They're Watching

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “I was a custodian,” he finally said. “At a high school outside Pittsburgh. The water heater gave out, and we were tight, you know, budget cuts.” His thumb skimmed across the inside of his wrist again, as if smoothing the skin. “A guy on the school board was in on some low-income housing deal, they were tearing down a complex, whatever. So he got a big water heater from there.” He gestured at the screen, the water heater. “They delivered it for me to install. An older unit. I said I didn’t like the looks of it. They told me it wasn’t a beauty pageant, that it had been tested and met whatever qualifications. So I put it in. The thing is . . . the thing is, they’d prepped it for delivery. Drained it, I mean, and wired the pressure-relief valve so the leftover water wouldn’t drip out during transport.” He fell silent.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I drank back then. Not anymore. But I may have had a few nips that morning. The morning I installed it, I mean. Just to get going. Third of November.”

  I glanced over at the date stamp on the screen: 11/3/05. My skin, tingling with anticipation.

  “Through that wall’s a basement room. Shop class.” He pointed, his hand shaking, and there on the inside of his wrist was a thin white ridge of scar tissue. His other hand lay in his lap, exposing a matching razor-blade remembrance. “When the wall blew apart, one kid got killed. Another got her face mostly burned off. That she lived . . . well, in some ways that’s even worse.” Again he thumbed the line of one of the scars, rocking a little. “During the investigation someone found the flask in my locker. There were liability issues, you know. And they said I forgot to remove the wire, so the pressure-relief valve couldn’t open. Steam built up.” His voice thickened. “They never found any part of the wire in the whaddayacallit.”

  I managed to say, “Debris.”

  “Right. No piece of anything big enough.” He broke off. “I knew I never would’ve forgotten. But as the whole thing went on, the questions, I wasn’t positive. Then I wasn’t sure at all. I’d installed security cameras down there a few months before, and I asked to see footage, so I could know. I needed to know.”

  “Why have security footage in a basement?”

  “Kids were sneaking down there smoking, having sex. They found a few condoms. So the principal pulled me aside at the beginning of the year, told me to put in a surveillance cam. I don’t know who reviewed the tapes or anything, but kids got pulled out of class and spoken to, and then they stopped going down there. But when I asked about the footage after the explosion, all I got was, ‘We would never spy on members of the student body.’ I even went to the basement with the investigators, but the camera had been removed. So this footage, this footage”—he jabbed a finger at the TV—“never existed.” His face broke, and he bowed his head but didn’t make a noise. “A cop buddy of mine told me later that illegal monitoring like that’s a real big deal. If they recorded students having sex, they could’ve been busted on kiddie-porn charges, even. So they hung me out. What they didn’t take from me, I found a way to throw away myself.”

  I did my best to keep my eyes from those slash lines on his wrists. Instead I looked at my hands, scuffed up with scabs and scar tissue of my own. Regret, and the marks it leaves on us. There I was, punching a dashboard over a shitty run of luck and my wife’s transgression. It seemed so insignificant compared to the dead kid and the faceless girl riding his conscience, driving him to the razor’s edge.

  “I been dead, mostly. Moving around in a haze, city to city. Can’t hold down jobs too long. Can’t look people in the eye. But look at that. Look at that.” The paused screen again, the time stamp, that water heater—his eyes glistened taking it all in. “No wire on that water heater. No wire in the whole picture. It’s the most beautiful goddamned thing I ever seen in my life.” He shook his head, drew in a quavering breath, then refocused on me. “Listen, maybe we can figure out some overlap between us that explains why we were chosen.”

  “Some way to trace the puppet strings back to whoever’s holding them.”

  “I’m a little . . . I’m not so good right now. A lot to take in, you know? Will you come back so we can do that? Coupla days, maybe?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Don’t forget. I’d like to know. I’d like to thank them.”

  We found our feet and shuffled, dazed in the half-light, to the door. “They didn’t . . .” I licked my dry lips. “They didn’t give you anything for me.” I couldn’t bring myself to phrase it like a question.

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.” His eyes moved across my face, seeming to read my disappointment. I could feel empathy coming off him in waves, how badly he wanted to reciprocate, to do for me something like what had been done for him. He offered his hand. “We never . . . I’m Doug Beeman.”

  “Patrick Davis.”

  We shook, and he clutched my forearm. “You changed my life. For the first time, I feel like . . .” He bobbed his head slightly. “You changed my life. I’m so appreciative you did this for me.”

  I thought of what the voice had told me: This is nothing like what you imagine. I’d taken it, wrongly, as a warning. I said quietly, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes,” he said, stepping back and drawing the door closed. “You were the instrument.”

  CHAPTER 26

  My head still thrumming from my encounter with Beeman, I stepped from the garage into our quiet downstairs. After dispatching with the shrieking alarm, I could hear the shower running on the second floor, the rush of the water pipes the sole sound of life. With the lights off down here, the house felt desolate.

  I clicked on the kitchen overheads and noticed that the caller ID screen on the kitchen telephone showed a missed call. I checked the message, my back going rigid when I heard my lawyer’s voice, asking me to call him. On a Sunday?

  I reached him at the home number he’d left.

  “Hello, Patrick. I got a call from opposing counsel today. The studio is hinting at a willingness to resolve all issues quickly and quietly if you’d agree that the entire matter be made confidential as a stipulation of the settlement. They indicated that the terms would be favorable to us, though they were unwilling, yet, to spell out the specifics. I was told we can expect paperwork early this week.”

  My mouth moved, but no sound was being produced.

  “Did they mention why they had the sudden change of heart?” I asked after my tape-delay pause.

  “They didn’t. I agree—it seems odd in view of the signals they were sending. We’ll wait and see what they spell out for us, but judging from the tenor of the conversation, I’m feeling cautiously optimistic.”

  I found myself checking the clock, a habit I’d grown accustomed to, given the heft of even a narrow slice of my attorney’s billable hour.

  As if reading my mind, he said, “You’ve been having a bit of trouble keeping my evergreen retainer . . . well, evergreen. After this push to untangle matters next week, would you like someone from Billing to call so you can work out a payment plan?”

  I mumbled a half apology and an affirmative, then hung up. But even considering my sheepishness, the news—combined with the exhilaration from my experience with Beeman—left our house feeling a little less desolate.

  It seemed a hell of a coincidence to get home from Beeman’s to this good news. Were my omnipotent stalkers scripting this plot thread of my life, too? The whole intrigue with the DVDs seemed to be conducted on a tit-for-tat basis; I follow their instructions, and obstacles in my life fall away. Even the thought of that seven-figure lawsuit dissolving made me weak with relief. If they could do that, what else might they do for me?

  The thrill, I realized, was the same one that came with the anticipation before a movie deal. All-play-and-less-work Hollywood, get rich in the snap of a studio head’s fingers, take a shortcut to page one of Variety and a Bel Air mansion.

  Heading upstairs to bring Ariana the news of the past few hours, I couldn’t help but wonder if my life was, at lo
ng last, finally coming back together.

  “This guy, Beeman, was being held hostage by this stuff.” I put my hand on the small of Ariana’s back, guiding her over the rush of rainwater in the gutter. We passed Bel Air Foods, strolling down the hill, the air dense with humidity, the rain so faint it only came visible passing through the streetlights’ glow. Cars shot by, gleaming with beads of water. “And to walk in there, and just . . . just liberate him.”

  I blew out a breath, which steamed and dissipated. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so alive. Instead of The Game, it seemed I’d found myself inside Pay It Forward.

  “I mean, if this is the first e-mail,” I said, “what the hell is the next one gonna be?”

  Ariana stuffed her hands in the pockets of her parka; she refused to wear the coat with the bug stitched into the lining. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “What? No.”

  “Why would CIA agents care about helping a guy like Doug Beeman?” she asked.

  “I can’t think of any reason they would.”

  “Which means it’s probably not them. Which is good.” A frown. “Or bad.” She chewed her worn thumbnail. “So, seeing as how these guys were stalking you before, what’s with the new charity angle?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “I feared as much.”

  She tugged me off course, and we splashed through a puddle together. Ahead, crowding its too-small lot, loomed the McMansion she and I liked to marvel at, with its solemn portico and gables and Tudorbethan mock battlements. Beyond the stucco facade, cheap vinyl siding composed the non-street-facing walls. Neighborhood rumor had it that the hodgepodge construction was built by a film distributor, and the design gave every indication it was a Hollywood-inspired fantasy. Thrown up like a peacock’s tail, part enticement, part aggression. All that money, and still not enough. Cheaper the farther you wade in. I recalled the first time I walked behind a set on the lot at Summit, how those great Norman Rockwell exteriors gave way to scaffolding and two-by-fours, and how it felt like catching Santa Claus, beardless and undershirted, in the department-store locker room.

  Ariana said flatly, “They need more pillars,” and I laughed. Across the way, the Myerses sat in the warm glow of a dated chandelier, talking over glasses of wine. Bernie raised a hand in greeting, and we waved back. It had been months since Ariana and I had gone for an evening stroll, and I realized how much I missed it. Out in the open, breathing crisp air—for once not on top of each other, smothered by our disappointments or pinned down by a hidden lens. And later we were going to pick up an order of pho from our favorite Vietnamese place and we were going to sit on the couch and eat and talk, the coming evening as familiar and safe as an old sweatshirt.

  I reached for her hand.

  It seemed a little unnatural, but we both held on. “Your theory . . .” she prompted.

  “I think the assault on us, our house, was to show me what they were capable of. How else would I believe that they could know all this? I mean, about some water heater that blew up in Pittsburgh and a hidden security tape?”

  “And it also ensured you’d do what they wanted.”

  “That, too. It was a setup so I’d be forced to be their errand boy. I mean, if someone just contacted me randomly, said, ‘Take this package to an apartment in a shady part of town’?”

  “But why do they need you?” Ari asked. “Why didn’t they just send him the DVD anonymously, say, in a Netflix envelope?”

  “Clearly they didn’t need me.”

  “So then the question is . . . ?” Her hand spun in the air.

  “Why did they choose me?”

  One of her eyebrows lifted. “You’re special.” She said it flatly, but I knew it was a question. A challenge.

  “No, not special,” I said. “But maybe at the end of this . . .” I paused, not wanting to admit it, but she nodded me on. “Maybe I’ll get a DVD that absolves me.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. But maybe I’ll get something that does for me what that recording did for Doug Beeman. Jars me out of my—”

  I caught myself.

  “Like footage that shows Keith Conner banging his own damn chin?” she said. “Maybe they got that to the studio and that’s why the studio’s pushing for a quick confidential agreement?”

  “The thought certainly occurred to me. And maybe they have something else that could help us, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” I realized that I sounded excited, and I made an effort to tone down my demeanor.

  “Look, whatever this is, someone wants to fit you into their agenda,” she said.

  “Or someone wants to make use of me to help other people.”

  Her hand stiffened in mine. We walked a few more steps, and then I let go. “What?” I said. “How do you know that’s not it?”

  Ariana said, “Because it’s what you want to believe.”

  My laugh had a bitter edge. “What I want is to get back at the assholes who invaded our lives. But right now playing along on the surface is the only way I can get more information. And the more we know, the closer we’ll be to finding out what the hell is going on.”

  “Don’t you teach about hubris?”

  “I teach that a character has to impact the plot. He has to determine his own destiny. He can’t merely react to external forces.”

  “So it’s all about out-tricking the tricksters?” She gave me that same skeptical stare. “Tonight wasn’t something more to you?”

  The old frustration pricked my cheeks. “Of course it was. It’s the first meaningful thing I’ve done in I don’t know how long.”

  “It’s not meaningful. For Doug Beeman it is, but for you it’s fake. You didn’t do anything but add water and stir.”

  “I sure as hell impacted his life.”

  “But you didn’t earn it,” she said.

  “So what? No matter how I got manipulated there and no matter how fucking scary it was going in, freeing him from his guilt—how is that not a good thing? And if the studio caught a signal that they should back off me, that’s positive, too. Why are you being so cynical?”

  “Because, Patrick, one of us has to be. I mean, the way you’re throwing yourself into this. You’ve been blocked at the keyboard for what? Half a year? And losing your interest for months before that. And now you’re approaching this . . . adventure like it’s your chance to write again.”

  I said swiftly, angrily, “You can’t compare writing to this.”

  “You think this is better than writing?”

  “No,” I said, “I mean the opposite.”

  “You didn’t see your face when you said it.”

  I kept my mouth shut. Despite how horrible the past week had been, was some small part of me relieved that these guys had given me something to do? Beeman’s focus on me had been as absolute as that of the men behind the DVDs. When was the last time I’d been at the center of anyone’s attention?

  The elementary-school teacher from the cul-de-sac sauntered by with her down vest and twin rottweilers, and we had to pause to smile and exchange pleasantries. A young couple across the street were in their family room, hanging a hefty painting. The husband bending under the frame, his pregnant wife, one hand pressed to the small of her back, directing him with her other. A little more to the left. Left. Now right.

  I used to have that life. And it was enough for me, until my script sold, until Keith Conner and Don Miller strolled into the picture and hit me smack in the blind spot. I couldn’t find my way back, and every time I thought I glimpsed the route, I got derailed. What I had was more than anyone could ask for, but I couldn’t figure out how to inhabit it again.

  The high from Beeman’s place deserted me, leaving me drained. The redemption I’d witnessed literally before my eyes had been so intense that everything else seemed bleached by the afterglow. I visualized the crappy shared office at Northridge, the unpaid legal bills and Ari crying on the arm of
the couch, the braying neighbors, my unfinished scripts, the staff room with the broken coffeemaker, how-are-you chat with Bill the checkout grocer. It all seemed to pale in comparison with the dreams I’d grown up dreaming, lying on my back on the Little League grass, the New England air biting my cheeks, letting me know, minute to minute, that I was alive. Aliens and cowboys. Astronauts and outfielders. Hell, maybe I’d be a screenwriter one day, get my movie poster on the side of a bus.

  I thought about what Ari had told me about the world closing in on her in a hurry, about how her life didn’t have a lot of what she hoped it would. The term “soul mates” got thrown around at our wedding, and here we’d found ourselves, for better or for worse, aligned in perspective even when we weren’t. My visit to Doug Beeman had cut through all that stagnation, right to the pulsing heart of what mattered. I didn’t want to have to defend how it had made me feel.

  The rotties were straining on their leashes, so we said goodbye to our neighbor, who gave us a wink and a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day, you two.”

  We’d both forgotten. As she and the dogs padded away, our frozen grins faded and we regarded each other, wary under the strain of where we’d left off. Our breath was visible, mingling.

  “I guess . . .” It was going to be hard to say. “I guess I can’t remember the last time I felt significant.”

  “If it’s meaning you’re looking for, don’t you think you’d do better to find that in your own life?” Her tone wasn’t judgmental or harsh; it was the hurt in it that made me drop my gaze.

  “I didn’t choose this,” I said.

  “Neither of us did. And we’re not gonna get out of it if we don’t keep our heads clear and our eyes open.”

  Worms lay helpless and limp, pale squiggles on the wet pavement. We circled back toward home, leaning into the incline, our heads down. By the time we passed Don and Martinique’s, we were a full stride apart.