The Identity Man

by Andrew Klavan

  What about us? He wanted to argue with her. What about you and me—wanting this, wanting each other? Don't we get anything? But he was embarrassed to sound selfish in front of her. "Look," he said, "about what happened at the carnival..." But he floundered, because what could he say that wouldn't be a lie?

  She smiled her screwy, comical smile and silenced him by putting her hand on his arm, shaking her head. "Oh, you know, do me a favor, Henry ... I mean, it's not just Michael. I'm not that steady myself. So do me a favor and don't tell me unless I need to know. It's just—if you're leaving, you know, say so. And if you're not, say so. And if you're not sure, then just say that and I'll wait till you know. I will. I mean it. But I can't just start up and have you leave and let him go through that again. I don't think I can go through it again, either. So do me a favor, okay? Just..."

  He wanted to say something, to answer her, but he couldn't think of a single thing worth saying, not one thing that wouldn't be a lie and make matters worse in the end. So he just had to stand there and take it, stand there knowing that this was good-bye between them, that he was going to lose her. It was a crushing weight of sadness inside him—he wouldn't have believed how bad it felt. As good as it felt to hold her hand at the carousel, that's how bad this felt now. Man, he could've killed that bald-headed bastard for showing up like that. It had ruined everything. Who the hell was he? Why the hell couldn't he just leave him alone?

  "Okay," he said thickly. It was all he could say.

  Her hand dropped from his arm. She nodded, still smiling but her eyes damp. He stood there another moment. He wanted to tell her how he felt about her, how crazy he was about her and that he loved her—really loved her—but so what? What good was that to either of them? In a way, that would be the worst thing he could say, the worst of all.

  He just turned finally—turned with the crushing weight inside him—and walked back up the path to his car.

  HE PARKED THE Civic down the street from his brownstone. He shut the car off and sat in it a while, just sort of weighing the car keys in his hand and staring through the windshield.

  Though it was not even ten, the area was eerily quiet. It was like that around here, no street life after dark. There were a lot of reasons for that. The worst of the wreckage was right nearby and the gangs of boys might come around prowling, those flood-punks who would kill you for a dime. None of the local nightspots had survived the disaster, so the neighborhood's young people had to drive far afield to find a bar or a club—and the old people weren't much for going out anyway. Plus it was Sunday, the work week beginning tomorrow. So it was quiet.

  Shannon sat and weighed the keys in his hand and stared. He was down, way down. Heartbroken, to put it plainly. He wished none of this had ever happened. He wished he'd never come to this city, never carved the angel, never met Teresa—that most of all. He had always known deep down this new life couldn't be real, couldn't last. The bald guy—the cops—someone—he had always known someone would turn up sooner or later and expose him. But it wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't met Teresa. He couldn't put it into words exactly, but it was like, when he was with her, he could see the life he was supposed to have lived, the shape of the life he was meant for, like a beautiful city in the far distance, a beautiful crystal city in the mist. To find her and then lose her—to have the mist close over that city again just as he'd seemed about to break through to it—that was a real piece of mean luck, cruel, as if the gods were tantalizing him, entertaining themselves with his emotional torture.

  He stared out the windshield. Slowly, his left hand went to his right arm and he massaged the spot where the old scars had been. He had a hint in him of that old feeling, that crawly feeling that told him he had to get out, had to do something, find some action, anything, fast. He thought for a moment maybe he'd go somewhere, drive somewhere, some bar where he could get a girl maybe. But he was too down for that, too down in the dumps. He just wanted to go home. It hurt to think about Teresa, but that was all he wanted to do, just go home and lie on his bed and think about her.

  He sighed heavily and got out of the car. He walked heavily down the silent sidewalk, his sneakers padding, the only footsteps in the night. There were sirens in the distance. There were always sirens. And when he glanced up, he could see the pale yellow glow of fire on the dark horizon. Something was always burning somewhere in this city. He reached the brownstone's stoop and heavily climbed.

  His apartment was on the third floor, three long flights. The decaying wooden banister. The peeling yellow walls. The faded runners beneath his feet. Then he was on the landing. Then down the hall to the wooden door, the keys in his hand.

  He stepped over the threshold into the dark apartment. He reached for the light switch as the door swung shut.

  He didn't see the man who hit him, never knew the blow was coming. That made it much worse. Before he had a clue, a fist like concrete drove into his belly. He wasn't tensed for it, so it just drove deep. The breath was forced out of him and he doubled over, dropping his keys, clutching his gut, stumbling once in the dark and falling, his knee cracking on the wooden floor, his shoulder hitting the side of the bed as he went down.

  He lay there gasping, still clutching himself. The light came on. He had a second to see the lower half of the man's legs, the black shoes, the green slacks. A second to think wildly, The bald guy ...? Then the guy swooped down and grabbed the front of his windbreaker. Shannon was a big man, but his attacker hauled him easily off the floor. Shannon saw his face. It was not the bald guy. This guy was much worse, much bigger, meaner. He punched Shannon in the head with his concrete fist. Shannon went down again, in a rattled, painful daze, the light suddenly glaring, lancing into his eyes.

  The man towered above him. No, it was not the bald guy. It was another guy, big, really big. A linebacker gone to seed. Acne-scarred face and a crewcut that made it look like his hair was standing on end with pure, electric malevolence. And the look on his face—oh Jesus—Shannon was already hurting, but that look weakened him even more with panic and despair because he could tell: the guy dug this shit. He was going to enjoy it.

  So in the same second he saw him, Shannon was desperately looking for a way out. His panic and the vibrating pain in his head made the room nauseatingly bright and clear to him. With aching, pulsing clarity, he saw the wood floors and the gray walls and—oh Jesus—the shades on the windows pulled down so no one could see what was about to happen and the rumpled white side of the mattress above him and the dark shadows beneath the bed and the pale, colorless braid rug the big thug was standing on and the red tool bag lying against the mirror on the closet door.

  And, at the same time his panicking mind searched for a means of escape, it searched also for an explanation, trying to understand what was happening, racing wildly through the possibilities ... The cops ... Benny Torrance ... the bald guy ... who the hell sent this thug...?

  Then the big man, smirking, opened a knife, and Shannon's thoughts were cut off like a door had shut on them.

  The knife was a no-shit killing tool, a short tanto blade unfolding from a butt-pommeled black hilt built to grip. As the big man opened it with his two hands, his white linen jacket brushed open and Shannon saw there was a 9mm Glock in his belt holster, too. With that and the look on the guy's face Shannon got the whole picture like prophecy: he was about to enter a long tunnel of pain and come out the other end dead.

  Crazy-scared, Shannon managed to grunt, "What do you want?" Clutching his gut, his head throbbing.

  "We're gonna talk," the man said. "But first, you gotta find out I'm serious."

  "You got the wrong guy, man."

  "You're not the wrong guy."

  And Shannon had no answer because who was he? And who was the thug after? Shannon? Henry Conor? Some other guy he wasn't even supposed to be?

  But that was the end of the conversation, anyway. The guy knelt down over him, his eyes shining with mean. Holding the knife in his right hand, he grabb
ed Shannon's ear with his left and hauled his head off the floor, ready to cut the ear off.

  Shannon punched him in the balls as hard as he could, but the guy was so tough that only made him grunt, so Shannon hit him again in the throat this time and that got him. The guy gagged and let Shannon go. He clutched his throat, kneeling there, his eyes rolling. But he still had the knife in his hand.

  Shannon quickly rolled away from him toward the middle of the room. He was climbing to his feet, his gut screaming with pain, when he saw the guy go for his gun.

  The guy still had the knife in his right hand, so he went for the nine with his left. All the same, he drew it smoothly and fast. But by then, Shannon was standing. He lashed a kick at the guy's hand—got him—and the gun went flying—under the bed, damn it, out of sight, out of reach. So Shannon made a move to go after the guy while he was still kneeling, but the guy slashed at him with the knife, driving him back, and then came off his knee and stood.

  People joke about how dumb it is to bring a knife to a gun fight but guess what: close quarters, a knife is deadlier if the guy knows how to use it, and this guy did. He was on Shannon fast, in a split second, keeping the knife point toward his eyes so it was hard to see. Shannon only saved himself by grabbing the desk chair. Lifting it. Jabbing the legs at the guy to keep him at bay. The two men shifted so that Shannon's back was to the closet. There was no sound in the room but their breathing. Then the guy managed to get hold of the chair leg with his free hand. He was strong and started to rip the chair out of Shannon's grip.

  Shannon held the chair to build up resistance, then let it go suddenly, giving it an extra shove. The guy grunted and staggered back, stumbled, fell on his ass—but never let go of that knife and was already scrambling to his feet.

  Shannon turned and leapt to the tool bag on the floor by the closet: the red Milwaukee bag with the hammers and wrenches in the outside pouches. He bent down and grabbed a framing hammer—a real thunder-club with a thick wooden handle and twenty-eight ounces of steel on the end.

  Even as he grabbed it, even as he straightened, he saw the guy's reflection in the closet mirror, the guy rushing at him with murder in his eyes and the knife held low.

  Shannon spun, whipping the hammer around as he did. He had the guy in the mirror so he could gauge where he was, and the guy hadn't thought of that and was charging top speed to get at Shannon before he had a chance to turn and spot him.

  The hammerhead went full force into the guy's temple with a soft and liquid and awful sound. All at the same time, the guy's charge stopped and his eyes went white and his mouth fell open and he dropped to the floor twitching and shuddering and shitting himself, and then was dead.

  Shannon had never killed a man before, but it didn't bother him much, not in the circumstances. What did get to him was the craziness of the situation. The dead guy on the floor and his own phony identity and no conceivable reason for any of it, the whole what-the-fuck of it all.

  Panting, he staggered over to the bed and sat down on it hard. He held his head in his hands, staring at the body on the floor, which had stopped twitching now and just lay there stinking of shit and still. The malevolence and sadism were gone from the dead man's face. He just looked slack and stupid, staring at the ceiling with his mouth open like an idiot. Shannon wondered if anyone had heard their struggle ... but there was so much to think about, he couldn't think about any of it at first. What the hell just happened? What the hell should he do now?

  He covered his face with his hands and blew into them, thinking, Okay, okay. Trying to gather himself and figure it out. When he looked again, the dead guy was still there, still staring up at the ceiling, and Shannon thought, Okay again and decided he had to search the guy, find some ID, find out who he was.

  He got off the bed and went to the body. Knelt down by it—cautiously—not that he thought the guy was alive or anything—there was no chance of that—but he had this horror-movie image in his head of the guy leaping up at him anyway, dead or no. Flinching at the stench of shit, he held the guy's jacket open and went into the pocket. He found what he thought was the guy's wallet—but no such luck.

  He drew the thing out and when he saw it, he groaned aloud in misery. It was not a wallet. It was a leather ID holder. There was a police badge pinned to it, a detective's badge. Inside was the guy's police ID card: Detective Glenn Gutterson.

  Shannon had killed a cop.

  IT WAS A LONG time before the full extent of the catastrophe occurred to him. Oh, he knew it was a disaster right away, but it was a long time before he could take it all in. With the adrenaline still pumping through him and the cop just lying there dead on the floor, he couldn't think clearly. But he had to think. He had to figure out what to do.

  He knew right away he couldn't risk calling the cops—not just because of who he was and who he wasn't, but because he didn't know what this was all about. It might be about anything and he didn't know which way the danger lay, so he just had to keep to himself. Which meant he was stuck with it, stuck with a dead cop and no one to turn to, and a murder rap waiting for him if he zigged when he should zag. That sent some more adrenaline through him. Because maybe someone had heard them fighting and was already dialing 911. Maybe the sirens were about to start up in the distance or maybe right outside or maybe there'd just be a sudden pounding on the door...

  And what then? What about Teresa? He wasn't thinking clearly, so it took him a few moments to think about her. He was sitting on the bed again by then. Staring at the body, not even seeing it now. Just staring and rubbing the heel of his hand back and forth over his mouth, never mind that his lips were already raw from it. Thinking: What about Teresa and the boy and Applebee? And what about his job and his new life like fairy tale?

  Well, that's over with, he thought.

  That's when he began to see the scope of this thing. It was global, wasn't it, a total Hiroshima of his hopes and dreams. The new life, the girl, the angel on the mantelpiece—they were all just ashes now. It was a cluster-fuck so epic he couldn't even feel bad about it. What was the point in feeling bad?

  Well, maybe he'd feel bad later. Maybe, it occurred to him, he was in shock now. He sure wasn't thinking clearly. It only now occurred to him with any urgency that he really had to get out of here. The sirens might start, the knock might come any minute. That was the main thing, he thought, sitting there, staring at the dead guy, rubbing his mouth raw with his hand.

  His new life was over. He had to go.

  The things he saw that night—the awful life of the night in that ruined city—it all seemed strange and dreamlike to him as he passed. Everything seemed at once faraway and yet part of him, faraway and yet connected to him, as if it were an emanated dream, a dream that had projected itself onto the world, a world outside that had somehow originated in the nightmare factories of his mind. The tilted, blackened buildings. The slumped buildings with blackened windows like eyes. A building he came to suddenly around a corner with thick black smoke pouring out of it, and crackling, hoarsely whispering flames licking red out of the belly of the blackness. There was a man in the upstairs window, staring out, not even calling for help, not even caring, just staring out as if he was already dead. There were no firemen. No sirens coming. Just a few scrawny beasts of boys watching it like a movie, laughing and exclaiming and slapping hands. He saw another gang of boys in the mouth of an alley not far from there. They were crouched over something alive, like vampires feeding. He saw legs kicking weakly out of the slow melee, flashes of skin and blood. A man leaning against the alley wall smoked a cigarette and watched. A girl crouched at his feet, fearful and fascinated, bright-eyed, helpless and aroused. Shannon moved on. He heard machine-gun fire. On an empty street, he saw girls and boys-dressed-as-girls taking gangly thugs in and out of an abandoned brownstone. He heard sirens. On a street with no lights at all, he saw an ambulance loom out of the dusky distance, its flashers whirling red. It rushed past him and in the screaming noise and strobic red
glow, he saw the silhouette of a man lying in the gutter, clawing at the pavement. And then the ambulance went past and the man sank back into the darkness.

  It all seemed far away and it all seemed to come from inside him, his heart enacted in the shadows, his brooding fantasies brought to life. He walked—he didn't know how long—deep into the night. Carrying his tool bag, only with clothes and toiletries in it instead of tools. And the gun, the big cop's nine. He had almost left the apartment when he remembered it, had the door open and his foot on the threshold, when he had stopped and gone back and fetched it from under the bed.

  He didn't take the car. They'd have the car made too fast. He'd drive and drive and then they'd put out one call and have him. He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but he knew enough to leave the car. His cell phone, too: he'd dumped that in a sewer. So he walked and walked, disconnected from everything, and the city was like his dreams playing out all around him.

  In the end, he found himself in a neighborhood of small houses ruined by the flood. He didn't know how late it was. He looked at his watch and he still didn't know, it didn't register. A damp breeze that smelled of sewage reached him. The black of the broad sky seemed as if it was slowly being stained from within with a lighter indigo—so he thought it might be nearly dawn.

  In any case, he was exhausted now. He looked around him. There were no lights anywhere. The houses were lopsided wrecks, all empty. Animals moved over fields of debris—not just rats and squirrels, not just the bats jiggering in the indigo sky—but big, loping, red-eyed creatures that might have been dogs or something else nosing through the garbage, and great hunched, brooding birds that might have been vultures, and other bony creeping beasts that might have been children or something else.