Exit Strategy

by Charlton Pettus

  Pat readjusted his free arm and put Jordan in a headlock with their legs intertwined, hunched over. Jordan heard his breathing in his ear, guttural and savage. “Neil! Get him off!” The pressure increased on his neck, and Jordan felt like his head was going to explode. He bit down as hard as he could and twisted his head to the side. There was a terrible scream and he felt the thing between his teeth separate with a harsh grinding sound. Something was tugging at the corner of his mouth like a string. Pat’s grip loosened and Jordan twisted away and the stringy thing snapped. They were separated by a couple of feet and Pat was holding his hand and screaming. Blood was rhythmically pumping through his fingers and occasionally bubbles would form, swell and pop with a sticky slowness. Jordan had something hard and rubbery in his mouth and he spat it out. It took a moment to realize it was the top half of a finger. It rolled under the tire of the truck and Pat fell to his knees, his bleeding hand pressed to his belly as he dug with the other hand.

  Suddenly there was a stinging sensation in Jordan’s leg and his entire body went rigid. It felt like every muscle was contracting as hard as it could. He collapsed to the ground, unable to move. He saw Neil walking toward him with a vicious smirk, holding the Taser.

  “Nice toy you got here, Billy.” He touched the trigger and Jordan’s body contorted again.

  Neil kicked him in the stomach and ribs repeatedly. Jordan heard another rib snap like a rifle shot. Neil kicked him in the face, splitting his lip. Blood filled Jordan’s mouth again. He couldn’t move or protect himself. He was going to die. Then headlights swept the parking lot as someone pulled around the side of the warehouse.

  “Shit, we gotta go,” Neil yelled to his partner with one last kick at Jordan’s face as he pulled the Taser darts out of his thigh and emptied his pockets.

  “What about my fucking finger?” Pat screamed, blood-flecked foam flying from his mouth.

  “Bring it. We’ll go to hospital, see if they can put it back.” Neil was laughing. “Put it on ice or something.”

  “Ice?” Pat screamed. “I don’t have any fucking ice!”

  Neil climbed up into the cab of his truck. “Then put it in your fucking mouth, keep it wet.”

  Pat wiped off the bloody finger and tucked it in his cheek, looking for all the world like a redneck with a good-size chaw. He picked up Jordan’s head by the hair and spat in his face, then head butted him right on the bridge of his nose. There was a brilliant flash of white light and then darkness.

  61

  CASABLANCA

  Stephanie was crawling out of her skin. Alex had brought a bottle of something red and expensive. They watched the movie all together in the living room, plates of spaghetti and turkey meatballs balanced on their knees. Finally, during the scene where Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman finally kiss, Haden fell asleep curled up at the end of the sofa with his head on Stephanie’s lap. She looked down and Sophie was asleep, too, leaning back on the sofa with her mouth open, chin slack. Stephanie paused the movie.

  “Help me bring them upstairs, will you?” Stephanie asked as she stood up and heaved Haden over her shoulder. When both children were tucked into Sophie’s bed, Stephanie said, “I should really hit it, too. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Come on, it’s almost over,” Alex said, restarting the movie and refilling their glasses. She was going out of her mind; she was desperate to talk to Simon, to see what else he’d found.

  Don’t trust anybody. That was the message. Simon had been shaken. No question of believing her now. But what did it mean? She couldn’t focus on anything. The day had been endless. She needed to know more. She wanted to trust Alex, to confide in him, tell him everything. But she couldn’t. Don’t trust anybody.

  And I’m so sorry, S. The other message Simon had found. What did that mean? Sorry for what? What had he done? Did he mean about the girlfriend, the whole secret life? Or was that even real? If he was alive, who could say what was true? It was overwhelming. She blew her breath out, venting her impatience and frustration.

  “Sorry,” Alex said, taking his hand from her shoulder. She hadn’t even noticed.

  “No, it’s not you. I was thinking about this situation at school. It’s just annoying.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

  “No, I don’t want to think about it. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Okay.” On-screen Bogart was watching the plane with Victor and Ilsa taxi down the runway.

  “I’ve seen this movie twenty times,” Alex said, “and I still well up at the end every time. You know,” he said as Rick and Renault walk into the mist, “they shot two versions of the ending. No one knew how it would end, whether Ilsa would leave with Victor or Rick. Hard to imagine it any other way now. And of course when they made it the war was still going, everything was up in the air. Crazy, isn’t it?” The credits rolled by.

  “See,” he said, “1942.” She followed his finger—MCMXLII—and did the quick calculation in her head.

  “Yeah,” she said distractedly. “I never knew that.”

  MCMXLII—1942. What was it, something... Then it hit her. She felt her gorge rise so suddenly she almost choked. She jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen; she almost made it.

  She threw up half into the sink full of dishes, but chunky vomit—pink with wine and tomato—splattered the floor and the cupboard.

  “Jesus, Steph, are you all right?” he said.

  She pulled away. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t know, the wine, maybe. I’ll be okay. I should go to bed.”

  Oh God, keep it together. He must hear her heart hammering in her chest. Her mouth was dry and sour, her stomach acid and still rebelling. Sixty repeats. Always sixty. Jordan had a reason. Roman numerals. LX. Sixty. LX. Alex. Jordan had made it part of the flag; it was that important. Alex. Who did this? Alex. And she’d almost told him. All the memories flooded back—the looks, the comments, the feelings she’d had and filed away. She didn’t question it for a moment. She had learned to trust her gut; it had been pretty clear this time.

  She wet a dish towel and started wiping up the vomit. “I’m okay, Alex, really. Please. I’m just going to go to bed. I need sleep. I’ll be fine.” She forced a weak smile. “I promise.”

  “You won’t let me help you clean up and—”

  “No. I’m much better. I just had to get it out. I feel so stupid. Don’t make it worse.”

  She felt like she was going to fall over. She gripped the counter so hard her fingertips went white.

  “Okay,” he said and leaned to kiss her forehead.

  She turned her head. “Good night. It was sweet of you to come over.” Her face felt cool and was beaded with sweat.

  When the outer door closed she fell to her knees and retched convulsively. There was nothing left to throw up but bile and spit. Her head throbbed as she pulled herself shakily back to her feet and ran the cold water in the sink. She splashed her face repeatedly until she felt her heart steady and her breathing settle into a manageable rhythm.

  The kitchen phone was an old-fashioned wall mount with a long coiled cord. It was a ridiculous Luddite antique but she loved it. When she spoke on it she would try to get all the twists out by working them back toward the handset. The repeated worrying of the cord had made the coils flabby and the cord twined on itself in a lumpy plait. Her fingers went to work as she waited for Simon to pick up. It was like knitting; her mind played no active role in the brisk dexterous manipulations.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded frayed. Not just exhausted but disoriented. She realized how thrown he must have been by the revelations of the past day and a half. His ordered world had been destroyed just as hers had. How could you adjust to a reality where dead people sent you messages in their genetic code and you couldn’t talk about it to anybody except the dead man’s wife who until yesterday had been a widow? And where was the dead man n
ow?

  “Hi, Simon, it’s me,” she said.

  “I see that. There’s nothing new. I’d have called you.”

  “I know. I’m not calling to bug you. I figured out the sixty repeats. It’s roman numerals, LX. It means ‘Alex.’ He wants us to know it was Alex.”

  The line was silent. Stephanie could feel him thinking, putting himself in Jordan’s place.

  Finally, “Right.”

  There was a weariness in his voice, a resignation, an acceptance of the absurd new rules in this absurd new world he found himself in.

  “We’re not crazy,” she said quietly.

  * * *

  From the backyard, the kitchen looked like an amber aquarium, its large bay window bulging out of the boxy clapboard. The low incandescent light shone warm and liquid through the clear cold air outside. The yard was dimly shadowed in moonlight scattering off the ice-crusted snow. A single set of boot prints led to the fence where Alex stood under a sickly elm watching Stephanie twist the phone cord around her fingers.

  62

  FEDA

  He couldn’t see. There was pain but he couldn’t tell where; it seemed to be everywhere at once. Slowly it began to localize. His head. There was a sharp long burning running from the back of his head down his spine. His face felt swollen and the left side of his lip and the left cheek were numb, though a dull throbbing ache seemed to emanate from somewhere in that area and radiate through his head in waves. He tried to move his fingers. The right hand twitched with a jolt of fresh pain but the left seemed frozen in a loose fist. He tried to turn on his side but the searing fire that ripped across his chest made him cry out. He heard a strangled croaking sound from just off to his right and realized it must have been him. He strained to open his eyes. With a sound like masking tape coming off the roll, his right eye opened a little. He was peering through strings of pus. The view was unintelligible. Light from somewhere, fuzzy. Some shadows. One of the shadows separated from the rest and hovered just in front of him, blocking out most of the light. A voice.

  “You are hurt, Amerikaayi.” Young, just a child. A boy. “Drink this.” Jordan felt pressure against his face and a warm liquid ran down his throat and the side of his face. “You must sleep.” And he did.

  * * *

  “Hey, Steph, it’s me. Just checking in to see how you are. I hope you’re feeling better and, ah, I guess that’s it. Give me a call when you get a sec so I don’t worry.” Another call was coming in. He clicked over.

  “Mr. Prenn, good morning. This is Detective Herron.”

  “Hello, Detective. How can I help you today?”

  “I just wanted to return your laptop, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll be here all day. Drop it off anytime.”

  “I’m right downstairs, sir.”

  “Of course you are,” Alex said with a grim laugh. “Come on up.”

  “Nice of you to call in advance,” he said, opening the door.

  Herron held out the laptop. “There was nothing on it,” he said, eyes sweeping the apartment casually, “but you knew that. My guys said the history had been selectively purged.”

  Alex smiled. “You know, sometimes my girlfriend surprises me with her resourcefulness. There are things I like to keep private.”

  “Of course,” Herron said, smiling in return and placing the laptop on the console. “Can I be totally candid with you, sir? Off the record?”

  “Sure.” Alex nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

  “Let me tell you what I think.” Herron kept his tone conversational, almost chatty, no point in going fishing in an aircraft carrier.

  “I think you and Stephanie Parrish have had an ongoing relationship, probably for quite a while. And of course your partner had his own little side project. I’m thinking you knew about his but he had no idea you were banging the missus.” Alex didn’t say anything but shifted his slouch a little lower on the wall.

  “For a while I thought he found out and freaked, but now I don’t think so. I think you were planning on getting rid of him for years. You manipulated the company’s stock price to make yourself rich while leaving him almost busted. Meanwhile you’ve got him insured up the ass. So when he’s gone your girlfriend gets rich and you two can be together. Of course, you have to wait a decent period so no one thinks anything’s funny. How am I doing so far?”

  “Incredible. Please go on,” Alex said.

  “Okay, feel free to jump in if I miss something. So you and the missus hire someone to make the hit while the Professor and Mary Ann are having their lost weekend on the Cape. This bit’s a little off topic, but if I had to guess I’d say you had a hand in encouraging him to take that little trip, maybe even pretended to cover it up with the lovely widow to be.” Alex nodded in mock appreciation.

  “As far as I can tell, your hitter is DC, maybe a freelancer. He’s tough to get a bead on. Though, between you and me, I think I got a good picture of him coming up here so, maybe, fingers crossed.” At this point Herron was pretty sure he caught a ripple in Prenn’s bland facade.

  “I’m a patient man, Mr. Prenn. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder. This isn’t over. I will be your shadow, your constant companion. Oh, and by the way, and this is none of my business, but does the widow know about the hookers and the bondage shit? She doesn’t strike me as the kinky type. Too uptight. Never know, though, I’ve seen it all. Now your stepmom on the other hand...”

  Alex put his hand up. His face was calm but serious. “That’s enough. You’ve got a lot of speculation and theories. If you had anything else, you’d arrest me. The reason you don’t have anything is because there’s nothing to have. This whole lively little fantasy is just that. Pure fantasy, untainted by the merest hint of anything as prosaic as the truth.

  “You have no idea who we are. I admit, there are aspects of my life that aren’t entirely PG, but that’s not a crime. You’ve got it all wrong. I loved Jordan. I would never, ever have done anything to harm him. I don’t give a shit if you believe it or not. It’s the truth. You have taken a pile of partial information and conjecture and woven a picture that I’m sure you believe to be true, but it isn’t. Stephanie Parrish and I are friends. No more, and if you knew her at all, you would see how absurd you look trying to paint her as a killer.” He shook his head.

  “I feel like you’re a decent guy under all this tough-cop bullshit. And I know I rub a lot of people the wrong way. But I’m asking you as nicely as I know how to let this one go. Let it be. None of the scenarios you’re imagining are true. However, some of the people who’ve turned up in your little net are people truly best left alone. And some of the others are innocent, innocent people who will get hurt despite never having done anything to anyone. I implore you, Detective, walk away.”

  In spite of himself Herron almost believed him. He wanted to say, Hey, if the murder and stock manipulation thing doesn’t work out, you might want to think about a career in Hollywood, but thought better of it. Left it at a simple “Have a good day, Mr. Prenn,” as he stepped into the elevator.

  * * *

  Alex let out a deep breath when the detective had gone. He hoped he’d been convincing.

  Herron had a lot of it wrong but not enough.

  * * *

  Thirty-four Hoxton Square was a nondescript two-story white brick building just off the park. There were two separate entrances; a flight of stairs led to the formal front door and a small wrought-iron gate guarded the entrance to the lower level. Originally that door had been conceived as a service entrance, then, in the 1970s, the lower floor had been converted into an independent unit. Over the past thirty-five years it had served primarily as a psychiatrist’s office. The doctor’s successful practice had eventually allowed him to buy the building. He had kept the lower unit as an office while living in the upper rooms with his young Italian lover, a
former patient. In the end the doctor turned out to have been neither a terribly good psychiatrist nor a very good judge of character as the boy had bludgeoned him to death one night with a plaster reproduction of a Greek kouros.

  Exit Strategy had taken the entire building over in the mid-noughties. The upper floors were tastefully done in Edwardian furnishings and housed the offices. The lower level was never seen by the clients and was decorated in timeless Pentagon gray. The innards of the company were here out of sight of its more presentable face above.

  Sam was at a terminal when Dennis rapped on the doorframe. “Ah, you’re back. Good. How was Dubai?”

  “Fine. He’s coming in, nowhere else to go at this point. Saudis told him to go fuck himself.”

  “Of course they did. Self-righteous pricks to the last.”

  “Listen,” Dennis said, “I got a call this morning from Washington. Someone ran your picture through CIA facial recognition. People are unhappy.”

  “Who ran it?”

  “Don’t know, but I got the picture.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

  Sam studied the shot. It was taken from above, grainy low-res. Security camera, it looked like. Then he recognized the hallway. “Son of a bitch. Fucking Prenn.”

  63

  WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

  Voices, nearby. Hushed, urgent tone. They were arguing. His left eye was a nonstarter but his right opened a little. He saw a group of people across the room. They were dressed in a motley assortment of parkas and sweatshirts as if they’d just come from a giveaway at the Goodwill. Everything still hurt but in a manageable, compartmented way. He tried to turn his head and groaned. The voices stopped and they all turned to look at him. A young boy separated from the group and rushed to his side.

  “You are awake, Amerikaayi.”

  As his eye focused he took in the room. It was basically a lean-to made of tarps, scrap plywood and tires. The dirt floor was swept clean and the chinks in the walls were filled with rags and balled-up T-shirts. Seven stern faces gathered around his cot. They looked Middle Eastern, dark complected; the men wore beards and the women’s heads were covered.