The Seven Sequels bundle

by Orca Various

  Which is a darn good point.

  Another thing I imagine Carver saying: “You claim that these guys came after you and that they tried to kill you, but instead the dead body we have is some semi-homeless guy who you say you happened to run into outside your hotel. You say you felt bad for him when the shift manager ran him off and you went after him and gave him a few bucks, and that’s when you also gave him your hat. He told you he had a part-time job at a used-car lot—that’s what you claim, right? Did he tell you it was Honest John’s? He did, didn’t he, Rennie?” I remember now that he did. He mentioned it to one of the security guards, who, if the police check, will confirm it. “And now he’s dead. Not you, Rennie, but this guy you happened to run into and who probably seems like he’s disposable. Is that what you think, Rennie? That because he’s down and out, he’s worthless, something you just use and throw away, like toilet paper?”

  Can you tell I’ve lived my whole life with the armed forces version of the Grand Inquisitor? Or that I’ve had a run-in or two with the cops? I know how these guys think. They’re so predictable, it’s almost depressing. I can play out the whole thing in my head.

  Carver: “I don’t suppose there were any witnesses to what you say happened tonight, were there, Rennie? Oh, Honest John was there? Well, let me ask you this. According to what you told me, he didn’t show up with his shotgun until after a whole lot of gunplay. That is what you said, isn’t it? So where was he before that? He surprised you, didn’t he, Rennie? The place looked deserted. Hell, it was deserted except for you and your victim.”

  Me: “Wait a minute. My victim?”

  I imagine my cockamamie story looking even more cockamamie now. I imagine Carver retracting the benefit of the doubt he extended to me now that there have been two shootings and I’m the only witness to both. It’s the kind of thing that makes a good cop wonder.

  Carver: “You were there, Rennie. But you didn’t call it in. The only reason we know there’s been a shooting is that we got the call from Honest John.”

  I’d stake my life on that being true.

  Carver: “You didn’t stick around this time either, did you, Rennie? Too bad, because your story might have been believable if you had. I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, Rennie, or where you fit in. But the balaclava thing? I don’t know if you’re brain-dead or what, but it was dumb to add that part. You know why? Because it doesn’t make any sense.”

  And he would be right if he said that. It doesn’t make any sense.

  I get stuck on that while I drink my second cup of coffee. How come the shooters show their faces to me when they kill a cop, but they hide their faces in a deserted used-car lot when they try to take me out?

  Could be that they didn’t see me last night until it was too late, just like Spider Face probably would have finished me off and left me lying on the street alongside Duane if that door on the fire escape hadn’t clanged when it did?

  And then I get stuck on something else.

  I think about what I almost told Carver back at the police station but didn’t because I was afraid he’d think I had something to do with what happened to Duane. I wish now that I’d spoken up. Because if I tell him now, I can imagine how that conversation will go.

  Me: “There’s something I should have told you.”

  Carver: “Yeah? What’s that?”

  Me: “When I left Eric’s house yesterday (was it really only yesterday?), after I talked to the old man, I saw this suspicious guy lurking around the garage. It turned out it was Duane. I didn’t know who he was then. I’d never seen him before. He was at the side door to the garage, and he was acting strange, like he wanted to make sure no one saw him—you know what I mean?”

  Carver says nothing.

  Me: “He went inside.”

  Carver: “And?”

  Me: “Like I said, he looked suspicious. So I decided to take a look. I found him in the garage. He had a flashlight, and he was looking around. I watched him for a few seconds before he spotted me. He saw something and was reaching for it.”

  Carver: “What was it?”

  Me: “A box. It was up on this storage shelf.”

  Carver: “Did you see what was in it?”

  Me: “No. I said, ‘Hey.’ He shoved the box back onto the shelf, grabbed a shovel and left the garage. When we got outside, Eric was there. He wanted to know what we were doing. Duane said he was going to clear the driveway. I left. But when I looked back, he was gone and Eric was going into the garage. The thing is, I told Eric that Duane was in the garage looking for something. I didn’t say what it was, and he didn’t ask. But I did tell him.”

  Carver: “That’s some story, Rennie. How come you didn’t tell me that before?”

  I know what Carver would be thinking at this point. He’d be thinking I was the one who tipped off Eric to Duane being a cop. I was the one who was responsible for Duane getting killed. And now I was responsible for someone else getting killed, another innocent person. He was probably also going to wonder what else I hadn’t told him. For sure he wouldn’t let me walk out of the police station again.

  But the main reason, the number-one reason, I don’t call Carver right away is that I want to get back into the old man’s room. I want whatever it is that proves David McLean was a spy. I want to know what he did to Curtis’s father. I won’t be able to do that if I call Carver because Carver will want to question me again. He’ll want me to go over everything that happened—again. It will be a miracle if he believes me. And I will have blown the one and only chance I have to get to the truth about David McLean and put this whole secret-identity thing behind me forever.

  The phone in my pocket vibrates.

  It’s probably my grandmother, checking in on me again.

  I pull out the phone and see right away that not only is it not my grandmother, but it’s not even my phone. Somebody else must have dropped this phone in the used-car lot—maybe one of the shooters—and I picked it up, thinking it was mine.

  It’s not a call either. It’s a text message: Did you get him?

  That could mean anything. For example, it could mean, did the owner of the phone—one of the shooters—get me? Did he kill me?

  I check out more of the messages stored in the phone. My whole body tenses up. I can’t believe what I’m reading, but there it is, in digital black and white. Well, black on a green background for the old messages. Black on blue for the latest one.

  I scroll through the phone’s contact list. I slump in the booth. This phone, I realize, is golden. As long as I don’t lose it, I don’t have to worry about Carver. I can do what I have to do and after that I can settle this business.

  As long as no one shoots at me again.

  I check my watch. If Katya and Noah are taking the family out to dinner, for sure they’re on their way by now. I pay for my food and walk back to Curtis’s house for what I sincerely hope is the last time. On the way, I stop at what’s turning out to be my favorite discount store to buy a flashlight and some batteries.

  I get to the house in time to see Gerry helping his father down the porch steps. The old man has his walker, but he’s struggling to get it over the uneven concrete of the walk. He curses. Gerry has to hold him with one hand and keep lifting the walker with the other. They inch their way to the truck parked in the driveway. Gerry finally gets the old man around to the passenger door and inside. He slams the door shut and bellows for Eric.

  Eric appears. “I don’t even want to go,” he says.

  “Tough. You’re coming with us if I have to hogtie you and throw you in the back.”

  I guess Gerry is tough, because Eric doesn’t argue anymore. He shuts the front door, locks it and slouches his way to the truck, where he climbs in beside the old man. Gerry gets behind the wheel and starts the engine. The truck splutters but finally does what it’s supposed to. I watch the three of them back down the driveway in that rusted-out piece of junk and wonder if the place where Noah is planning to wi
ne and dine them has valet parking. If it does, I’d love to see the face of the guy who gets handed the keys. He’s not going to expect a big tip from Gerry, and he likely won’t get one.

  I wait until the taillights have disappeared around the corner before I slip to the back of the house.

  I left the old man’s window unlocked, and nobody has locked it again. Piece of cake, I think.

  Wrong. I find out pretty fast that the window hasn’t been opened in probably a few decades. Either it has swollen in the frame or it’s been painted shut inside and I didn’t notice. I have to throw my back into it before I get it to budge. The window groans and crackles like the brittle bones of a geriatric patient.

  But I do it. I push the window up enough that I can climb through the opening. When I get inside, I close it again to keep the place warm.

  As soon as I’m in the room, I turn on the flashlight. I keep the beam pointed downward, even though there isn’t a single neighbor to notice anything suspicious. I take a long look around. Where does a person start looking for photographs in a room like this? The place is like an archive or something, crammed with books and papers and files. It’s all the stuff the old man has been collecting his whole life.

  The beam of my flashlight falls on the trunk, the one the old man keeps locked. Maybe that’s where he keeps his more personal stuff—such as, for instance, some pictures he took way back when, pictures that prove my grandfather was a double agent. I try to lift the lid, thinking it would be nice if Curtis had left it open. But, of course, he hasn’t.

  So where’s the key?

  One idea that pops into my head right away: it’s in the old man’s pocket. Look at how he started locking his room after he found Katya inside. If I were him and afraid that someone might want to snoop around in my stuff, I’d definitely keep the keys with me at all times.

  On the other hand…

  I remember that when I got his glasses out of his bedside table, there was other stuff in there—odds and ends, the kinds of things people throw into junk drawers and forget about. Or the kinds of things they like to keep close. And I think, if he’s got the key to his room in his pocket, why would he need to take the key to the trunk with him?

  I go back to the bedside table, open the drawer and shine the flashlight inside.

  I don’t see a key.

  But I do see a small leather book with black paper in it. I know right away what it is, because my grandmother has one just like it that was left to her by an aunt of hers. It’s an old-fashioned photograph album. I take it out and flip it open. It’s filled with black-and-white pictures. Each picture is mounted to the page by little black corners, and under each photo someone has written in silver ink, which is what my grandmother tells me people used to do.

  The writing isn’t in English. I think it’s German, but I could be wrong. I don’t have time to give it much thought or even to flip through the pictures. I don’t have time to look at the papers that are folded in between a couple of album pages either.

  I hear something, and I freeze.

  Someone is unlocking the front door.

  I tuck the photo album under my shirt, switch off my flashlight and head for the window. Once I’m there, I hesitate. The window made a lot of noise when I opened it. If I open it now, whoever is out there will hear me. Better to stick where I am and hope that whoever it is won’t come in here. I figure it’s a pretty safe bet, unless Curtis has forgotten something and has given Eric or Gerry the key to come back and get it for him.

  Turns out I’m wrong.

  Footsteps come toward the old man’s door and then stop. Someone jiggles the doorknob.

  “It’s locked,” a voice says. Katya. “He started locking it.”

  “Let me see.” That’s Noah. The doorknob rattles again. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he says. I hear another sound. Something jingling.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a door opener.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “It’s a frat-house staple,” Noah says. “You can’t believe what we’ve got into with this thing. You can’t believe what you can find behind locked doors in university buildings.”

  I scramble into the closet.

  I hear another sound.

  “There.”

  The door opens and light streams in from the hallway.

  I’m crouched in the closet and praying that whatever they came to get isn’t in here with me, because I will have one heck of a time explaining how I got into the house, never mind the locked room.

  “Maybe you should call the restaurant,” Katya says. “Ask them to tell Uncle Gerry we’re running a little late.”

  “You do it,” Noah says. “The number’s in there. Selwyns.”

  I guess he’s handed over his cell phone because a minute later I hear Katya asking to speak to the maître d’. She says that she and Mr. Green are running late and could he please tell her family and take their drinks order? She has a pleasant phone voice.

  “So, where do we start?” she says once that’s done.

  Noah has turned on the lights in the room, and he’s looking around. For a moment he doesn’t speak. Then: “Geez, there’s a lot of stuff in here.”

  “It drives Uncle Gerry crazy,” Katya says. “He says all this paper makes the place a fire trap. But it’s Grandpa’s house…” Her voice trails off. “Are you sure about this, Noah?”

  “Sure as I can be. My grandfather saw him, Katya. He saw Waldmann. He swears it was him. I showed you the picture.”

  “I know, but—”

  “He looks just like your grandfather. And then when you showed me that picture of your grandfather and his father—there’s no mistake, Katya. It’s Waldmann.”

  Now I’m thinking fast. Waldmann is the Nazi who ran the concentration camp Noah’s grandfather was in. Noah mentioned him the first time he was at the house. When Gerry gave Noah a hard time about his grandfather changing his name, Noah asked Gerry about his grandfather—did he change his name?

  Now it sounds as if Noah thinks he did. It sounds as if Noah thinks Waldmann was the old man’s father. That’s crazy—isn’t it?

  But suppose it isn’t.

  Suppose Noah is right. That could mean the picture Adam sent me is of the same guy. Waldmann. It makes sense. If he was a notorious Nazi, and if he did the things Noah says he did, the Americans and the British would have wanted him to stand trial for war crimes. What if he managed to escape instead, like Eichmann? For sure he would have changed his name. Franken was probably his alias, just like Adler was David McLean’s pseudonym.

  I hear a snuffling sound, like someone starting to cry.

  “Katya, it has nothing to do with your grandfather. He was just a kid at the time.”

  “What if he was in the Hitler Youth or something?”

  “All German kids had to be in the Hitler Youth. They had no choice. They had to do what they were told. He seems like an okay guy, Katya. I bet he doesn’t even know all the stuff his father did.”

  I think of all the books in there. All the files. All the magazines and journals. I have the impression that even if Curtis didn’t know about it then, he probably knows now. He knows everything there is to know about the Nazis. Maybe he’s interested because he’s a collector. Maybe he’s a closet Nazi. Or maybe he’s interested because of what his father did. I know if my old man turned out to be someone like this Waldmann, I’d want to figure out why. Why would anyone do what he did?

  I hear the two of them clattering around. Pretty soon Noah gets to the trunk.

  “What’s in here?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s locked,” Katya says.

  “There must be a key.”

  I peek through a tiny crack between the closet door and the doorframe.

  Noah is looking around, as if he expects to see the key lying in plain sight. Then he reaches over the trunk. He gets hold of the massive framed photo of Hitler and lifts it up and ove
r the trunk. He holds it up so he can get a good look at it.

  “Lieben Fritz,” he reads. “Fritz is a nickname for Friedrich. You see? I’m right. I knew it. I bet Hitler autographed this to your great-grandfather, Friedrich Waldmann.”

  Katya stares at it. She doesn’t speak.

  Noah turns the frame around. “Someone’s tampered with it.”

  “That was me,” Katya says. “I dropped it when I was in here last time. Grandpa heard me and—” She stops.

  Noah has set down the picture and is crouching in front of it.

  “I think there’s something there,” he says.

  He digs in his pocket and uses whatever he pulls out—a penknife, maybe—to get the back off the photo. I hear a sharp intake of breath.

  “Jackpot,” he says.

  “What is it?”

  He holds up something. I can’t see what it is.

  “Look at this.”

  Katya bends down.

  “I knew it,” Noah says. “It’s just like my grandfather said—he said they were all crooks and that they all stashed their stuff in the same place. Come on. Help me get this picture out of here.”

  “No!” Katya’s cry surprises us both. “If you take the picture, Grandpa will miss it right away. I want to get this done before anyone suspects anything. I want it over with, Noah. And then I want us to go back to Boston. And I want Eric to come with us. You promised you’d help me with that.”

  “I will.” Noah sounds distracted. I take another look, and I realize he’s writing something down. When he finishes, he replaces the back of the photo and returns the picture to where he found it. “Come on,” he says. “They’re waiting. We’ll have dinner. When we’re finished, I’ll make my excuses. You see everyone off and then come to meet me, just like we planned. Okay?”