Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “Sarah?” Arthur said.

  She heard the group walk off and turned to look. They were making straight for the Edgemont. “What’s wrong?” Arthur said. “Who are those people?”

  Sarah barely heard him. She wanted to call Grace but didn’t have her number. If she went out there they’d nab her. Call the police! No, she couldn’t do that either. “Oh my God!”

  “Sarah, tell me, what’s going on?” Arthur demanded.

  “Those are Walczak’s people. They’re after Grace!”

  Suddenly, the three men who’d gone in came out with guns at their sides. They ran around the corner, disappearing into the dark side street. Moments later, Grace’s little white car came ripping out of there. “Grace!” Sarah shouted. A big silver car appeared, its engine roaring as it sped after her—and there he was. Walczak. “Oh no, oh no!” Sarah said. “I’m so stupid, I’m such an idiot!” She was crying now, everyone in the place looking at her. Arthur rose and lifted her to her feet.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Sarah was furious when they got back to the motel. Walczak was trying to get to her through Grace, her precious daughter. Had she gotten away? Of course she had. Chuck had taught her to drive like a maniac when she was in middle school and the young man was with her too. No, her daughter was fine, she was sure of it. Walczak, that vicious bastard. He had to be told, Hands off Grace. Arthur had warned her not to contact Walczak but she couldn’t resist. She hated that bastard.

  For the last ten years, she’d been a fugitive. It was harrowing, exhausting, and soul depleting. She’d almost turned herself in to the authorities a thousand times but the thought of prison was too terrifying. And then there was Grace. She couldn’t let her down. So she scurried from one bleak town to another, working as a waitress or a bartender, living on tips and staying in depressing motels, never hanging around long enough to make friends. Because of the warrant, she was deathly afraid of being pulled over by a cop. She had to look like an average American nobody. She bought her clothes from the Goodwill, her shoes on sale at drugstores. She gave herself haircuts with a cuticle scissors. She drank too much and watched a lot of TV.

  She thought this would be her life forever until one night she saw a story on the news about high-quality fake IDs from China. You could buy them online for two hundred bucks. Same card material, thickness, bar code, photo, font, even the hologram was perfect. They made them for twenty different states. She used her meager savings and bought the Florida license—a state where she’d never been. If a cop in any of the other forty-nine states scanned the license he’d come up with nothing. She relaxed a little. She decided to go where she’d always wanted to go, stay awhile, maybe make a friend or two. She got a job as a cocktail waitress, rented a studio apartment, and put a vase of marigolds on the tiny breakfast table.

  One afternoon, she wanted something to read and wandered into the local bookstore and there behind the counter was a teddy bear of a man. When she said she didn’t know what she was looking for, he asked her questions that led to her love of art and he showed her books by artists she loved and ones she’d never heard of, and he showed her biographies and autobiographies and books about expressionism, impressionism, romanticism, postmodernism, pop art, cubism, and futurism—all with the unassuming ease of someone talking about their garden or a pleasant day at the beach. He said he was yakking too much and that he did that sometimes and he offered to make up for it with a cup of tea. She accepted and that was the start of it. She had come to believe kindness was the most important quality a person could have, the paucity of it in her life making it all the more cherished. Arthur was not only kind, he was understanding and wise and gentle and she fell in love with him and told him everything and he said you will never ever be whole again until you see Grace and she knew he was right. So they made the long drive to California in his aging brown Volvo, listening to his awful collection of seventies hits, her guilt growing with every mile. Why hadn’t she done this sooner? She was a wimp, that was why. Afraid of the warrant, afraid of Walczak, always afraid afraid afraid.

  They were staying at the Holiday Inn in Phoenix and she was swimming for the first time in ten years, enjoying the cool pleasure of gliding through the water. She thought about the other pleasures she’d missed. Live music and drinks at the Old Corral, getting her hair washed, creating something beautiful with her hands, driving to Reno with Stephanie, eating horrible Cheetos and making fun of their husbands. And loving her daughter. The thought of her made Sarah cry. She was lifting herself out of the pool when the anger she had suppressed for so long came blasting out of her like an F-15 at takeoff. Walczak. Goddamn fucking Walczak. She hated reading about his success, his wealth, and she hated him for other reasons as well. When she got back to the room she told Arthur, “I want a million dollars.”

  “Me too,” Arthur said. “What are we talking about?”

  “I want Walczak to pay me a million dollars or I’ll release the pictures.” She didn’t want to be greedy, but if she was going to be a fugitive for the rest of her life, she could at least be comfortable.

  “That’s nuts, Sarah. Do you know who he is? What he does?”

  “Of course I do. Don’t patronize me, Arthur.”

  “I’m not. I’m just saying it’s impossible. Besides, we don’t need a million dollars.”

  Her eyes spilled furious tears. “He ruined my life, Arthur! I spent ten years being homeless and lonely and afraid.” She clenched her fists and shook them at him. “It’s not about the money, don’t you see? A million, ten million, I don’t care!” She went to the window, stared at nothing, a malicious smile lifting her face. “He will hate this. He will hate being bested by a woman and hate that I’ve got something on him, that he’s the victim now—and most of all?” Her smile broadened and she put her palms on the glass. “He’s not in control.” She laughed. “Oh, I wish I could see him! I’d give anything to watch the smugness wiped right off his stupid face and watch him go to pieces over his gorgeous wife and his perfect son! That would be the best thing ever, don’t you think?” She went quiet, the merriment dissipating into darkness. “He took everything from me, Arthur…everything.” She felt hollow, her voice resounding in the empty space. “He reduced me to nothing. Can you imagine what that feels like?” She looked sharply at Arthur, her eyes so searing it startled him. She spit out the words, “And I’m going to pay that bastard back!”

  Arthur was an activist’s activist. He protested against wars, police brutality, racism, and corporate greed. He’d demonstrated for civil rights, gay rights, the environment, and raising the minimum wage. One afternoon, he was making a speech to a crowd gathered at the border. They were protesting a new section of the wall that was under construction. He got into a shoving match with police. He was arrested on federal property so it was a federal crime and he got a thirty-day sentence. Arthur mistrusted authority to the point of paranoia. He’d read widely on police tactics, intelligence-gathering, espionage, data mining, surveillance, and countersurveillance.

  The first thing he did was make more copies of the Abu Ghraib photos and put them in Dropbox, Mozy, and iCloud, and on an external hard drive he kept at the store. Next was the demand note.

  “If we want to send him an anonymous email,” Sarah said, “why don’t we just go to Kinko’s? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Arthur bought a laptop that would only be used for contact with Walczak and turned it on at public hotspots. He installed something called HTTPS and another thing called Tor. He signed up for an anonymous email account and did some other computer stuff, none of which she understood. After a lot of testing and trial runs, they finally sent Walczak a message demanding a million dollars in cash, more instructions to follow.

  “This is going to be dangerous, Sarah,” Arthur said. “Really dangerous. You can still back out, you know.”

  “No. I want that bastard to twist in the wind.”

  She remembered Walczak chasing
Grace at the Edgemont. That awful man had brought her innocent daughter into his schemes of death. He had to be warned. One night, while Arthur was sleeping, she took the special laptop across the street to a café where they had a hotspot. She sent Walczak an email.

  If you go anywhere near Grace again I’ll release the pictures IMMEDIATELY and you will all GO TO JAIL!

  Satisfied, she returned to the room, put the laptop away, and lay down next to Arthur. She was scared but excited. Life had pushed her around for all those years, life had all the power. Now she would do the pushing. Now she had all the power.

  Chapter Six

  Mr. Brown

  Isaiah didn’t have time to deal with Manzo’s request so he called in the marines. It was early in the morning when two representatives from the Carver Middle School Science Club came to Isaiah’s house. Sometime back, the club members were being bullied by a big kid named Rayo. Isaiah intervened, found an outlet for Rayo’s aggression, and the problem was solved. Phaedra Harris, the new president of the club, was different from the previous office holder, who wore braces, carried a tuba case and a three-hundred-pound backpack. Phaedra wore a light gray business suit, a bright but fashionable ruby-red tote bag, and low heels.

  “Good morning, Mr. Quintabe,” she said, her smile as friendly as her firm handshake. “You probably don’t remember me, but we met before. I was part of the committee that came to see you about Rayo.”

  “I do remember you, Phaedra,” Isaiah said. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “We’re dressing a bit formally today. The Academic Decathlon quarterfinals are this afternoon.”

  “Well, good luck to you.”

  Phaedra was obviously smart but not like the smart kids on TV. She wasn’t acting like an adult. It was as if she was an adult; poised, completely comfortable with herself, none of that uncertain awkwardness common to thirteen-year-olds. If it wasn’t for her age, she could have hosted Good Morning America.

  “I’m Isaiah,” he said to her companion.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Quintabe. I’m Gilberto Cervantes,” Gilberto said. “I have followed your exploits closely, sir. Very impressive, I must say.”

  “Call me Isaiah. And you can drop the sir.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. It’s the way I was raised.” Phaedra looked up at her forehead.

  In contrast to Phaedra, Gilberto was formal and stern, his impatient brow seemingly a permanent fixture. But he was no geek either. No pudginess, thick glasses, or embarrassing haircut. He was handsome in his navy blue suit, his tie tied in a perfect Windsor, his wing tips polished and gleaming. And this wasn’t a kid’s ensemble. His pants weren’t puddled around the ankles and his sleeves weren’t too long. His clothes were tailored, his briefcase expensive. He looked like a shrunken tax attorney.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Isaiah asked. “Water? Cranberry juice?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an espresso maker, would you?” Phaedra said. “I’m afraid I’m running a little slow this morning.”

  They sat in the kitchen, Phaedra sipping espresso, Gilberto sticking with his elaborate water bottle because of his high blood pressure. Isaiah told them about Vicente kidnapping his own daughter.

  “That’s a very serious situation, Mr. Quintabe,” Gilberto said. “But I don’t see a role for the science club.”

  “I need to find him, I need eyes and ears,” Isaiah said. Phaedra was delighted at the prospect. Gilberto frowned like he’d missed a big write-off.

  “I think we can accommodate you, Isaiah,” she said. “I’m sure the club will be happy to help.”

  “I think you’re being a little hasty, Phaedra,” Gilberto said. “The membership might want to vote on it.”

  “No they won’t. They’ll go crazy and start calling themselves agents and operatives.”

  “Rules,” Isaiah said. “This is about locating him. That’s it. You will not get any closer than thirty yards and you will not—” He hesitated. Gilberto had a stylus and was taking notes on an iPad.

  “Please go on, sir.”

  “You will not talk to him, contact him, enter his property, or make yourself known to him in any way,” Isaiah said. “And if you find him you call me immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, that’s clear,” Phaedra said.

  “I want your word.”

  “You have mine.”

  “It’s understood,” Gilberto said. “I have my faults but a lack of ethics isn’t one of them.”

  Phaedra sighed. “Have you any ideas of where we might start, Isaiah?”

  “His friends and relatives haven’t seen him so I’m thinking he’s gone to ground, probably with a woman.”

  “Typical,” Phaedra said.

  “What if he’s left the city?” Gilberto said.

  “Yes, that’s a possibility, but it’s only been a couple of days and gangsters aren’t much for traveling out of the hood—and by the way, I’m paying you for this.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Phaedra said. “You’ve already compensated us more than enough. Getting Rayo off our backs was a huge relief.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree,” Gilberto said. “You may recall that in return for Mr. Quintabe’s services we found Miss Myra’s brooch.”

  “Oh, Gil.”

  “It’s Gilberto. Never Gil.”

  “I’ll pay each member of the club ten dollars an hour,” Isaiah said. “I insist.”

  Gilberto allowed himself a small smile “Plus expenses? There may be transportation costs, meals, sundries and such, and of course, each member will keep scrupulous accounts. You needn’t worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried,” Isaiah said.

  Gilberto glanced at his iWatch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quintabe. But we should be going.”

  “I wish I could give you more to go on.”

  “Not necessary, sir,” Gilberto answered, a little offended. “There’s no need for concern. We’ll handle it from here.”

  “Sundries?” Phaedra said as they went out the door. “Did you actually say sundries? You are so pretentious.”

  “I’m not pretentious, I just behave in a professional manner.”

  “What are you a professional of? The eighth grade?”

  After the kids left, Isaiah decided to go to the wrecking yard. There was no need to, but he wanted to see Grace. He was getting in the car when he noticed a van parked at the end of the block, one he’d never seen before. It was a Ford Econovan, white, no signage, black bumpers, in need of a wash. A million of them out there. A foil sunshade was over the windshield. Why was it there? To save the plastic dashboard on a dented-up old car? A window was half open. Something you didn’t do in this neighborhood unless you were in the car. Was he being watched or being paranoid? Nothing to do but test it out.

  He went east on Broadway going the speed limit. The van didn’t follow him but if these were the people at the Edgemont they were pros. They wouldn’t make a mistake like that. They’d run a box on him. A different car would be behind him, which might be the white Lincoln four cars back. It was dirty. The windows too opaque to see the driver. A second vehicle would be trailing that one. They would switch from time to time so he wouldn’t see the same vehicle in two different locations. Two more cars would be running on parallel streets, staying more or less even with him. No matter which way he turned, somebody would be there to pick him up, everybody in contact by radio. His adrenaline rose. He liked challenges and he enjoyed outwitting people.

  He stayed on Broadway until he approached Los Alamitos. There was a fork there. Left and you merged onto Los Alamitos, right and you stayed on Broadway. The Lincoln was in the left lane and another car was driving side by side, a Nissan Rogue. Isaiah went right onto Broadway. The Lincoln peeled off, the Rogue staying with him. Not conclusive, lots of other cars made the same turn. He drove a ways and turned right on Shoreline Drive and into Shoreline Village, a touristy shopping area. He parked in the lot.
It was almost full. The Rogue parked too but some distance away. Again, not conclusive and he wanted to be sure. He got out of the car and walked into the concourse. Foot surveillance was much harder.

  When he was out of sight of the lot, he jogged to the Queensview Steakhouse. The dining room was on the second floor. He asked the hostess for a window seat and ordered a salad. He saw the tall woman from the Edgemont walking quickly through the crowd, rubbernecking. Yes, they were definitely tailing him. The woman stopped and talked into her collar mike. A few minutes later, her four colleagues showed up. They looked grim, talking a bit before they split up. Isaiah paid his bill, left the restaurant, and took the bike path back to his car. The surveillance was worrisome. It made it harder to see Grace, but getting kidnapped worried him more. If he didn’t get caught alone and on foot he should be okay.

  The team regrouped in the parking lot. The Audi was gone.

  “He made us,” Richter said.

  Owens shook her head. “He didn’t act like it. He was driving at the speed limit.”

  “That don’t mean shit, woman,” Hawkins said. “Why don’t you shut up?”

  The country girl smiled like Huck Finn with a Glock in his pants. “I don’t believe I will. And if you want to make me, well, here I am.”

  “Why do you think he made us?” Jimenez asked.

  “Why would a homeboy come here to shop?” Richter said. “He’s not a tourist. He’d go to Costco or Walmart, not a place like this.” A moment’s pause, everyone wondering why they hadn’t thought of it.

  “Right,” Walczak said like he’d known it all along. “We’ll have a team meeting later. I’ll text you.” Everyone was already walking away. Owens was parked next to Jimenez.

  “I’m going to get something to eat,” she said. “Want to come?”