We Know

Chapter 21

It was impossible. And yet there was no mistaking that mouth. Before the concussion wave had knocked me unconscious in the power plant, I'd seen the explosive flash at Charlie's head. There was no way that he'd emerged unscathed. But I never actually saw him dead. Maybe his head hadn't blown up at all. Maybe the memory had been implanted by government drones. Maybe the trauma had tipped me into a delusion sleep, and I'd awakened with bits and pieces of a story forged from my reinforced paranoia.

Had I dreamed it all up? My fingers found the little wound in my cheek. Score one for reality. I went into the stark white light of my bathroom and peroxided the cut, then checked the skin of my chest and arms. Still faintly red from the blast.

Something had happened to me. And to Charlie. But what?

I paced my claustrophobic condo, checking and rechecking locks, fighting with myself about whether it was safe to stay. My sense of isolation, I realized, was compounded by the fact that I'd dissected my home telephone. None of my friends had a way to reach me, and I was hardly in the mood to call around and give people the number of a disposable cell phone that I was soon going to throw away.

Shortly after 7:00 A.M., I resolved to go and check in to a motel under a fake name until I could figure out my next move. I shouldered the rucksack full of money and threw open the front door, nearly barking my surprise at the cheery DHL delivery guy staring back at me. He handed me a padded envelope and an electronic clipboard. In elaborate, illegible cursive, I signed Foghorn Leghorn and sent him on his chipper way.

I returned the rucksack to its home, then fought open the adhesive flap of the padded envelope. A Nokia phone slid out into my palm. I stared at it, spinning my tires and looking for traction.

It rang.

I dropped it and vaulted the counter into the living room. Crouching, I waited. No explosion, just three more linoleum-rattling rings and then silence. They were probably waiting to hear my voice before pushing the red button. It started up again, shrill and unnerving. A seeming eternity until it silenced. Slowly I crossed to the sliding glass door and nudged aside one of the vertical blinds with my knuckle. No dark sedans, no hovering helicopters, no glinting sniper scopes on the opposing roof.

I grabbed the screwdriver next to my disassembled home telephone, then tentatively rounded the counter and regarded the Nokia, working up my courage for the five-step approach. Finally I picked up the phone. It shrilled in my hand, putting a charge into my heart rate, and I dropped it and stumbled back, tripping over a cereal box. Through the V of my bare feet, I watched the angry, clattering Nokia until it silenced. Then I pounced on it, using the Phillips-head to crack the cheap plastic casing. I sorted through the electrical entrails and the battery compartment but found nothing resembling C-4. The wires had come loose from the circuit board, and I stared at the broken unit, dismayed. I'd likely just dismembered my best chance to find out what the hell was going on.

My name and address were typed on the packing slip, but the sender information remained blank. No account number. The envelope boasted of same-day service. I called DHL from my cell phone and, after a costly wait, determined that the package had been dropped off at a Mailboxes N More on Lincoln first thing this morning. When I reached the store, the owner was indignant that I'd believe his business to be so sluggish that he'd remember an individual customer. The paperwork, of course, showed that the sender had paid cash.

The store was a few miles from my place. The sender had known to call the Nokia immediately after it was delivered, which meant he was watching.

I took the disemboweled phone downstairs and set it on the square of lawn in front of my apartment, near the curb so it was visible from my bedroom window. Then I set up camp with a cup of instant coffee and my binoculars by the vertical blinds in my bedroom. The lenses aimed through a sliver of light, I sat on my chair until my ass grew numb. Facing windows, parked cars, passersby-nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A Labradoodle sniffed at the phone casing and found it not worth his interest. A skateboarder stopped to examine the tangle of wires before passing on. By one o'clock my bladder had reached bursting point and caffeine had my stomach roiling. Finally a big white truck pulled over in front of my building and the driver ambled up the walk. In the core of the building, the elevator whirred to life.

A few moments later, my doorbell rang.

Gratefully, I rose, my lower back and knees aching. The same delivery guy smiled the same grin and handed me the same padded envelope. I signed Pepe Le Pew and thanked him.

A transparent Nokia slid out from the box, a tweenie model designed to show off the electronic entrails. I felt understood.

It rang within seconds, and I clicked the green button. "Hello?"

A gruff voice I didn't recognize said, "I have something you want. The Hyatt on Sunset, West Hollywood. Mezzanine level. Show up at seven. Alone. Do not come earlier. Do not tell anyone you're coming. I'm watching you. Do you need me to repeat any of this information?"

"No. Are you the one who took pictures of me-"

"Seven o'clock."

The line went dead.