s hard to say how seriously he’s taking me.

  In the car on the way over, I try Shelby. I can’t wait to tell her we’re free. Voice mail. I deliberate, then hang up.

  I try Simon and he actually answers. “Did it work?” he asks.

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “You can tell Ez she can unlink now. You two doing okay?”

  They are. They were released hours ago, and now Ez wants to make a picnic on the lakeshore, even though it’s in the twenties. They’re about to leave, and yes, Simon is fully armed, just in case Stu or his people show up.

  “Wait, there’s something else,” I say. “Something unbelievable.” I smile. I can’t help myself. “Something unfucking unbelievable.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Jarvis,” I say, “is a fucking actor.”

  “Mmm,” Simon says. “He never told me that back when. Back when he could talk. So what?”

  “No. He’s an actor playing the part of Jarvis, the vegetable.”

  For once, Simon’s speechless.

  “That’s right. There’s nothing wrong with ol’ Jarvis.” Telling Simon is deliciously fun. “He’s an actor, hired by one Sterling Packard, to play the poor brain-dead wayward disillusionist, the bogeyman cautionary tale for all of us.”

  “No,” Simon says, all breathy shock.

  “Yes.” I turn onto the bridge over the sludgy Midcity River.

  “No way.”

  “Packard confessed. Jarvis is an actor. That nurse of his is probably his wife or something.”

  Simon’s laughing. “You are shitting me!”

  I smile. “We’re free. If we stop zinging, nothing happens. We just go back to the way we were.”

  “Fucked-up, but free—”

  “That’s right, baby!”

  “Whoa.” He laughs. “Whoa!”

  “And if we zing a random person? No blowback. No danger. Because guess what? All human beings contain the full array of emotions. The man’s an actor. Seems minionhood is just a state of mind.” It’s both preposterous and fascinating, and a bit of a cruel joke.

  “Wait. Jarvis worked as a real disillusionist for a year.”

  “Did he?” I ask. “Or was it an act?”

  “Fuck. You know what this means, don’t you?” Simon says.

  “It means we’re free,” I say. “We don’t have to zing anymore.”

  “Spoken like somebody who’s never read a comic book. Hello, we’re not just free, we have powers!”

  I pull into the HQ parking lot. “Powers?”

  “Powers. I can walk out onto the street and turn anybody I touch into a reckless person, at least for a few hours. Crap, Justine, you have an even better power. You can go around instilling fear.”

  “Health fear.”

  “No, think about it. When we zing, it’s the raw emotion. We chat people up, direct them, but the zing itself is the feeling. And you have goddamn fear. You can walk the streets striking fear into people’s hearts.”

  “Wow.” Leave it to Simon to see that angle.

  “There’s gotta be something cool I can do with the power to make people reckless. I suppose it would have its applications in poker games. I could ruin political careers.”

  I smile. He’s like a kid at Christmas. “We’re free, Simon.”

  “Yeah, baby!”

  I pull the phone away from my ear as he hoots, thinking about how many hours we spent complaining and scheming, looking for a way out, looking for leverage to use against Packard, anything to wrest back control. And now we have it. Just like that. I want to feel like he does. “I have to go,” I say.

  “Hey, next time you see Packard, tell him thanks for the superpowers,” he says.

  Once again I picture Packard, out on the couch.

  “We’re free,” Simon says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “We’re our own people.”

  “Damn right,” I say, with an enthusiasm I don’t feel.

  Chapter

  Twenty-two

  I SIT DOWN at Packard’s HQ desk and boot up the laptop. It takes me about half an hour of searching to find it.

  “Harrington,” I say aloud, even though I’m the only one in the little office at that point. Harrington is a name on the customer list, and when you Google Harrington, you get lots of Joyce connections. I dig a bit deeper and see that Deena Harrington’s maiden name is Deena Joyce, and there are tons of Joyce cousins. I follow a link to a Joyce family reunion, and from there, to a Joyce family tree, where I discover that Deena’s husband, Dern Harrington, went missing twenty-two years ago in July—the summer the abandoned Riverside school mysteriously collapsed. Further poking reveals that her father, Marcus Joyce, and her two brothers, Carl and Conner Joyce, went missing that month, too, along with several others. The bodies in the wall. Packard probably Googled each name along with Goyce to find connections. One wrong letter.

  A little more research gives me three addresses. Families with children reside at two of them; the third is a rental property.

  I go and find Francis and Rondo in the hall. “It’s the Harringtons. The Dorks are the Harringtons.”

  Francis gives me a hard look through his soda-bottle glasses. “And you know this how?”

  Rondo turns to me; quickly I skunk my mind with the Wham! song. “A tip. I can’t reveal my source, but I have an address. It’s real.”

  Rondo crosses his arms. “We’ll put it on the list for somebody to run down.”

  “No,” I say. “This has to be taken seriously.”

  “Then why are you skunking me?” Rondo demands.

  I turn to Francis. “What would you do if you were one hundred percent sure you had the name and address?”

  “Does Packard know about this?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  Francis studies my face. “How is it that he’s sleeping? He didn’t plan to sleep until that dream situation was cleared.”

  “No matter how strong a person’s will, he can’t stay awake indefinitely.”

  Francis says, “Packard can.”

  “He’s been up for days! Don’t discount me, Francis. What would you do if you were one hundred percent sure on an address for the Dorks right now? Even ninety percent?”

  “See, that’s the thing. No offense, but this bit with
Packard … and you’re under a certain amount of strain considering your relationship with the mayor.…”

  “Like I’m the hysterical squeeze?”

  Silence.

  Part of me wants to tell him I pulled it from Packard’s mind in a dream, but would that reveal too much of Packard and Otto’s past? How much of it has Francis guessed? He didn’t know Packard and Otto back then. Nobody alive did. Except maybe the Dorks.

  “Look, the hysterical squeeze has the ultimate lead. The hysterical squeeze is going to go over there herself if you don’t want to help.”

  He’s shaking his head.

  “You have nothing. I have a lead. Humor me.”

  After a little more argument he relents. “What kind of place is it?” he asks. “You get a satellite view?”

  I drop my car at my place.

  An hour later I’m sitting in the old white van with Francis, Rondo, and two of Rondo’s security firm employees—hulking ex-mercenaries in matching knit black caps. One wears a shark’s tooth necklace around his ropy neck; it’s so tight, it seems like it might burst off at any second; the other has a long braid.

  We’re parked across the street, a few doors down from the Harrington rental property—a blue rambler with no apparent exterior surveillance. Or at least, that’s what Rondo has concluded after creeping around the neighborhood in his cable guy outfit. This lack of surveillance suggests that the house isn’t the Dorks’, but much to everybody’s annoyance, Francis says we’ll watch it for a while. We don’t need that long. At 12:15 p.m. a man wearing antihighcap glasses emerges from the house. “Holy shit,” Rondo says.

  The man gets into the car and drives off.

  “Were those black striped Vans he had on?” Francis asks. “Anybody see?”

  Nobody is sure, but they could be the sneakers Covian saw one of the Dorks wearing. Magazines are put aside and the binoculars come out. Suddenly it could be something.

  “Lunch run,” Francis says. “See if he comes back.”

  Sure enough, the man returns twenty minutes later with a tray of three coffees, two large bags from Burger Qwik, and several newspapers clutched under his arm. And the shoes are black striped Vans, the same color and brand Covian saw.

  “Three coffees, three Dorks. Thanks.” Rondo turns to Francis. “How’s that shoulder feeling?”

  “Angry,” Francis says, loading up a gun.

  “Maybe one of the coffees is for Otto,” I say. “Maybe there’s only two guys and Otto.”

  Francis looks at me sadly, and then he tries to hide it by wiping his mouth. The mercenaries are doing gun-loading and belt-clicking things.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t have the cops or more guys or something?”

  “Don’t you worry, buttercup,” Francis says. “Anything more is extra time and a herd of elephants. We’re going to get these sons of bitches now while they’re eating. Eating cuts their awareness.”

  “You’ll be careful though, right? I mean, if there’s a danger and they freak on Otto …”

  “Just you wait,” Francis assures me. “We’re going to freak on them, and we’re going to pull Sanchez out of there.” He wants to hit fast at every entrance while they’re gathered around the food.

  The mercenary with the shark’s tooth necklace points out that the new moon was last night. “The closer to the new moon the better to start any military action,” he explains to me, though he doesn’t seem to have the buy-in that Francis did on the food thing.

  As the girl, I’m to wait outside in the van and honk once if anybody else arrives. Or more, slide down in the seat, then honk. And on the off chance the Dorks run out, I’m to write down license plate and car details.

  “The Dorks are going down,” Francis says.

  They have lots of guns of different sizes as well as a small battering ram that looks like a metal log with handles. Rondo and Francis will take the front, and the two mercenaries will go in back through the porch door. The mercenaries leave first, loping down the sidewalk; they’ll come in from the other side of the block.

  Rondo and Francis steal across the street, as much as two guys with a battering ram can steal, and creep across the lawn to the door. I roll down my window and sink in my seat. It’s like watching a cop show except I’m scared out of my mind. Be careful, I whisper over and over, feeling like my entire body is suspended in air.

  The whistle goes up—the mercenaries’ signal—and then the high-pitched crash of breaking glass. Right after, Rondo and Francis bash in the door with a bang and then disappear, leaving the battering ram in the doorway.

  I wait, straining to make out anything inside the dark rectangular hole where the door was. There’s a pale area to the side that might be stairs or a table.

  Please let him be all right, I whisper, clenching and unclenching the strap of my bag. I wait. A minute. Two minutes. Cars go by now and again, but nobody comes out of the blue house, and the ram just sits there in the open door. A jogger comes up the street, but he doesn’t seem to take note that it’s like twenty degrees and the neighbor’s door is wide open.

  I wait. The second hand on the dashboard clock clicks around.

  What does it mean? We should’ve had a signal.

  Movement at the door. A person? The ram disappears inside the house and the door shuts.

  I stiffen. Who was it? One of our guys? A Dork? I would’ve thought one of our guys would’ve waved or given the thumbs-up.

  I slide lower in my seat. A neighbor two doors down gets into his car and drives away. An empty school bus rumbles past. The Harrington home stays quiet. How could we not have developed a backup plan or at least a signal? And they turned off their cell phones before they went in.

  I wait. Four minutes go by. Six. I consider calling the cops, but they never wanted the cops involved. I try Carter to get his advice on it. Voice mail. I try Packard. Voice mail. I dial Simon and he answers.

  He’s on the beach with Ez; at least something’s right. I tell him what’s happening. He is very strong on my not calling the cops. He thinks I should creep as close to the house as possible and get a better sense of the situation. It’s only dangerous if they catch me, after all. Simon’ll call the cops if he doesn’t hear from me in twenty minutes.

  It sounds like a good plan to me. I look around for a weapon to bring. Nothing. My stun gun will have to do. I climb out of the van, shut the door softly, and start off around the block; I’ll come at the house from the back like the mercenaries did.

  I feel like a criminal, especially when I get to the other side of the block and have to traipse through a person’s yard and up along their hedge. I hide behind a tree at the corner of four yards. The Harrington yard has no trees, though you can see tree stumps where they recently had them. Most of the snow has melted.

  Still no sound or light from the house. The back glass sliding door is broken—it looks like the Kool-Aid Pitcher guy burst through it. If I got nearer, I’d be able to hear what’s going on. I take a deep breath, put my head down, and dash up along the hedge and creep along the side of the house, stopping just shy of the bashed-in door. No sounds at all. It’s weird.

  I listen, watching the gray sky, gripping my stun gun tightly. Just quiet. What does it mean? Is everybody in the basement? Slowly I slide my head toward the opening. I feel the heat of the home on my cheek. And then the end of a gun barrel on my forehead. A hand grabs my hair, pulling me into the room. A sting on my arm where glass from the door frame scrapes. Somebody takes my stun gun, my phone.

  Otto’s voice: “No!”

  My eyes adjust to the dimness and I spot him tied to an elevated chair. “Otto!” One side of Otto’s face is covered in blood, his shirt is ripped nearly off him, and his cap is gone. The hair on the side of his head looks clumped, like his head’s been bleeding. But he’s alive. Relief and alarm rage through me. “Otto!”

  It turns out to be a woman who pulled me in. She lets go of my hair, but she keeps her gun on me. “Where’d you come from
?” She’s maybe forty years old, all muscle-bound, wearing antihighcap glasses, of course. Deena Harrington. “You hear me?”

  “I was out there. Waiting.”

  Otto casts an angry glance across the room; I follow it and see Francis, Rondo and the mercenary with the braid, all laying prone on the floor, faces down, hands knit behind their heads. Two Dorks, also wearing the glasses, stand over them holding guns.

  “She was supposed to wait,” Francis says.

  Did the mercenary with the shark’s tooth necklace escape? My spirits lift. Surely he’ll know what to do, who to call. Then I spy him sprawled next to the wall, near the front door. He’s bloody, and his neck looks severely wounded. “We need to call an ambulance!” I say. “He needs medical attention!”

  “Not anymore,” Deena says, practically squeezing my arm off.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Oh my God!”

  She gives me a jerk. “Cry and we’ll kill you next. Heads up, T!” She throws my phone to one of the Dorks guarding our guys. “See who she called.” Clearly Deena’s the leader.

  T is a short guy with a red nose and eyes that droop at the sides, antihighcap glasses riding down low on his nose. He checks my phone.

  I turn back to Otto. “You okay?”

  He just shakes his head. Does he mean, No, I’m not okay? Or, Don’t talk?

  “Two disconnects, and a connect to a Simon five minutes ago.” T looks up. “Simon.”

  Otto’s expression darkens. Simon’s not the team player you want in a pinch.

  Deena yanks my arm. “What do you have arranged with this Simon?”

  “Nothing!” The strangest thought occurs to me here: I could zing her. I’m touching her, after all. But I can’t bring myself to. For so long, I believed zinging random people would fry my brain. You don’t just turn that off.

  “Don’t fuck around,” Rondo says from the floor. “Call Simon and tell him we have things under control.”