Joel nodded. Worked fast with a set of keys to cut and strip wires. “Once I get this to work, we’re going to report her stolen. Joyriders. I’ll have it back first thing tomorrow, I bet.”
I glanced around, nervous, hoping he had hidden us well enough. The cops we’d dealt with in these parts had been pretty relentless. We weren’t going to remain hidden for long. I folded up the printout from the rental place, shoved it in my back jeans pocket. Fake name? Maybe, but it was familiar. I couldn’t place it. Maybe it would come to me.
The Tahoe fired up and Joel got out from under there. He led me down the back alley between rows of family homes, came out a block away. One more alley, then a more populated street, a mix of modern business and mid-century private homes. Joel grabbed my hand, interlaced our fingers as we walked beside each other on the sidewalk. Wasn’t long before a couple of local squad cars went streaking by, sirens and lights full-bore. Didn’t pay us any attention. Yeah, to be white and nicely dressed in the Twin Cities. Never mind that they were looking for white suspects. Don’t think I don’t realize how shitty that is … and lucky for us.
I couldn’t help but crack up a little. It was, well, funny.
“What?”
“I was just thinking, this reminds me—”
“Aw, shut up.”
“What? I’m talking about that time we ditched Opie’s car and had to—”
“If it reminds you of that, it’s because we’re making the same fucking mistakes. And if we’re making the same mistakes, we haven’t learned a goddamned thing.”
“About what?”
“Why I keep doing this to myself. Why I bring you along.” Dude was exasperated. “You and me, we work good doing this sort of thing, but, I don’t know. I dig the adrenaline rush. I need it, but I don’t want to lose this job. I love this job! It’s the closest thing to what I wanted to be when I signed up for the Corp. I’m a fucking badass right now. Same as when I helped you. Last thing I need is to be shitty at it now.”
“I don’t get it.”
He stopped walking, let go of my hand. “I carry a gun. I answer to one man. I get a free car. I get free meals, free booze. I get good money without having to take any from my dad. I hang around the rich and powerful, but if the Senator wants one of them gone, I can throw them out. Jesus, this is good stuff.”
“Then why would you keep chasing Dylan if you’re not supposed to? Isn’t that a surefire way to get canned?”
He shook his head. Turned and kept walking.
I caught up. “No, really. I’m serious.”
“If I go into the Senator’s office and say, ‘Listen, here’s what happened to Dylan,’ then I’m a fucking hero. I’m never going to be a hero under Thorn, same way I wasn’t a hero in the Marines. Same way … just forget it.”
He strode off again. Hard to keep up — he was taller and had a wider pace. As I speed-walked after him, I filled in what he hadn’t said. He wanted to make up for what he thought was a cowardly performance in Iraq. When he shot the agent who was assaulting Paula, he did so in the belief that he was doing the right thing, good versus evil, but it cost him his job, very nearly his freedom, had it not been for the fact that his dad was buddies with the just retired Chief of Police … who just so happened to be the very guy who killed Hannah.
Add to that happy coincidence that Joel was the only one in the room with the Chief when he ‘committed suicide’.
So Joel had tried, over and over again, to rise above the one defining moment of his life — freezing when a car bomb took out a wedding party — but no matter what he did, it all turned to shit. And the apparent love of his life, Robin, was there to rub it in his face, time and time again.
I could never figure her out. Would never figure her out, although she sure as hell thought she had everyone else figured out. Constant mind games. Constant psychoanalysis, even though I don’t think she even knew how to spell that word.
What do they call that? Gaslighting? Yeah, taking a pretty decent guy like Joel — if you ignored the fact that he was also a homophobic redneck — and poisoning him against me, his friends, his family, and even himself, so she could have more control.
Everyone saw it except Joel himself.
But at least the poor fool kept trying. Trying real hard. I admired him for that, yet at the same time I wished I could somehow save him from her.
Now, however, was neither the time nor the place. We were too busy being fugitives. Again.
We slipped inside a hip burger joint-slash-bar, standing room only among the tables. A server told us the way it worked: you take a number, then you wait. Shouldn’t be more than an hour. Sure thing, boss. He took our drink orders and handed us a tab with ‘803’ on it. We twisted our way to a clear spot against the wall. Close quarters, but I did the girlfriend-thing of leaning against Joel. He put his arm around me. We both breathed a little easier, although the claustrophobic space and echo of all the hipster conversations made the air thinner, or so it seemed to me.
I went back to my phone. It still showed the name I had typed into the search engine before I dropped the thing. Now, I had the name in my memory and finished the search.
All it took was his official photograph to jog my memory.
“Oh shit! Oh no!”
Joel looked down. “Wait, what?”
“It’s not a fake name. But … there’s no way.”
“Who is it?”
I pulled up his official bio, turned the screen so Joel could see.
His name was Phil Konzbruck, a state representative from Moorhead, the ‘twin city’ of Fargo on the Minnesota-North Dakota border. That was the other side of the state. But the State House was still in session, meaning this guy was probably in the Twin Cities right now.
He was in the Democratic-Farmer-Labor party, our long-winded Minnesotan way of saying ‘Democrat’, and, oh shit again, had just signed on to work with Jolene Buchannan’s campaign.
Greeeeeeeeeat.
I could feel Joel tense up. “Idiot.”
“Look.” I scrolled. Nothing about this guy tells us he’d do something like that. Why? What the hell?”
The server brought our drinks. Bitter-as-shit IPA for Joel, plain ol’ lager for me. I took a few sips, had to shield my glass from people closing in on us. More people coming through the door. This was a terrible way to run a restaurant. When you finally did get a table, you had bystanders right up against you on all sides, watching you eat. Another couple brushed past and settled against the wall beside us, bumping us, sloshing the beer.
“I can’t handle this. We’ve got to get out.”
Joel gave me a squeeze. “Chill, baby. It’s too early.”
Lifted my eyes. “Say what?”
“Credible alibi: This is where we’ve been all night, officer. Lots of people. Waiting on a table. Countless eye witnesses.”
I exhaled. Long one. Then a sip of the beer. Joel had already drunk half of his in one gulp, I swear. “So what now?”
“If the cops were a step behind us at the car place, something tells me they’re probably closing in on this Phil guy, too.”
“Sounds like we’ve hit the end of the road.”
“Unless you get to him first.”
Damn, I’d never seen Joel so proactive before. He’d gained a little ground on me as a strategist. Of course, he was right. The cops wouldn’t risk calling ahead, would they? They’d just show up at Konzbruck’s door.
I tried the number from the printout, not expecting it to ring, but it did. On and on it rang and rang. So I tried a reverse look-up to at least see if it came back in his name. No luck. I did a search for him on Twitter. There he was, and the last tweet was from a day ago, outraged at something a Republican had said about a rapist who got a short sentence. Otherwise, it looked like he tweeted a good five or six times a day. I hoped it was him and not a staffer, some college intern thinking she was saving the country, one tweet at a time.
I didn’t have a Twitter account. J
oel sure as hell didn’t have one. We were up against the clock.
I wanted first crack at the bastard because once the cops solved the problem with the rental receipt, we’d be out of time. I was getting all caught up in the adrenaline again, obsessed about it, just like last time. Felt good. Helped push my mixed feelings about Tennyson out of the way for a while.
Somehow, I found myself at the heart of Joel’s hero campaign.
Yes. Gussied up a Twitter account in no time flat. Made him think we were his friends. @GuardianAngel2K17, because there were a whole lot of guardian angels, apparently.
The whole time I was asking myself Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this? Why, why, why?
Tweeted him a private message: “The police are coming to get you right now. Call me here.” Then the name of the restaurant. Then a public tweet to the same address: “Check your messages.”
Then we waited. I sipped more beer, listened as much lower numbers were called out for tables, and shifted from foot to foot as each went pins-and-needles. We were actually next up for a table when the bartender got on the house mic and called out “Is there a Guardian Angel here? Phone for Guardian Angel?”
Joel looked at me, puzzled expression on his face.
I leaned in and whispered in his ear, “That’s my cue.”
Threaded my way through the crowd until I was at the edge of the bar, told them I was Angel and got a head shake. “Whatever.” He handed over the phone handset, an old fashioned black plastic one attached to the end of a stretched out curly cord.
“Hello?”
“Guardian Angel?” Skeptical.
“Representative Konzbruck, the police will show up at your door very soon asking about a car you rented. That car was involved in a major crime. This is serious. Let me help you get out from under this.”
A long moment of quiet. I covered my other ear. Couldn’t hear anything in that echo chamber. Started worrying he might have hung up.
“Are you there?”
More silence.
But then: “Who are you?”
In a shaky voice, just the way we wanted it.
5
We were not the police. We would never be the police again. At least, I wouldn’t, and from the looks of things, Joel’s career path was leading him ever deeper into the private sector — if they gave him this much freedom in a public campaign, imagine what he could do as a security contractor. He was already interviewing with some companies about that.
So, if we weren’t the police and the police were handling my friend’s disappearance, why couldn’t I just sit tight and wait for the news to come in like a regular guy?
Because fuck that.
Because I didn’t trust cops.
Because I was smarter than they were.
And because this smelled all wrong.
After Konzbruck tried anger, then sarcasm, then “Very funny,” then “Seriously?” we finally got him to accept the bad news.
“All I’m saying is that you should meet with us first. The cops will find you eventually, but you don’t want to be unprepared.”
“I … I need to call my lawyer.”
“You don’t have time! You don’t have anything! All you’ve got is us telling you to take a walk, find a fast food joint, get a milkshake and wait for us to find you.”
“This is … I can’t believe it. I won’t. Wait. There are a few police cars in the parking lot.”
He must have been standing at the hotel room window. So at least he was sufficiently alert.
I tried to regain command of the situation. “What floor are you on?”
“Sixth. Oh God, this isn’t happening.”
“Stairs. Find the stairs.”
Joel showed me a map on his phone.
“There’s a Dairy Queen three blocks from you. You know it?”
“I think I’ve seen it. I’ve never been there. I don’t eat much ice cream.”
“Just go! We’ll meet you there.”
“But who are you?”
“A brunette woman and her bodyguard. We just want to help. Get moving.”
I hung up.
Joel and I didn’t discuss it. We walked out of the restaurant, took a couple blocks to a busier road, and caught a cab.
He was sitting in a booth, an untouched milkshake on the table in front of him. Exhausted eyes, a frown. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He was watching us from the moment we were dropped off outside the door until I slid in across from him, while Joel motioned for him to scoot over, keeping the man pinned in.
Then he curled his lips and raised a cynical eyebrow. “I know who you are. I can’t believe I walked into this.”
“Really, Sherlock? Who are we, then?”
“You, the woman, the transsexual, who works for Marquette. And your boyfriend, the soldier.”
Joel sighed. “Marine.”
“Oh, you don’t say? I’m impressed.”
I hadn’t realized that my little secret was common knowledge, at least in the enemy camp. All my attempts to hide it, and yet it seemed that we were leaking bad. “How did you know about me?”
“You thought that was classified information? I’m pretty sure Andrew’s own staff told us. It’s a good move, I’ve got to say. A trans-forward Republican. That’s damn near unbeatable in a state as weird as ours. Not even California can match that.”
I grinned. “Call me Hannah.”
“Fine.”
“Listen, I wasn’t joking. We need to show you something.”
I nudged Joel and he pulled out his phone, started playing the videos, first up: Dylan’s car. The Rep peppered us with a few questions as it ran. Each time, we paused and explained. Kept up the stop and go until the two men got into the rental SUV outside the Mall and drove away.
And with every interruption, I was getting more pissed. How dare he ask these questions as if he was clueless! How dare he!
He watched, and when it was done, he blinked at us, as innocent as a dildo in a gay bar. “What … what was all that about?”
Joel and I looked across the table at each other. I felt a little electricity, some of our old ‘cop telepathy’ crackling back to life.
I took a deep breath. “It’s simple. You tell us what you’ve done with Dylan. We’ll go get him, and we won’t get the police involved.”
“The police?”
“The police. They’re coming for you anyway, but we can help if you give us Dylan.”
“Who’s Dylan? Why are the police coming? Jesus, is this a joke?” He scanned the room, glanced over both shoulders, then gave us the kind of look that dogs save for when they’ve shat in your slipper. Was he genuinely naïve or just playing us for suckers? Fuck, the guy was trying my patience, and it seemed like I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
Joel unfolded the printout from the rental car counter, shoved it over to Konzbruck. “This you? This your card, your details?”
He looked at it. Got real close. Examining every line, murmuring, “Doesn’t make sense, I don’t, what, how?” Then he pointed at a line, moved his finger along like a grade-school kid learning to read. Now I was getting really angry.
He lifted his head. “This phone number isn’t mine.”
I stared right back at him, open disdain in my eyes. “I know. The rest is, though.”
“Yes, but—”
“So you gave them a fake phone number.”
“Why would I do that if everything else is correct?”
I hesitated. Yeah, why would someone do that? “That’s all well and good—”
“Have you called that number?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Would you call it again, please?”
Another glance between Joel and me. I never said that telepathy was always right.
“How about this?” I asked. “How about you do it from your phone?”
“Fine.” Konzbruck pulled out his phone, dialed the number. Put it on speaker.
What was h
e going to say when it rang and rang like it did for me? Well, nothing, because after three rings, someone answered.
We think. They didn’t say anything. They waited.
The representative finally said, “Hello?”
Nothing.
Next try. “Is this Mr. Konzbruck? Philip Konzbruck’s number?”
“Can I ask who’s calling?” Male. Couldn’t tell the age. Slightly high-pitched.
“Do you know anything about a rental car that listed this—”
“Representative Konzbruck is not available at this time. I’ll let him know you called.”
“Who is this?”
Whoever it was hung up.
Konzbruck’s jaw kept hanging open.
“I have no … that’s … I’ve never seen that number.”
“Do you memorize all your phone numbers? Office? Cells for advisors? Cheap pay-as-you-go phones for campaign volunteers?”
“Of course not, but …” He started to stand, bashed his knees on the underside of the table. He shoved Joel’s shoulder. “I need to go. Let me out.”
Joel was a rock.
I sighed. “Just tell us where he is, Phil. Please, Phil.”
His cheeks and ears were glowing red. He stabbed his index finger at me. “Listen, I’ve had enough of this. I’ll talk to the police myself. I’ll call my attorney. Someone is trying to get one over on me, and it doesn’t make any sense. I am not intimidated by you and your thug here.”
Joel reached over, laid his palm on top of Konzbruck’s outstretched finger, and gently pushed it to the table. “Too bad.”
Too bad indeed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time — beat the cops to the suspect and save the day. But Konzbruck wasn’t budging. We weren’t prepared to move on to ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’, as our government likes to call its barely legal forms of torture these days, and neither of us held any more cards to play.
Except one.
So I played it. The one I was told explicitly not to play anymore.
I called Andrew Marquette on his direct line.
Within the hour, we were at Marquette’s home in St. Paul. I remember, not all that long ago, being brought here for the first time as Hannah, the night I faked killing Joel and was trying to get the cops on my side. When Marquette’s guys — Thorn and Dylan — forcibly escorted me to see the Senator, I didn’t have a clue what to expect. But then he and I came to an understanding in his kitchen, while he munched on cereal in the predawn hours. He’s a very smart guy, knows people inside and out. In spite of him asking me to rub out a police chief, once it was done he wasn’t jubilant, wasn’t flippant. He grabbed Joel by the shoulder and asked him if he was okay. That impressed me. We don’t often encounter politicians who understand the world around them, how they come across to people, how to talk to us without all those layers of false civility and rehearsed statements, layers of protection. It was quite possible Andrew was the real deal. A new type of Republican.
Castle Danger--The Mental States Page 6