by Hines
It was the assassin who had been stalking him. The assassin who wore his face.
03:03:57 REMAINING
The man who wore Lucas’s face slipped a semiautomatic weapon with a silencer into a hidden holster, flipped Lucas onto his side, and began fumbling with keys. Lucas looked back inside the car and saw two thin streams of blood drizzling from the unmoving bodies of the police officers.
Numbly he realized he hadn’t been shot at all. The man currently unlocking his handcuffs had shot the officers.
His pursuer stood and offered a hand to Lucas; Lucas, overcome with revulsion at the thought of touching the other man’s bare skin (his own skin), boosted himself to a sitting position and then stood.
The Other was larger than he—heavier, thicker across the chest, and taller—but the face was still unsettling. “Are you okay?” his face asked him with his voice.
Lucas opened his mouth, closed it again, decided it was best to speak. “Yeah. I think I’m okay, all things considered.”
“What do you see when you look into my face?” the man asked.
“What?”
“The face. Whose face do you see?”
“I see . . . me.”
The man pursed his lips (his own lips) for a moment. “That’s a new one,” was all he said as he held out something for Lucas.
Lucas looked at the man’s offering and saw it was another pistol much like the one the man had just secreted away, right down to the silencer attached to the tip.
“What’s this for?” he asked weakly. He felt as if he were on drugs of some kind, drugs that filtered everything he said through a thick layer of cotton.
“Oh, I think you’ve used one before,” the man said. He handed two more clips to Lucas. “It’s a Taurus 45-caliber. You’ve got a full clip in there, plus these two extra, which means thirty rounds. Think you can make thirty rounds last?”
Lucas nodded, and the man smiled; Lucas hoped he didn’t look that unsettling when he smiled.
“You’d better get going. You’re still twenty minutes from Sarea’s,” the man with his face said.
Lucas looked from the pistol back to his own face, but the mention of Sarea brought some life back. “Yeah,” he said, finally putting his hand behind his back and tucking the gun into the back of his pants. He briefly considered putting it in his backpack, but he might need quicker access.
“Take my car,” the man said.
Lucas followed where the man was pointing and saw the steaming hunk of the black SUV, pink coolant trickling from the mangled radiator. “Doesn’t look like it will get me far,” said Lucas.
The man smiled, hit the button on the key fob in his hand. “That wasn’t mine,” he said.
Behind the SUV, another black vehicle—this one a nice sedan—hiccuped and flashed its parking lights. “That one’s mine.” He tossed the keys to Lucas.
Almost as if on cue, the warble of approaching sirens floated through the air. Odd, now that Lucas thought about it: there were no other cars, no pedestrians, on this street. He looked at the next block and saw traffic flowing; same with the traffic a block behind them. But here, at this intersection, there were only the two twisted heaps of what had once been cars and the black sedan, waiting with its driver’s-side door open.
Lucas turned to look at the man with his face once again, but the figure was gone.
After a few more seconds, Lucas was gone too.
02:48:12 REMAINING
The man with his face was wrong.
Lucas wasn’t twenty minutes away from Sarea’s apartment complex; he made it there in less than fifteen.
As he neared the complex, he let his foot off the accelerator. He had considered speeding into the parking lot, leaping from the car before it had fully stopped, and letting the automatic pistol mow down everything that moved.
But that wouldn’t be smart. He had to be careful.
He parked the car down the street, left the keys in it, and made his way down the sidewalk to Sarea’s building. No sense trying to hide; they knew he was coming. They wanted him to come.
Pausing to shift the load of his backpack, Lucas went up the walkway toward Sarea’s apartment. He climbed the steps to the second floor, considered knocking, and decided to try the doorknob.
It moved easily.
Pushing the door open with his left hand, he reached behind his back and pulled out the pistol as he entered the apartment.
Music—familiar music—filled the entryway, which led directly to the living room. Something bluesy, with a slide guitar.
Abruptly, Sarea came around the corner, dressed in a bathrobe with a towel on her head. Her eyes caught Lucas standing in the doorway, pointing a gun toward her.
“Just for future reference,” she said, “you could probably ring the doorbell next time.”
He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him and locking it. “You always take showers with your door unlocked?”
She shrugged, readjusted the towel on her head. “What do I got to be afraid of? I grew up here.”
If she only knew. Lucas began moving through the apartment, methodically searching. He went into the living room, scanning the walls and floors. He stood on the couch, pushed up one of the ceiling tiles.
“Hey!” Sarea called, moving across the floor toward him.
“Hang on, I know what I’m doing.” He winced as he said it. He knew what he was doing a little too well. With the flashlight from his backpack, he scanned the area above the ceiling tiles; as he swept the beam, it picked up a flash of silver in the corner near the front door.
He replaced the tile, looked at Sarea. “Can I borrow a chair for a second?” he asked as he moved toward the small dining nook.
“I guess,” she said, watching him pick it up and take it over to the front door.
He put the chair in place, stood on it, and pushed the ceiling tile above out of the way.
“Hey, I got some other furniture in the back, if you want to stand on that next,” she said.
He ignored her again, pulling away the small camera attached to the top of the acoustic tile, its lens aimed at a small, precisely drilled hole.
He stepped down from the chair, held out the camera for her to see.
Sarea looked at it in wonder, unconsciously pulled her robe a bit tighter. “What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a camera,” he said as he continued to scout the apartment, opening cupboards and inspecting the walls. “You’ve got three others in the ceiling over the living room and the dining area here. Probably more in other parts of the apartment.” He moved into her bedroom, the gun loosely held at his side.
She followed him, now more intent. “So are you looking for more cameras now?” she said.
He looked at her. “No. I’m looking for someone who might be hiding.”
“Who?”
“Could be a number of people.”
He stood on the bed, pushed aside the ceiling tile, looked around. “Your bedroom’s clean,” he said as he put the tile back into place and hopped off the bed. “Can you be ready to go in five minutes?” he asked.
She frowned. “Ready to go where?”
He moved past her into the hallway. “I’m still working on that.”
He began checking the heat registers in the hallway.
“So,” she said. “I’m just supposed to drop everything, pack up, and run away with you with five minutes’ notice but no idea what’s going on?”
He turned to her. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
She smiled. “Okay, Lucas. As long as we’re on the same page.”
She shut the door softly.
He finished checking the rest of the apartment, finding a few more cameras, but not what he had feared: someone from the Creep Club, hiding inside the apartment.
He went back to the living room, sank down in the couch, listened to the blues guitar on Sarea’s CD player.
What did this mean? He had expected a war zone here a
t Sarea’s; he was sure, when he got here, he would find her place surrounded by Creep Clubbers ready to take him down. Instead, they seemed to be alone.
Were they watching? He was sure of that; the cameras said as much. Maybe they were planning an ambush. Maybe they had snipers outside, ready to pick him off when he walked out of the apartment.
The song on the CD player ended, moved to the next selection. His whole body froze when he heard the song begin. He recognized it, even before the man’s voice began to sing.
Got those crumblin’ down blues, baby
Got me some crumblin’ down blues
Got those crumblin’ down blues so bad
Feel ’em clear down in my shoes
He stood, slowly, and walked to the CD player. He picked up the jewel case sitting beside the player, studying the image on the cover. It was one of those old-style black-and-white portraits of a man sitting stiffly, unnaturally, his guitar perched on his lap. The man’s deep, expressive eyes looked off to the side—not at the camera—as if he were pleading with someone just out of sight. A porkpie hat sat on his head.
“You a fan?” Sarea spoke from behind him.
He whirled around quickly, almost guiltily. She’d done nothing to her hair, which was kinky and pulled against her head after the shower. Hadn’t even put on makeup of any kind, and yet she looked to Lucas like the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
She nodded her head at the CD case. “Mad Billy Weevil. You a fan?”
He looked at the jewel case again, as if it were the first time he’d ever held such an object.
Did me some dancin’ with the devil
Said he’d have to take his dues
Now I’m digging with that shovel
Cuz I got them crumblin’ down blues
“I . . . don’t know,” he admitted.
“Classic,” she said. “He, Robert Johnson, Leadbelly, Blind Lemon Jefferson, a few others. The Delta Blues.”
Lucas said nothing, so she moved across the room and pulled the case from his hands.
“We’ll bring it,” she said, pulling the disc out of the player and putting it in the case before tucking it into her bag. “What about a disc player?”
Lucas stared, unable to say anything. Even though the room was silent now, the song still echoed in his head:
Those crumblin’ down blues.
Sarea shrugged, pulled the compact player from the shelf. “It’s got batteries,” she said, unplugging it. “We’ll bring it.” She stuffed it in her bag and turned to him. “Okay. Ready to go.”
He nodded, forced himself back to the moment. They needed to go . . . where, exactly? What he needed was a safe house. A place that was isolated, unexpected. A place where he could take Sarea for a few hours and trust that she would be safe until this all ended.
He frowned. He could only come up with one possibility, and he didn’t want to go there. It was too much to ask.
“We gonna go or not?”
He looked at Sarea. “Yeah, we’re gonna go.”
He opened the door and stepped into the great unknown.
THIRTY-TWO
02:22:43 REMAINING
They drove in silence for several minutes.
“Nice car,” Sarea finally said. “Where’d you get it?”
“It was a gift,” he said.
“A gift? From who?”
He smiled bitterly, turning onto the next street. “You might say it was a gift from myself.”
She nodded. “So you were just washing dishes for the fun of it.”
“Something like that.”
More silence, then Sarea rummaged through her bag. “I saw the news on TV. The paper too. The way they talk, I should be scared of you.” She pulled out a copy of the day’s newspaper, the one with his face printed large.
“You’re not a hat person,” she said. “But you’re big stuff—main story on the front page.”
He shrugged as he reached into his pocket to get the TracFone.
“Who you calling?”
“Her name’s Leila.”
He dialed the number from memory and heard Leila’s voice answer after one ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Leila. This is . . . uh . . .”
“The front page of all the newspapers?”
“Yeah. Lucky me.”
“Big press conference on TV right now too.”
“Press conference for what?”
“Well, at the scene of the shooting, they found some files.”
“They already said that.”
“Yeah, but now they’re revealing what’s inside them.”
“Which is?”
“They say those files detail a security breach with some Chinese intelligence agency.”
“Guoanbu?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Lucas had brought those files with him, showed them to Saul. So there were other files left in the van, which meant there were duplicates. Saul had been right.
“Listen,” he said. “I need to ask you a favor—a favor I have no right to ask, but you’re the only person I can think of.”
“What is it?”
“I need to protect someone. I need a safe house where I can drop her off for a few hours,” he said.
“Protect this someone from whom?”
He smiled. “That’s a good question. Mainly from the people who monitored your home.”
“If I remember right, one of those people was you.”
“Not until the end. There’s a whole group of them.”
“What did she do to put them on her trail? Commit the mortal sin of being born in another country, like me?”
“Close. She befriended me.”
“If they’ve been here before, it’s not like they’ll have a hard time finding her.”
“That’s just it, though. I think they’ll expect me to head somewhere else, not circle back around.”
The other end of the line was silent for a few moments; then Leila spoke. “Bring her,” she said. “Sounds like maybe I shouldn’t put away my gun just yet.”
“Maybe not.”
Lucas hung up, put the phone into his pocket, glanced at Sarea. She had the CD from her house in her hands—the disc by Mad Billy Weevil. She held it up, and he nodded, so she slipped it into the disc player on the dash.
The music started, a song he didn’t recognize. But he recognized the playing style; it was unforgettable.
“You got a lot to tell me, Lucas. A whole lot. I think I’ve been pretty cooperative, dropping everything to come with you like this.”
“Why? I mean, you did it, no questions asked.”
“Because you asked. Because I want to help you.”
A dark sigh escaped his lips, and he shook his head. “That’s why we left. People after me were trying to come after you.”
“I figured that part out.”
She said nothing else for several seconds, so Lucas prompted her. “And?”
She cocked her head toward him. “And nothing, Lucas. You expect me to be mad? You expect me to go all damsel-in-distress, break down in tears? You ain’t seen where I grew up, ain’t seen what I’ve seen.
You’re not getting a guilt trip from me. Seems like you’re tripping over it enough on your own.”
He smiled at that, made another turn. The first song on the disc ended, and the second began to play. He recognized this song instantly, listening to the opening bars before the man’s voice began to sing.
Spinnin’, you got me spinnin’ all around
Spinnin’ so much I ain’t never been found
And when you tell me you don’t mean it
I don’t mind much, baby, cuz I seen it
“This is faster,” he said, almost without thinking about it.
“Faster than what?”
“Faster than he played it at the station.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Lots of people play Mad Billy’s old songs.”
“No,” he said. “It was him—the guy on the
cover. I heard him play this.”
Sarea went silent for several seconds, and he turned his head to see her staring at him.
“What?”
“Why do you say it was him?”
“The picture on the cover. It was him. He was even wearing that crazy hat.”
Sarea stayed silent for a few more moments.
“What’s the big deal?” he said. “So he’s fallen on hard times. Lots of musicians playing the streets.”
She sighed. “The big deal is, that picture on the cover was taken in 1931—one of only three confirmed photos in existence. And the last known photo before he died.”
Lucas snapped his head to look at her again. “Died?”
“Stabbed in a bar down in Louisiana.”
They drove a few more minutes, listening to the song, neither of them saying anything.
Finally Lucas broke the silence between them. “That picture. I thought it was one of those old-time studio shots, you know. Supposed to look old.”
She smiled. “The Delta Blues—several men started playing down in Mississippi during the Great Depression, you understand. And they were like this loose group; they all listened to each other, borrowed from each other, traded on each other’s stories and legends.”
Lucas glanced in the rearview mirror, counting at least four cars in line behind him now.
“Robert Johnson—you’ve heard of him?” Sarea asked.
“I think so.”
“He’s maybe most famous. And maybe most famous because of the legend around him. The legend of the crossroads.”
“The crossroads?”
“He always told the story of standing at these crossroads in Mississippi, meeting the devil, selling his soul for music.”
“So what’s that have to do with Mad Billy?”
“Well, like I said, they borrowed each other’s stories, even borrowed each other’s songs, built on them, you know? Took what the other had and added to it. So even though Robert Johnson is the one famous for selling his soul, he wasn’t the first to stand at those crossroads. He followed Mad Billy, the legend goes.”
“So Mad Billy sold his soul, then?”
She smiled. “No. No, he didn’t. He refused the deal, which is why Robert Johnson had the chance. Funny thing is, though, they both died almost the same way.”