The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  “Naw, you're never too old to act like a kid.”

  “Tell that to my old lady.”

  “Well, if you're sure you want to sell . . .”

  “Need to. Don't have two jobs anymore. That's how you caught me at home. The factory where I worked my day job got shut down and moved to Mexico. I really need the money. But like I told you on the phone, I won't take a check.”

  “Don't blame you. Can't be too careful. Here's the three thousand in cash. Now all you need to do is sign the ownership papers, and I'll make sure the title's transferred to me.”

  “Hate to part with her.”

  “Well, you can count on me taking care of her for you.”

  “Thanks, mister.”

  “I don't suppose you've got a helmet.”

  “In the garage some place. My wife got it for me, but I never bothered. Always made me feel trapped.”

  “Bad for your health. Gotta stay safe you know.”

  “You're a decent enough guy. Tell you what, I'll throw in the helmet and my goggles.”

  “Naw, that wouldn't be right. Sounds like the twins are waking up. As you say, you can use the cash. I wouldn't want to take advantage. Here's another fifty bucks.”

  “Much obliged, mister.”

  A minute later, his helmet and goggles adjusted, Carl fired up the old Yamaha and drove from the modest neighborhood.

  By then, it was twelve fifteen. The sun was pleasantly warm. The breeze created by the motorcycle soothed him. It had been years since he'd driven a bike, and now he wondered why he had ever stopped: the mobility, the freedom, the independence. Plus, unless you wore leathers and a Hells Angels’ scowl, people tended not to pay attention to you, as the number of accidents in which cars ran into motorcycles confirmed.

  Enjoying the vibration of the engine between his legs, Carl passed a police cruiser. Looking straight ahead, he concentrated on traffic and obeyed the speed limit, confident that the cops in the cruiser wouldn't pay attention to him. The goggles and helmet indicated how safety-conscious and law-abiding he was.

  He found his way to Interstate 10 and headed west, skirting Lake Pontchartrain. Impressed by the expanse of the water, he reached Interstate 55 and proceeded north, soon passing Lake Maurepas: the fishing boats, the waves, the evocative smell of the water, the feeling of freedom. Blending with the flow of cars, he luxuriated in each moment and discovered that eighty miles went by like they were nothing. Before he realized, he was in the small Louisiana city of Hammond, which for his purposes had one major asset: an Amtrak station. He knew this because familiarity with the train routes out of New Orleans was part of his contingency plan, just as he'd known the bus routes.

  But after getting directions to the train station, he decided that if the station in New Orleans would be under surveillance, didn't it make sense that the nearest Amtrak station in another city would be under surveillance also? Hell, eighty miles was nothing. He stopped for a burger, fries, and a Coke at a drive-in restaurant. They tasted as delicious as when he'd been a kid. Then he returned to Interstate 55 and headed farther north.

  In an hour, he crossed into Mississippi, and now he felt less threatened, although he didn't delude himself that the hunt for him would not continue to be urgent and widespread. The next Amtrak station was twenty miles farther in another small city, McComb. But again, his instincts warned him away. Too small a station. Too easy to be spotted. By then, it was four in the afternoon. Fatigue insisted, but he couldn't rest until he was confident that he'd found sanctuary. And food. He couldn't seem to get enough to eat. But there wasn't time.

  He drove another ninety minutes to the large Amtrak station in Jackson, Mississippi. Making sure that his fingerprints were wiped clean, he left the motorcycle on a side street a few blocks from the station. By midnight, the bike would be gone, no way to trace it to him.

  Trying not to attract attention by hurrying, he went to a convenience store. He kept his back to the security camera while he bought shampoo, toothpaste, a toothbrush, shaving soap, a razor, and a packet of Kleenex. Subduing his urgency, he shaved in a men's room in the train station, making himself as presentable as possible. He went into a toilet stall, locked it, then stuffed Kleenex under his lips and into his cheeks, changing the profile of his face, making it look puffy rather than gaunt-cheeked, as the newspaper described him.

  He leaned forward at the ticket counter, reducing his height.

  “Chicago,” he said. “This evening.”

  “You just made it. Arrives at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Got anything in the sleeping car?”

  “Let's see. Yep. One compartment left.”

  “Must be my lucky day.”

  9

  “Your honor, my clients request that the conditions of their release be relaxed sufficiently to allow them to leave Louisiana and fly to New York City. Their corporation, Global Protective Services, requires their immediate presence to oversee urgent financial matters relative to the continuing existence of their company. If my clients are unable to perform their corporate functions, the result will be calamitous, destroying their livelihood and that of hundreds of employees. The charges notwithstanding, Mr. Stoddard has an exemplary record as a protective agent credited with saving the lives of numerous international figures who function at the highest levels of finance, government, and entertainment. Prior to that, he defended the United States as a member of the elite military unit: Delta Force. You have heard the respect that Mr. Yamato and other members of the World Trade Organization have for him and his wife, so much in fact that they guarantee bail. My clients offer to surrender their passports.”

  10

  The rhythm of the wheels on the railroad tracks gradually soothed him. Clickety. Clickety. For a half hour, Carl sat next to the small table in his compartment. His hand on his pistol, he expected that at any moment, the door would burst open and men would throw flash-bangs at him. He kept the window shade drawn, but then he worried about what he wasn't able to see. Raising the shade, he saw only passing countryside and gathering shadows. After his heartbeat calmed, he went to the compartment's sink, removed the wads of Kleenex from his mouth, and brushed his teeth (no matter how filthy he was on a mission, he always felt clean if he had a chance to brush his teeth). Then he washed his hair in the sink and used a wet towel to swab the dirt and river smell from him, all the while keeping his pistol close and his gaze on the locked door.

  Hunger demanded to be satisfied. At the convenience store, he'd bought a Coke, two ham sandwiches, and a bag of potato chips. He'd wanted much more, but he'd been afraid of being remembered if he bought too much food in addition to his other purchases. Clickety. Clickety.

  The sandwiches were stale and tasteless. He washed them down with the now-warm Coke, seasoning them with the equally stale potato chips. Clickety. Clickety.

  Outside the window, the countryside rolled by, vague trees and hills in the darkness, glowing windows in farmhouses, then the glare of towns. He shut off the light, eased onto his bunk, set his knife and pistol next to him, and stared at the ceiling. The passing shadows rippled over it. Mercifully, he slept.

  But then the clickety, clickety slowed. The change of rhythm woke him. Hearing the squeal of breaks, he grabbed his pistol and peered out the window, only to see a small train station, a passenger departing into the gloom. No one else was in view. Nothing to be alarmed about.

  He started to lay back but then noticed a sign on the station's wall: NEWBERN-DYERSBURG, TENNESSEE. A hand seemed to reach inside his barely full stomach and twist at his guts. The northward Amtrak line passed through the extreme western edge of Tennessee, he knew. A hundred miles to the east was Nashville, where Carl's father had taken the family after his drunkenness caused him to lose his stockbroker's job in Iowa City.

  In Nashville, the arguments and beatings had worsened. One night, Carl found his father unconscious at the kitchen table at three in the morning. The lights were on. A half-empty bottle of peppermint bran
dy sat next to him. The peppermint soothed the stomach inflammation that years of too much alcohol caused.

  Carl had laid out bread, mustard, mayonnaise, lettuce, dill pickles, and a chunk of ham, as if his father had decided to make a sandwich. His father was so stupefied that the muted sounds didn't wake him. Carl applied mustard and mayonnaise to one slice of bread. He took a sharp knife and cut into the ham. He used a dishtowel to wipe his fingerprints from everything. He used the same towel while he held his father's hands and applied fingerprints to bottles, plates, and the bread wrapper.

  “Uh,” his father said.

  “Ssshh,” Carl said.

  He raised his father from the table, then hefted him to the counter and the half-prepared sandwich. He put the sharp knife in his father's right hand and knocked his father's legs from under him, making sure that the knife plowed into his father's stomach when he hit the floor. His father tried to moan, but Carl pressed his hands over his father's mouth. As a pool of blood spread, his father trembled, then lay still. Avoiding the blood on the floor, taking care that none was on him, Carl went back to bed. He enjoyed the most satisfying sleep of his life.

  Now Carl wished that the same peaceful sleep would come to him. Watching the ripple of shadows across the train compartment's ceiling, he tried to think back to when, if ever, his life had been the way he wanted. There had been a time, he decided.

  11

  Daylight. The Illinois train stations went by. Champaign-Urbana. Kankakee. Homewood. That name filled him with bitterness. Next stop: Chicago.

  He used his cell phone.

  A woman's pleasant voice said, “Grand Cayman bank.”

  “I need to wire-transfer nine thousand dollars to my bank account in Chicago.” That account, under an assumed identity, had been carefully established two years earlier. The nine thousand dollars was less than the ten-thousand-dollar transaction amount that banks were required to report to the federal government.

  “Certainly, sir. May I have your account number and your password?”

  Carl recited the number from memory. “The password is ‘stiletto.’”

  “Thank you, sir.” A moment lengthened. “Sir, would you please repeat that account number?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I may have mistyped it.”

  Carl repeated it.

  “Sir, our records fail to show any funds in that account.”

  “But there should be a million dollars!”

  “No, sir, I'm afraid there aren't any funds.”

  “Try that number again.” Carl recited it slowly.

  “Yes, sir, that's the number I'm accessing, but the account does not have a balance.”

  The undigested sandwiches from the night before soured Carl's stomach. “Was there ever any money in it?”

  “Yes, sir. As you mentioned, a million dollars. Yesterday afternoon, it was wire transferred to another bank.”

  Carl swallowed something bitter. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome.”

  12

  Cavanaugh admired the Gulfstream's interior, the last time he would see it.

  “The jet needs to go back to its base in New Jersey anyhow,” William said. “The expense is the same whether we're aboard or not, so we might as well take advantage.”

  “It never occurred to me to ask how much it costs to fly this.”

  “Four thousand dollars an hour.”

  “And we crossed the country several times. No wonder the company's going bankrupt.”

  “When you're protecting a Saudi prince, the fee's high enough to earn out,” William said.

  “But when I'm fighting to stay alive, it's too expensive.”

  The powerful engines whispered as the jet reached its scheduled altitude, streaking through clouds.

  “Less than a week ago, you didn't want anything to do with Global Protective Services,” Jamie said, “and now you hate to lose it.”

  “Yes,” Cavanaugh told her bitterly. “Because of Carl.”

  13

  The train arrived in Chicago ten minutes late. Slouching, Carl blended with the departing passengers on the damp, shadowy concourse. He carried his briefcase in his left hand while his right hand was primed to reach for a weapon. He had strips of a towel under his lips and inside his cheeks, altering his features. His ears had Kleenex wadded neatly into them.

  Keeping in the thick of the crowd, he entered the brightly lit terminal, the din of which was muffled by the padding in his ears. He tensed when he saw two policemen studying everybody. They stopped a tall, thin man, who looked somewhat like Carl, and asked him questions.

  Carl showed no reaction. Face blank, eyes forward, shoulders drooped, he kept moving, not breaking rhythm, just another zombie. Take it easy, he thought. You'll be fine. The “you” was deliberately chosen, a way of disassociating from the moment and keeping his emotions in check. If they really believed you were on a train that arrived here, there'd be a small army to welcome you, not a handful of cops, he tried to assure himself.

  Approaching an exit, he glanced at a newsstand, then looked ahead, as if the newspapers meant nothing, even though a large photograph of him stared from the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, and USA Today.

  Not a military photograph. Not him young and in uniform. This was a recent photograph of him among a crowd on a street. New Orleans. Taken by a security camera, it depicted him chasing somebody. Raoul. Digitally magnified and enhanced, alarmingly clear, the image showed Carl in profile. More than in profile. Three quarters of his features.

  Silently cursing, he saw another policeman scanning the crowd and warned himself, Be cool. No one'll recognize you from that picture. It isn't a full face, and the angle's downward. Everything's going to be fine.

  Yeah, sure, right. He could no longer objectify. Suddenly “you” became “I”. I'm being hunted by the bastards who hired me and by every law-enforcement agency in the country. Every intelligence agency, also. I've got fifty rounds of ammunition and two thousand dollars. What the hell am I supposed to do?

  Play the game.

  For the rest of my life.

  A policeman appeared at the exit ahead. Shielded by businessmen, Carl kept walking. The policeman straightened, paying attention to him. Immediately, Carl reached into a pants pocket and removed an object he'd taken from the briefcase. A small canister. As the policeman blurted something to a microphone attached to his shoulder, Carl pulled a pin from the canister and dropped it behind him. The canister clanked onto the floor and made several people turn to look.

  The policeman drew his gun and stepped toward Carl, raising a hand to warn him to stop. Carl pretended not to notice.

  The policeman shouted, “Stop right there!”

  At once, the canister, a flash-bang, detonated. Having counting the seconds until it did, Carl knew when to close his eyes. Even then, and even though the flash was behind him, the searing brightness pushed through his eyelids. Anyone facing that direction, including the cop, would be blinded. The bang from the device was literally deafening, except for Carl, who'd used Kleenex to protect his eardrums.

  The force of the two onslaughts stunned the policeman and shoved him backward. People screamed. They scrambled over each other.

  “Terrorists!” Carl shouted. “A bomb!”

  The panic worsened, everybody charging toward the exits. Carl moved with them. Instead of fighting their fierce momentum, he allowed it to take him. The next thing, he was outside, the stampede spreading into traffic while he blended with people charging along the sidewalk.

  14

  The Manhattan headquarters for Global Protective Services looked as busy and professional as ever, but Cavanaugh knew that the strength and solidity were only apparent. With Jamie and William, he entered his office. An outsider would not have realized that, less than a week earlier, the place had been littered with bomb wreckage. Now a close look showed Cavanaugh that the hasty cleanup was only cosmetic, that the damage had been disguise
d, not repaired. Like the corporation, he thought.

  “I can't imagine how expensive our lease is.”

  “A half million dollars a year,” William said.

  “Amazing that the company stayed in business as long as it did.”

  “Two executive officers dead and one in a detox ward.” Jamie slumped in a chair.

  “It's going to be hard dismantling the various operations,” Cavanaugh said. “Jamie, you're the one with a business background. How do we handle this?”

  “For starters, we alert the heads of our foreign offices and tell them to cancel all upcoming assignments. Then we negotiate to terminate all our office leases and have other protection firms take over the jobs already in progress. After that, we—”

  15

  A cold October wind breathed a premonition of winter. Especially after the warmth of New Orleans, it made Carl shiver. But as he retreated along the walkway next to the Chicago River, maintaining a disciplined, inconspicuous pace, appearing to enjoy the view of the water, he was determined not to go into a store and risk buying a jacket. After all, the photograph in the newspapers was likely to be on television as well. Word would have spread quickly that he'd been spotted in Chicago. People would pay attention to strangers.

  His discomfort gave him a glimpse of the future: decreasing possibilities and increasing deprivations.

  What happens when my money's gone? Do I start holding up liquor stores? Hell, I can't show my face to spend the money anyhow. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I can't risk going to a hotel, even a seedy one. It won't be long before the government offers a reward. Do I hide in an alley the way I did two nights ago? Do I hole up in the woods?

  Play the game.