We Know

Chapter 26

His poufy hair reined in from the shower, a red amoeba swelling on his cheek, Steve shifted on the couch beside Callie. "Now that we're all pals again," he said, "why don't you tell us what the fuck is going on?"

So I did, from the flight to Alaska to the Voice in the Dark. It didn't come smoothly or easily, but it came. Callie interrupted frequently with exclamations and questions, but I didn't mind.

When I finished, Steve leaned back and crossed his arms. "I made some calls today, checked up on your story. About the two mystery agents who came to arrest you for Frank Durant's murder." He ignored Callie's look of surprised indignation. "There are no records of your arrest. Or your being booked. Or interrogated. There isn't even a record of out-of-district officers or agents going to MDC that night."

Callie's cheeks had gone red. "You heard Nick's story. That wasn't an official arrest. It was thugs threatening a teenage kid."

"Listen," I said, "whether you believe me or not, please don't tell any of this to anyone."

Steve said, "Like to The Enquirer?"

"Like to your SWAT buddies when you explain how you got the bruise."

Tilted back against the couch cushions, Callie blinked a few times, catching up to her thoughts. "So you came back to look for more pictures of Charlie?"

"Or anything else that might have had his name or given any clue as to who he was." I set down the box, discouraged. Most of the pictures were bent, a few wrinkled with moisture from the front walk. I'd checked them as I'd gathered them up, but there weren't any others of Charlie. "If he's from the army, it's not like you'd know him, and I'm having trouble getting to anyone else who could give me anything on him."

Callie grimaced. "Yeah, I didn't know any of Frank's friends from the war. You know how he was about that. Closed off like a fist."

I pulled the one picture of Charlie from my pocket and offered it to her anyway. She frowned down at it, holding it at arm's length, a new mannerism. Or at least new to me. "Wait," she said. "Oh, yeah, sure. He's a guy Frank knew from the service."

I leaned forward, excited. "So you did meet him?"

She looked at me funny. "Of course I met him."

"Why 'of course'? You just said you didn't know many of his friends from the war."

"Oh," Callie said. "Not that service. The Service."

Steve's head snapped around. It took a moment for me to find my voice. "Charlie was in the Secret Service?"

"Yes. Right. Charlie. We saw him at the occasional event. He may have come over once or twice. We even went to a barbecue at his house."

"What's his last name?"

"Jackson? Johnson? I can't remember."

"So he was a buddy of Frank's?"

"A colleague. I don't remember them being particularly close, but you know how agents are. The bond."

I recalled Charlie's desperate eyes, picking up the aqua glow of the spent-fuel pond. I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life. Given the tattoo, I'd assumed the army, but there was also plenty of risk to go around in the Service. And evidently plenty of trouble to get into as well.

I asked, "And Frank never mentioned they were in the war together?"

"No, I don't think so. Or I didn't remember. But you know Frank. That doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean it was a secret."

"Isn't that a bit of a coincidence? Two guys from the same platoon wind up working together in the Service?"

Callie gave me the look she used to give Frank.

Steve said, "The Service recruited heavy after the war. And the CIA, the Marshals, the FBI. A lot of soldiers were steered the same directions by the same people, sent one another resumes. We tried to help each other out." He looked at his folded hands-he hadn't meant to let that "we" slip, not with me in the room.

"When did they work together?" I asked.

"Up until the end," Callie said.

We sat with that one, all three of us, and then I asked, "What did you know about Charlie?"

"Nothing, really."

"People always remember more than they think," Steve said. He looked interested despite himself. "Think about when you went to his house."

"Oh-he had a son," Callie said. "Troubled kid. I want to say drugs. A few years older than you, Nicky."

"Did they look alike? Same mouth?"

"I don't really remember. Just that he was so scowly. Charlie wasn't exactly all polka dots and moonbeams himself."

"Was he married?" Steve and I asked at the same time.

"Going through a divorce. A rough one, maybe. He had a few tense late-night talks with Frank just before Frank was killed."

"He came to the house?" I asked.

"Phone."

Steve's jaw firmed, and our eyes met. Tense late-night calls and then a bullet to Frank's gut. I took a while to work up the nerve. "Do you think there's any chance Frank got pulled into something dirty?"

Callie said, "Never."

Steve looked at her, and I could see the skepticism in the set of his mouth, the sympathy in his eyes.

Callie implored me, "You don't believe that either."

"No," I said quietly, "I don't. But I don't like the way this is looking. There's some compelling stuff pointing to Caruthers. You know how Frank was about him. And now Charlie working under Caruthers, too. Plus, everything surfacing now, right before an election-"

"How do you know it's not Bilton behind it?" Callie asked. "That would be more in character. Bilton's the one who got a bounce in the polls from the San Onofre threat."

I said, "Bilton has no link to Frank. Or Charlie. Or anything Frank was dealing with seventeen years ago."

Callie said, "I'd believe that the whole Secret Service was dirty before I'd believe Frank was."

I felt diminished, as if in asking the question I'd given up something precious. I considered what she'd just told me about stars in my eyes and wondered what the costs of that might be for her, for me. If our image of Frank came apart, what else would have to come apart with it? More than just the past seventeen years.

I slid the photograph into my pocket and rose. "Thank you. I'm sorry, again, for everything."

Callie stood nervously. "Maybe we could see each other sometime

… calmer. Em seems to have taken to you."

"Could've fooled me," I said.

Steve said, "I don't want him near my daughter."

Callie shot him a glare. "Then I'll see my son when she's not home. Shouldn't be hard-she sleeps over at her mother's every chance she gets." She looked back at me, a bit desperately, and I felt the pull of old fears. Contact meant trails and trace evidence and sedans with killed headlights in the night. And then a phone call. Sweat stung the faint lacerations on the base of my neck. Callie was studying me still, trying to figure out what to say. "Maybe we could cook or something."

"I don't cook," I said, as gently as I could.

Callie made a noise in the back of her throat, and they walked me to the door. I was glad I'd parked blocks away so I could breathe the sharp night air for a bit.

I stood nervously at the threshold, then moved awkwardly to hug my mom. She embraced me, and then we pulled apart and stood there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

I offered my hand to Steve, but he just glared at me and said, "If half of what you're saying is right, you've got a long, nasty haul between you and the truth. And from what I've heard, you've never finished anything in your life."

Moths swirled around the porch light, pinging the glass. "Maybe this," I said.

"What?"

Hurwitz, Gregg

We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008)

"Maybe I'll finish this."

I heard them arguing in hushed tones as I headed down the walk, the picture of Frank and Charlie snugged in my back pocket.