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Chapter 36

His back stiff, his gaze constant on the door, Shep sat at Annabel’s side. Her chest rose and fell under her own power, the breaths long and sonorous. She was puffy around the eyes, bloated from IV fluids. The monitor ticked off hills and valleys.

The knob turned, and Dr Cha entered. Only Shep’s eyes moved.

It was late, and the halls were quiet.

She said, ‘I’m sorry, Shep, but visiting hours ended forty-five minutes ago. You’ll have to go now.’

‘I can’t.’

‘There’s nothing I can do. These rooms are for patients only.’

Shep reached over, plucked a Pyrex supply canister from the counter, and shattered it in his hand. Swabs and shrapnel fell at his feet. With a jagged shard, he carved a three-inch gash along the back of his forearm. Tendrils of blood snaked down his hand, running off his fingertips, drops pattering on the tile.

He parted the dividing curtain, moved to the empty bed across from Annabel, and sat. ‘I need stitches.’

‘You idiot. I should call security.’

‘From what I’ve seen of them, go ahead.’

She stepped in, letting the door suck closed behind her. A stare-down. ‘You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, you heard me.’

Shep said, ‘I will pay for the room. Cash – no HMO-insurance bullshit. But I want this bed.’

‘This is a hospital, not a cabana at Skybar.’ She snapped the phone off the wall, punched a button. ‘Security, please.’

Shep pointed across to Annabel with a blood-wet finger. ‘Your patient is in danger.’

Uncertainty showed on the doctor’s face. Quickly replaced by anger. ‘You don’t know that. The cops said she’s fine. That you’re the criminal.’

‘I am a criminal. But you don’t want to wake up tomorrow morning to find out that they’ve killed her.’

She kept the phone pressed to her ear. ‘Even if I could have men and women cohabiting in the same room, a few stitches don’t buy you the surgical ICU. They buy you ten minutes with a first-year intern in the ER.’

The faint voice on the other end came clearly audible off the hard surfaces. ‘Security. Security. Do you have a problem?’

Shep raised the glittering shard to his face. ‘Then what do I have to cut?’

Driving inland. A Honda Civic, his eight-year-old daughter, an unmarked revolver, and a rucksack stuffed with just shy of a quarter mil. The purple sky, half lit by the descended sun, had a portentous cast. An electronic billboard flashed a child-abduction alert, but they were past before Mike registered that it referred to Kat. He’d switched the license plates, keeping the ones he’d taken from Jimmy’s girlfriend’s Mazda, so the stolen car shouldn’t raise any red flags. Freeway signs blinked overhead, waystations on a road to nowhere. He blazed past artichoke fields, a biblical swarm of grasshoppers unfurling from the crops and splattering against the windshield, Kat noting each plop with sickened delight.

Mike had explained to her, as best he could, what they were up against, but she mostly wanted to chatter about his boosting the vehicle.

‘And then you were, like, crack! with the hammer, and the car just started up. And then switching the plates like a bank robber. That was so cool.’

Her manic engagement with selective aspects of their ordeal, he figured, was self-protective, so he let her go, a windup toy that wouldn’t unwind. She slapped at the old-fashioned radio. A scroll through static, voices burping from the speakers as the dial flew. Amy Winehouse wouldn’t go to rehab, saying no no no, and Kat was digging through the glove box, captivated by the lipstick, the breath mints, a half-smoked pack of menthols. She posed, cigarette in mouth, to see if he’d comment, but he barely noticed her until she started in with the fake puffing. She was spoiling for a fight, wanting him to give her an excuse to let go and cry. But he didn’t have it in him right now, so he let her air-smoke until she grew bored with it.

At the next rest stop, he climbed out, grabbed the rucksack, and headed for a pay phone. ‘Stay close.’

Carrying Snowball II with her, Kat sat at a rickety picnic table nearby. Mike used the calling card to reach Hank on his cell.

‘Hank-’

But Hank cut Mike off before he could get out another word. ‘I’m camped out near a pay phone. Call me back at this number.’ He repeated it twice.

Mike dialed the new number, and when Hank snatched up the phone, his voice was trembling. ‘You’re okay. You got out.’

‘Barely. You’re being monitored?’

‘Dunno. But I’m a paranoid cop at heart. With the resources against you…’

Mike said, ‘Who the hell is this guy Rick Graham?’

‘A director at the State Terrorism Threat Assessment Center.’

‘So I’m a terrorist now?’ Mike said. ‘This just keeps getting better.’

Over on the park bench, Kat glanced up at him.

‘That’s why I couldn’t get a handle on that alert they put out on you,’ Hank said. ‘The routing request was so convoluted – it’s all classified, higher-up shit. I finally reached a former partner’s kid, a DA, who broke the code for me.’

‘What’s this center? Why have I never heard of it?’

‘It’s one of these multiagency deals. Graham’s out of the main joint in Sacramento. They call it a “fusion center” to make it sound imposing.’

‘It does sound imposing.’

‘They pull the best and brightest from CHP, California DOJ, the governor’s office – got the whole goddamned state under their thumb. The sheriff’s an agent of the state, so that explains why his boys were first to the dance.’

An unhealthy wheeze punctuated each of Hank’s inhalations. The scale of what Mike was confronting left him breathless, too. Graham had personally come down to L.A. to take him into custody.

A bitter laugh escaped Mike’s lips. ‘Green houses.’ He punched the wall in slowmotion, pressing his knuckles to the splintering wood. ‘When this started, I thought it was about phony green houses.’

Across the parking area, a family unloaded from a station wagon, stretching their legs and bucket-lining empty cups and wadded wrappers from the recesses of the car to a trash can. A golden bounded from his crate and peed, with evident relief, on the circle of designated grass. The teenage daughter emerged from an iPod trance to slap her little brother away. Mundane as the scene was, Mike felt like he was peering through the looking glass into a dream world.

Hank was talking again: ‘Graham’s out of Sacramento, and Burrell’s last-known had him in Redding. Those cities are, what – two hours apart? That region of Northern California’s looking interesting, but to be honest, I don’t know what to do about it.’

Mike reined in his thoughts. ‘So if it’s a state agency, can I appeal to the feds for help?’

‘No way,’ Hank said. ‘These guys coordinate heavily with the Feebs, and Homeland Security, too. They’re probably the only state agency with this kind of federal pull.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ Mike made an effort to lower his voice. ‘Graham can’t believe I’m a fucking terrorist.’

A door slam alerted him to the fact that Kat had gotten back into the car. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, upset, hands on the wheel as if she were going to drive off.

‘No,’ Hank said. ‘But labeling you a terrorist means he can pursue you like one. Your double background plays into it, makes you fit the mold. And now throw a few bodies into the mix – not exactly hard to build a case around you. Or an accident.’

‘So he’s looking for a fall guy for something?’

‘Maybe. But given your family history, my gut says he’s cleaning up a mess.’

‘What mess? It’s not like my father could’ve been an enemy of the state. We didn’t even have terrorists back then. And even if he was, I was four when we parted ways. What could I have possibly known?’

‘Seeing as how Graham’s having Roger Drake and the Burrell boys carry out his dirty work, clearly this isn’t official state business. Playing the terrorist card is just the most effective way to run you down.’

‘So he’s in someone’s pocket,’ Mike said.

‘Given his stature in the law-enforcement community, it’s a big pocket.’

‘But he’s got no real evidence on me. How’s he getting everyone to fall into line? I mean, Elzey and Markovic? They were up my ass, now they’re all over the hospital. Are they dirty, too? Did he bribe them?’

‘You don’t get it, Mike. Once you’re fingered, you’re fingered. The Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station covers, what? A hundred eighty square miles? They’ve got rich assholes in Calabasas, Hidden Hills, Malibu, Westlake, and po’ white trash, crackheads, and cowboys in Chatsworth. Now they get a notice from a state agency that you’re on a terrorist watch list, you think they’re gonna… what? Try ’n’ prove you’re a nice guy? No. They want to pick you up, kick the case to the state, and get back to the mound of complaints from the constituents whose vote the sheriff needs come election time. They’re not gonna participate in patently illegal shit, but they will suspect who they’re supposed to suspect and alert who they’re supposed to alert. It’s not a conspiracy – it’s delegation and resource management.’

‘There’s gotta be someone I can tell my story to.’

‘What story, Mike? That you’re innocent?’ Hank was less angry than distressed. ‘I think they get that particular tale from time to time.’

Mike looked across at Kat in the stolen Civic. The glare of passing headlights turned the windows opaque. She flickered into view, gone, into view, gone again. Watching her ghost in and out of existence intensified the knot in his gut – all the deepest, darkest fears he’d swallowed over the years hardening into physical form. He thought about that morning he’d sat in his truck and watched her climb the fireman’s pole at school, how she’d dinged the top bar with the tiny ball of her fist.

He felt like a third party listening to his own voice. ‘So what do I do?’

The connection seemed to achieve a sudden crisp clarity, the static taking a rest. The rush of passing cars on the freeway was hypnotic, exhausting. When was the last time he had slept? He wet his lips, waited.

‘Hank, what do I do?’

‘I don’t know what to tell you, Mike.’

Bickering, the family packed themselves back into the station wagon and pulled out on their semi-merry way. Breathing gas fumes and hot tar, Mike watched them merge onto the freeway, watched until the brake lights blended into the river of traffic.

‘Mike? Mike? You there?’

A voice echoed in his head, Shep’s reply when Mike had mentioned how they’d had stamina back in the day: That’s because we didn’t have anything else.

‘Yuh. I’m here.’ His voice was flat, robotic. ‘I talked to Shep already.’ When he had, Shep hadn’t offered so much as a told you so. He’d just given Mike the update on Annabel and pushed forward as Mike was trying to now, moving the pigskin a yard at a time. ‘He thinks the best play is Kiki Dupleshney.’

‘Mike, you can’t-’

‘That’s his world, so he put out word through his network that he needs a con woman for a heist he’s pulling. He’ll try to lure her in.’

‘Mike. These men are looking to kill you. You can’t drag Kat along with you.’

‘What choice do I have?’

No answer but the gently falling rain that had started up without Mike’s noticing.

‘Good-bye, Hank.’ He set the phone gently back in the cradle.

He trudged over to the car. Kat had locked the driver’s door. He knocked, but she didn’t look over at him; she glowered dead ahead at the raindrops tapping the hood. He walked around, climbed into the passenger seat, rucksack in lap, and sat, dripping, both of them staring at nothing, going nowhere, a stolen car parked on a rest stop off a freeway Mike couldn’t name.

When Kat spoke, the intensity of her voice surprised him. ‘What’s the deal with Green Valley?’

He bent his head. Water dripped from his forehead onto his thighs.

‘Phony green houses.’ Kat wiped angrily at a stray tear, but her voice hadn’t changed at all. ‘You said “phony green houses.” That’s what you and Mom were whispering about before in the police station.’

‘Given everything going on, this isn’t important right now.’

‘It’s important to me. Right now.’

He realized that this was the end of the line, that there was nothing left to do but submit to the truth swiftly and brutally, but still, it took him two tries to get the words moving out of his mouth. ‘The houses weren’t really green. A guy laid in the wrong pipes. And I covered it up.’

She was shivering, pale. ‘What about your award?’

‘I didn’t deserve it.’

Her voice now was weak, pitiful. ‘You lied to me?’

His hands were shaking. His face numb. ‘Yes.’

She choked out a little cry, and then her door was open and she’d vanished into the rain. He sprang out after her, sloshing through puddles. She was ahead, a wraith in the downslanting wet, faster than he’d imagined. She breached the grassy rise behind the bathrooms and darted down the far side, but he caught her, wrapping her up so they wouldn’t tumble down the slope.

She kicked to get free, shrieking at him, ‘What else have you lied about? What else?’ She kept thrashing violently, and he lost his footing, skidding onto his ass, rainwater soaking instantly through his jeans. ‘I hate you!’ she yelled. ‘You can’t keep me in motels and cars for the rest of my life. I just want to go to school and have my room back and Mom.’

He held her frail little frame until she went limp against him, sobbing.

He spoke into the wet tangle of her hair. ‘I will never break my word to you again. Never again.’

She murmured into his chest, half moan, half mantra, ‘I want my mom I want my mom I want my mom.’

He held her in the rain.

Footfall, slow and heavy, proceeded up the hospital corridor. It paused. Two blots interrupted the seam of light beneath the door. The lockless handle dipped silently. The hinges issued no complaint.

A wedge of light fell from the bright hall into the dark room, widening like a fan as the door swung inward.

A man’s form, distorted and massive, stretched across the floor, a black cutout framed in a yellow rectangle. Inside, Annabel lay at rest, limp arms over a pilled hospital blanket, her mouth slightly pursed. The cutout hands twitched impatiently. Two shuffling steps and the door eased closed, extinguishing the light. Dirty boots moved across sterile white tile.

Uplit by the seesawing EKG line glowing from the monitor, Dodge stared down at Annabel’s tranquil face.