The Naked Edge

by David Morrell

  Hide and seek.

  He passed a newspaper that someone had stuffed into a garbage bin. Making sure than no one was near him, he pulled out the paper and studied his photograph on the front page. Aaron, you son of a bitch, I should be getting laid on the Riviera right now.

  In a fury, he read that Aaron and his wife had managed to post bail and been released. It gave him savage pleasure to learn that Global Protective Services was about to collapse. Only a fraction of what you deserve, you bastard. Aaron and his wife had been allowed to leave Louisiana and fly to New York to begin the process of dissolving the company.

  “If he had been available to us, the mission would have been a success,” the swarthy man had said before Carl blew him up.

  Well, let's see about that, Carl thought.

  Hide for the rest of my life?

  Aaron, I'll prove to you how good I am.

  On a bench ahead, a man slept next to a bicycle. The man had beard stubble and matted, dirty hair. He wore a ragged jacket and filthy jeans. Attached to the rear of the bicycle, a small cart contained plastic bags of what appeared to be even more ragged clothing. A cord led from the man's wrist to the bicycle, a burglar alarm.

  Carl checked that no one was paying attention. He unclipped his knife from his pants pocket, thumbed the blade open, and sliced the cord. He wheeled the bike out of earshot (it had only one gear and didn't make the clicking sound of sports bikes). He stopped just long enough to pull a ragged blue shirt from a bag and pull it over the brown shirt he'd bought in New Orleans. Then he got on and bicycled away. Like a motorcyclist wearing goggles and a helmet, a ragged homeless man on a bicycle, towing his few meager possessions, was invisible.

  He still had the newspaper from the waste bin. When he felt that it was safe to stop, he planned to study the personal ads and buy another used motorcycle. There was always the risk that he'd be recognized, but he would sense if that happened and make sure the man selling the motorcycle couldn't warn anyone. He didn't have enough cash to buy as good a bike as the Yamaha he'd abandoned in Mississippi, but then the bike didn't need to function long. His destination was only five hours away.

  16

  After Cavanaugh cancelled yet another assignment and set down the phone, he sensed the receptionist standing in his office doorway. “Yes?”

  “You had a dozen more calls.”

  Exhausted, Cavanaugh glanced at his watch. The time was shortly after five p.m., and he had several more clients to talk to. “Anything urgent?”

  “They all seem urgent.”

  At the desk, Jamie typed computer keys as William spoke into a phone, arranging an auction for the Gulfstream.

  “One caller's more insistent than the others,” the receptionist said, holding up a list. “So far, he contacted us eight times.”

  “Must be a really angry creditor. What's his name?”

  “Lance Sawyer.”

  Cavanaugh straightened.

  Overhearing, Jamie frowned. “But isn't that the name of the old man who taught you and Carl how to make knives?”

  Cavanaugh grabbed the list and pressed the phone number on it.

  William looked puzzled. “What's going on?”

  Cavanaugh activated the speaker function on his phone. On the other end, the phone rang only once, its tinny buzz filling the room.

  Immediately, the three of them heard a man's voice. “Hey, Aaron, how's it going?”

  Cavanaugh clenched his fists as he leaned over the conference table. “Fabulous.”

  “Not likely. I read in the newspaper that you spent time in the slammer yesterday. Sorry to learn about all the trouble you're having.”

  “Try to sound sincere.” Cavanaugh watched Jamie and William approach the phone, listening to the smooth voice that came from its speaker.

  “Is the FBI trying to locate where this call's originating from, or are you and the government not on such great terms any longer?”

  “To tell the truth, Carl, I was so eager to talk to you, I didn't think to alert them.”

  “The truth's always nice, not to mention rare, coming from you. Half the directional work's already been done for them anyhow. They know I'm in Chicago.”

  “Chicago?”

  “Haven't you been watching television? The Carl Duran show?”

  Instantly, Jamie went to a cabinet in a corner and turned on a television.

  “Afraid I missed it,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Oh, it's getting big ratings. Lots of action, suspense, and mystery.”

  The television was tuned to CNN, where a reporter stood in what looked to be a train station, nervous-looking passengers going past. The words LIVE FROM CHICAGO appeared at the bottom of the screen. The program changed to video from a security camera mounted in a corner. The image showed passengers crossing the terminal. The picture became magnified, focusing on a man who resembled Carl (the cheeks were fuller) as he approached an exit. A policeman hurried toward him. A flash filled the screen. Even with the television's sound at low volume, Cavanaugh heard a powerful detonation. The crowd screamed, charging toward the doors.

  “I'm watching it now,” Cavanaugh said. “Nicely done.”

  “That's high praise, Aaron, considering that you don't believe anybody can do anything better than you.”

  “I always admitted you made knives better, and you're certainly a better swimmer.”

  “Gosh, all these compliments are going to my head.”

  “Turn yourself in, Carl.”

  “Right.”

  “You can't hide forever.”

  “I can give it a try. That abortion-clinic bomber lasted five years in the woods.”

  “Freezing his ass in the winter. Living off acorns and lizards in the summer.”

  “Yeah, good buddy, but he wasn't trained the way you and I were.”

  “I'm serious. Turn yourself in, Carl. I can arrange for you to do it safely.”

  “Golly. I appreciate your concern.”

  “You can bargain with the authorities. Give them information about the bastards who hired you. Negotiate for a bearable prison sentence.”

  “Don't I wish. See, the problem is, I don't have anything to reveal. I dealt with one guy. He told me nothing about his organization. I don't even know what his real name was.”

  “Was?”

  “He's dead. An unfortunate plane explosion. Aaron, don't bullshit me. We both know, if I turn myself in, the government'll go for the death penalty. A thousand people are dead, for God's sake. The government'll snuff me the way it did that guy who blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City. I don't like that option a whole lot. My only chance is to play the game.”

  “Game?”

  17

  Carl lied. He wasn't anywhere near Chicago. His newly acquired motorcycle had taken him two-hundred-and-fifty miles west, where he now sat on a picnic bench, watching a shallow creek meander through autumn-brilliant trees while he spoke to the phone.

  “The game, Aaron. That's all there is. That's all there ever was.” A chill wind bit into him. “So here's the deal. I'm offering you one last chance to play. Tomorrow night. The usual place. But if you don't show up or you bring help, you'll piss me off even more than you already have. If you betray me again, I'll come to you, but the next time, you won't get fair warning. It'd be nice to meet your lovely wife.”

  Through the phone, Carl heard a noise as if a hand slammed a table.

  “Now you're threatening my wife?” Aaron shouted. “You cocksucker!”

  “That's the spirit, Aaron.”

  Carl broke the connection.

  18

  Hearing the dead air, Cavanaugh slowly lowered the phone and deactivated its speaker function. His heart pounded with rage. Gradually, he became aware of Jamie and William staring at him.

  “‘One last chance to play. Tomorrow night. The usual place’,” Jamie said. “He's challenging you to a fight.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “One on one.”

>   “That seems to be the idea.”

  “Do you know the place he means?” William asked.

  Cavanaugh thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  “Where?”

  Cavanaugh didn't answer.

  “You're not seriously thinking about accepting the challenge,” Jamie wanted to know.

  “I hate him so much. Everything he's done to us. You have no idea how much I'd like to.”

  “But,” Jamie said, “you won't.”

  “You heard him. He's giving me a chance at him. If I don't take it, his target will be you.”

  “Not if you phone Mosely and Rutherford and tell them about this,” William said. “It'll go a long way toward getting the FBI on your side again. They'll order the place—wherever it is—surrounded. A SWAT team will take care of this.”

  “But what if they can't. The place I think Carl means, there are too many ways for him to see if I betrayed him and brought help. Too many ways to escape. I'm willing to bet my life, but not Jamie's.”

  “Don't I have something to say about that? What if he wins?”

  “Then he'll leave you alone. But he isn't going to win.”

  “Did he ever win before?”

  “When we were kids.”

  “Well, you're not kids any longer! If the FBI doesn't get him, we'll deal with the consequences together. But I won't let you use me as an excuse to satisfy your hate and possibly get yourself killed.”

  Cavanaugh studied her.

  “William,” he finally said. “I assume it's easier for you to negotiate in person than on the phone.”

  “That's correct.”

  “Then arrange a meeting with Mosely and John as soon as possible.” Cavanaugh picked up the phone and made a call of his own. When a voice answered, he said, “Get the Gulfstream ready to fly in an hour. . . . Selling it? Not just yet.”

  19

  “I'm amazed,” Mosely said. The lights of Washington's Capitol Building gleamed beyond his office window. “Shocked, in fact. You're actually following proper procedure instead of showing everybody what a hotshot you are.”

  “All I ever tried to do was the right thing,” Cavanaugh told him.

  “Sure. Of course, it would have been even better if you'd alerted us before you made the call so we could try to trace it. But I guess I'm asking for too much. This ‘usual place’ he referred to. I assume it's the farm where the old man taught you and Duran to make knives.”

  “No.”

  “Then where is it?”

  Now Cavanaugh looked at William.

  “Do we have an understanding?” the attorney asked.

  “Counselor, I don't make deals.”

  “We're not asking for a deal. My client is willing to cooperate to the fullest extent. But he wants that taken into consideration when his case comes to trial.”

  “Consideration. Oh, he'll get plenty of consideration if he doesn't cooperate.”

  Rutherford sat next to Mosely at the conference table. He leaned forward, one friend to another. “Where's ‘the usual place’, Aaron?”

  “A park in Iowa City. It's down the street from where he and I used to live.”

  “A park?”

  “Willow Creek. Carl and I played there often when we were kids. We used to pretend we were special-operations soldiers shot down behind enemy lines. We hid in the bushes and trees and kept the enemy . . . people walking through the park . . . from noticing us.”

  “Keep talking, Aaron.”

  “Then we changed the game and pretended we were on opposite sides. We had rubber knives, and we hunted each other. We got so good at hiding that sometimes it took all day before we finished the game.”

  “Who won?” Rutherford asked.

  “Sometimes I did. Sometimes Carl did.”

  “So you assume he's inviting you to have one last go-around?” Mosely asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Instead of trying to escape.”

  “Maybe Carl doesn't think he can escape. Maybe he figures he might as well amuse himself in the little time he has left.”

  “Well, it's for sure he can't escape,” Mosely said. “You're one hundred percent confident about this hunch of yours?”

  “It's not a hunch. Carl wouldn't have been vague about the location unless he knew it was the only place I'd think of. The usual place where we played the game.”

  “You'd better be right,” Mosely emphasized. “If this is part of his strategy, if he's using you to jerk us around and you fell for it, I won't be happy, and that means you won't be happy. Tomorrow night, he said?”

  Cavanaugh nodded.

  “The fallout from what happened in New Orleans is so complicated, I can't possibly get away. In fact, I'm expected right now at another meeting.” Mosely stood and looked at Rutherford. “You're in charge of counterterrorism. Make sure you catch this guy. Assuming this isn't just a big joke on us.”

  Mosely picked up a briefcase and left the room.

  Cavanaugh thought, He's setting up John to take the fall if anything goes wrong.

  “John,” Cavanaugh said, “your friendship means a lot to me. I believed I was doing the right thing. I still do. I never meant to put your job at risk. I never thought it would seem I abused your trust.”

  “Things don't always turn out the way we want,” Rutherford said.

  “I'm sorry.”

  The office felt cold.

  “Tomorrow night?” Rutherford asked.

  “Yes, but he'll start earlier.”

  “Have you got room on your fancy plane for an FBI SWAT team? And this time, you don't carry guns. This time, you're truly a civilian.”

  20

  Cavanaugh wasn't prepared for the changes. Driving into town from Iowa City's airport, he asked the FBI driver to head toward the park.

  “Might be risky,” Rutherford said. “If Duran sees you in a van full of people . . .”

  “At eight in the morning, we're just one in a stream of vehicles going to work. He won't even try to monitor traffic at this hour. What he'll look for is stationary surveillance.”

  “I made sure there isn't any,” Rutherford said. “I don't want to scare him away. Tonight, after he has a chance to go in and get settled, we'll surround the park and tighten the noose. Assuming you're right about this.”

  “I guarantee he's in there at this very moment.”

  As their driver turned left onto West Benton, one of the streets that flanked the park, Cavanaugh couldn't adjust to how much traffic there was. In his youth, this had been a sleepy area of town, on the verge of farmland. Now, except for the park itself, the area was thick with houses and apartment buildings.

  With greater surprise, Cavanaugh peered to the right and saw that the park wasn't the same, either. Dense woods had been cut down, leaving trees only along Willow Creek. Clearing the area had made room for more soccer fields. On the opposite end, near where there had once been a cornfield, a children's climbing-gym area had been added.

  “In there right now?” Rutherford said. “It doesn't look to me as if he has many places to hide.”

  21

  “I've got a bad feeling,” Cavanaugh murmured to Jamie and William as they followed Rutherford and his men into Iowa City's modest-sized police station.

  The noisy lobby was crowded with law-enforcement officers, the overflow from a crammed conference room. Two men in uniforms, one police, one military, pushed through and spoke to Rutherford.

  “Not enough room for a briefing,” Rutherford said when he returned. “We're switching locations to the National Guard armory.”

  Time, Cavanaugh thought. Even though, it's eight-fifteen in the morning, we'll soon run out of day.

  “For that matter, I'm told the armory might not be large enough,” Rutherford said, hurrying with them from the police station. “The current estimate is, we need at least a thousand people to seal off that park. Police officers and sheriffs are coming in from all over the state. We've got FBI agents and U.S.
marshals flying from as far as St. Louis, Denver, Minneapolis, and Chicago. Through Homeland Security, we also received permission to use the local detachment of the National Guard.”

  “Another alert,” William said. “Another stress on a severely stressed system.”

  “Reminds me of New Orleans,” Jamie said. “Let's hope for a simpler outcome.”

  “Damn it.” A policeman pointed. “Here comes a reporter.”

  22

  The armory filled rapidly. Its high ceiling caused a harsh echo as hundreds of military and law enforcement personnel gathered in front of a platform. Behind a podium, a large map of Willow Creek Park hung from a portable blackboard.

  Standing to the side, Jamie said, “I don't see how they can get organized soon enough.”

  “John has a lot of amazing skills,” Cavanaugh told her. He pointed toward where Rutherford spoke to a half-dozen intense civilians, all of them holding notepads and tape recorders.

  “ . . . let you observe the briefing,” he heard Rutherford say. “. . . let you take notes and—”

  “Photographs? What about photographs?” a reporter demanded.

  “Only at the end. But I don't want you printing anything until I tell you.”

  “We can't promise that.”

  “It's a matter of national security.”

  “What are you talking about? What's the emergency?”

  “In return for complete access, I want you to swear you won't leak the story. If word about what's happening reaches the general population, we'll have so many curiosity seekers at the park, our target might slip away.”

  “Park? Target?”

  “Watch, listen, and learn,” Rutherford said, mounting the podium.

  He did indeed have a lot of amazing skills, not the least of which was the clear, authoritative way he conducted the briefing. As the disparate group concentrated on what he said, they stood straighter, assuming similar body language, showing signs of coalescing into a unit. The information that their objective was related to the terrorist attack in New Orleans and the subsequent nationwide manhunt certainly got their attention.