Now and Then

67.

We found the van keys on one of the dead men.

Vinnie pulled the van up beside Susan’s house and we put the dead men in it, being careful about fingerprints. With Hawk behind him, Vinnie drove the van up to Porter Square and left it in the parking lot at the shopping center. Then he came back with Hawk.

It was approaching four in the morning. The lights were on in the house. The brightness seemed almost overpowering in contrast to the stark blackness before. My captive sat on the couch in the spare room. I sat in front of him with my handgun resting on my right thigh. Chollo was with the other captive in Susan’s offi ce.

Both the captives were younger than I had expected. Mine was barely more than a kid. Maybe twenty-two. He had a slim, athletic build, like he might be a good tennis player. His dark hair was shoulder length and his big dark eyes were terrifi ed. It had probably been a great adventure for him. And now it wasn’t.

Hawk and Vinnie came back from Porter Square. Hawk came into the spare room with me. Vinnie went to prowl the house, in case there was another attack. Which there wasn’t. Hawk sat down off to the side and looked at the kid with interest. I put my gun away. Neither of us spoke. The kid tried for the calm fatalism of a true terrorist. But he didn’t have it. He stared back at us for a while.

Then he said, “What are you going to do?”

Neither Hawk nor I spoke. Even in motionless repose, there was something electric about Hawk, a sense of barely contained kinesis. The kid’s attempt at stoicism kept breaking down into uneasy glances at him. The silence extended.

“I am a prisoner of war,” the kid said.

Hawk and I did not respond. The silence became increasingly palpable. The pressure became more dense. The kid’s face was very pale. He seemed to have some trouble swallowing.

“If you do not kill me,” he said, “I can tell you things.”

“Do,” I said.

“Excuse me, sir?”

His voice was thin and shaky. It sounded as if his mouth was very dry.

“Do tell us things,” I said.

“I . . . I will tell you whatever you wish,” he said.

“Who sent you here,” I said.

“Perry.”

“Perry who?” I said.

“I don’t know his last name, sir. We only use first names. He is a brother in arms. He is the leader of Last Hope.”

“You?” I said.

“I am Darren,” he said. “I am a member of Freedom’s Front Line.”

“Why did Perry send you?”

“We were to kill you and the woman,” he said.

“Why?”

“You were a threat to the movement.”

Darren’s voice was stronger, as if talking about something gave him a sense of involvement in his fate.

“What movement?” I said.

“The people’s war on despotism.”

“Who else is in it?”

“I will tell you who I know, sir, but I don’t know many, just the people in my cell.”

“And Perry,” I said.

“Yes, sir. Perry found me in a wallow of depravity, sir. He helped me see the truth about American life. He saved me from addiction and dependence. He helped me fi nd purpose.”

“He fi nd you in a shelter?” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“That his job?” I said. “Recruiting for the movement?”

“No, sir. That’s just how he is. He tries to save people.”

I nodded.

“So what does he do for the movement?”

“He’s an intelligence source, sir. He’s very adroit at getting valuable information.”

“From women,” I said.

“That is often the case, sir.”

“Did you help kill Dennis Doherty?” I said.

The kid’s head sank forward some.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“At Perry’s request?”

“Yes, sir. I am a good soldier, sir.”

“You’re a jackass,” I said and stood up.

The kid flinched at the movement, and glanced at Hawk. I went out of the room and across the hall. Chollo was sitting behind Susan’s desk, with his feet up, and his gun on the desktop beside him. Our second captive sat stiffly in the chair that Susan’s patients normally used. He didn’t move when I came in.

“Geoffrey,” Chollo said. “Says he’s a soldier in the war against despotism.”

The second captive was no older than mine. He was shorter, and a bit pudgier. He sat rigidly, as if movement would hurt.

“Who sent you?” I said.

Geoffrey looked at Chollo. Chollo smiled at him and nodded encouragingly.

“Perry,” Geoffrey answered.

“Tell me about him,” I said.

Again he looked at Chollo.

“Tell him, Geoffrey,” Chollo said.

Geoffrey nodded stiffly and told me the same story Darren had told.

“And I’ll bet you met him at a shelter,” I said.

“Yes.”

I nodded.

“Okay,” I said to Chollo. “Bring him across the hall. I’m going to call Epstein.”