The Survivor (39 page)

Nate took a sip of coffee, closed his eyes into the pleasure of it, then handed the mug back. “I can only drink decaf now.”

His father frowned at the curiousness of this but asked nothing. Janie was in the shower, the kids up in the loft. The hushed teenage voices were pleasant enough, though experience had shown that a petty argument was likely to erupt at any second.

Nate ate and swallowed his riluzole, glancing at the newspaper’s subtle headline:
HOSPITAL MASSACRE
. He scanned down, finding little in the way of helpful information. Unidentified shooter, two dead, multiple injuries, all survivors now stable. No mention of Nate or Janie; the agency was probably withholding information for the investigation. Beneath the fold, photos showed the nurse who had manned the front station and the security guard. The two black-and-white pictures held Nate’s attention.

What little regard Misha—and Pavlo—had shown for these lives. Obstacles to be obliterated in their pursuit. Scorched earth was right. With Nastya’s suicide it seemed that every restraint and objective had fallen away; Pavlo wanted nothing now except vengeance.

From habit Nate flipped to the obituaries and was surprised to see the same photograph of the nurse reproduced there. Luanne Dupries’s dedication to her profession and her leadership at the community level within the California Nurses Association were an inspiration to her many friends and colleagues. Nate’s fingernail underscored the last two sentences.

Luanne is survived by her immediate family: her parents, brother, son, daughter-in-law, and nieces and nephews. She is also survived by her fiancé and his four children.

Before her senseless death, Luanne Dupries had made a mark. She had been well loved, and she’d be missed. Nate made her a silent apology, tapped her photograph respectfully, and headed for the bridge with his cell phone.

A host of messages dating back a few days—Sergeant Jen Brown making clear he’d better get his ass in to sign that paperwork, several reporters who had somehow gotten ahold of his number, a few friends inquiring about the news story on the bank robbery. He deleted them all and made the call.

Abara wasted no time. “The fuck happened?”

“It’s a conversation.”

“Ya think? A hospital raid like something outta Fallujah. Have you seen the news reports on this thing?”

“No, actually.”

“It’s a big deal. Comment from the mayor and police chief, the whole nine.”

“Can you connect it to Shevchenko?”

“Of course not. We pulled security footage. The shooter’s a guy who doesn’t even
exist.
” Some muffled noise. “Hang on.… Okay. Sorry. It’s all confusion right now, but at least eyewitness reports have you pegged as a victim. I think the DA and lead investigators are beginning to understand, now, the stakes. Why you did what you had to do—including the airplane threat.”

Nate shot a breath at the cold sky. “So I’m off the hook.”

“Not quite, not yet, but things are tilting that direction. You still got a lot to answer for, but I’m working on it.”

“Is there an arrest warrant out on me?”

“No. You’re wanted for some serious fucking questioning, obviously, but that’s not even the main concern. We can’t have you guys running around out there with what Pavlo and his boys are willing to do. This thing’s quickly escalating. What if they catch you in a shopping mall?”

“We weren’t exactly planning a trip to Crate and Barrel—”

“You know what I mean. We need to keep you safe to keep the
public
safe. In-house it’s opened up the discussion again about protection. You and I need to figure out how to bring you in and negotiate all this so you guys are protected. Keep your damn phone on today. Let me be your guide through the shitstorm.”

The line disconnected. Nate stared at the phone. Then he went inside to update everyone on the semi-good news. Tidying up in the background, his father took it in quietly, murmuring the occasional mm-hmm, and Nate gleaned that Janie had brought him up to speed on the other fronts as well. When Nate laid out Abara’s plan, Janie and Cielle radiated a nervous hopefulness that scared him a little. It didn’t yet feel safe to believe that their lives could turn normal again. That they could find some shelter and protection from the chaos, find a way back inside the world they knew.

After, he went back out to the tiny zone of reception with his cell phone, sat on the edge of the bridge, and let his shoes dangle so the tips touched the stream. Casper stood beside him, smelling of wet dirt and musk, shifting his weight so he pressed heavily against Nate’s side. Nate put his arm around the muscular stock of the dog’s neck, across the twinning patches of lighter fur that the breeders called “angel wings.” Casper’s brow furrowed as he watched birds dart from tree to tree. After a time the wood creaked behind them.

“Quite a Greek tragedy you got on your hands,” his father said. “And the Lou Gehrig’s on top of it all.” With an old-man groan, he lowered himself beside Nate, Casper reluctantly yielding ground, and they stared at the changing leaves, the breeze brisk, the air impossibly clean. “You got life insurance? For Janie and Cielle?”

That was his dad—pragmatics first.

“Yeah,” Nate said. “As long as I don’t kill myself.”

“Was that a consideration?”

“Yes.”

His father nodded once, solemnly. “Dying’s rough. But so’s living wrong, I guess.”

Nate’s shoe touched the stream, froth rising around the toe. “I’ve done enough of that already.”

“As have I.”

The air tasted of pine, a pleasant kind of smokiness. “How can I thank you for this?”

His father chuckled a little, though Nate didn’t understand what he found amusing. “When your mom died, I was in no kind of shape. And I could tell that you just wanted to keep out of my way. But you couldn’t figure out how to do it. And I couldn’t figure out how to help you, help myself. It’s a terrible feeling, knowing you’re screwing up something so important and screwing it up anyway.”

Nate thought about stumbling into Cielle’s room in the clutch of a nightmare, blood streaming down his forehead. Janie crying in the bedroom while he’d listened through the thin bathroom door. So many ways he’d been frozen in place, well before the actual ice block.

“When I cleaned up later,” his father continued, “I figured I owed you. To repay the favor, keep out of
your
way. I didn’t figure you wanted me around.”

This was the most Nate could recall his father speaking at one go, and he wanted to honor it by resisting anything trite, placating, or untrue. He said, “Maybe this is the one good thing out of this.”

“What?”

“Sitting here together now.”

His father made a muffled noise at the back of his throat and nodded, a sad grin crinkling the skin at his temples. Side by side they watched the patterns of the stream form and dissolve, each froth-flecked curl spending its lifespan of a single instant before getting swept away under the bridge.

*   *   *

The cell phone rested on Nate’s thigh. Still nothing. He remained in the sole spot of reception on the bridge, a chained dog. But sitting with the scent of the pines and the rush of the stream, he didn’t mind. Janie brought him a blanket and a few cups of decaf, affecting a waitress’s demeanor, and he tipped her each time with a kiss. Now he closed his eyes and breathed the sharp air and waited for the damn text alert to chime.

On the porch swing, Cielle flipped through a magazine. Beside her, Jason enacted a comically fake yawn and stretch, landing his arm across her shoulders. She pushed at him. “Go a
way.
You smell like
boy.
”

The predictable squabble ensued, escalating until Jason harrumphed inside. Cielle noticed Nate on his perch at the bridge and rolled her eyes at him. He shrugged. Her boots clopped across the porch, and she walked heavily over, letting gravity tug at her shoulders. She slumped down next to him.

“Jay can be such a
asshole.
”

“I thought it was
shithead.
”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Then Nate was surprised to hear himself say, “He’s not so bad.”

Cielle tilted her head, incredulous. “You’re sticking up for
Jason
?!”

“I am just saying. You’ve always been so goddamned smart. So truthful. But you can use that to … you know, to bludgeon people.”

Her mouth stayed open in a stunned half smile. “Like Jason. Jason as in My Boyfriend Jason.”

“Yes. He’s not … terrible.”

“Hang on. Lemme get a tape recorder.”

“Listen, Cielle—”

She appealed to an imaginary onlooker. “Court stenographer? Can you read that back?”

“—it is possible to be
too
smart. And it can get in your way. You can shoot yourself in the foot—”

Finally she broke character: “You’re in no position to point fingers.”

“Sure I am.” He aimed his index finger at his chest. “Don’t be like me.” He risked a glance at her face. Sure enough, loosening into a grin. “I’m just saying, you deserve to have whatever you want.”

“But he can be so
annoying.
”

“No shit he’s annoying. But he also has certain attributes which are … not altogether reprehensible.”

In his lap the cell phone rang. Nate opened the phone, set it to his ear.

Abara said, “My house, midnight. Texting you the address now,” and clicked off.

Nate slipped the phone into his pocket.

Cielle was chewing her lip, no doubt still contemplating his last words. The shiny row of her bangs was ruler-straight, of a single piece. The richest, darkest hair he’d ever seen. A triumph of nature. “I…” She trailed off.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“No,” he said. “What?”

“I wish I was something you could be proud of.” She kicked gently at the stream, specks of spray landing like ice on their cheeks.

“You’re right,” he said.

“What?”

“That
is
stupid.”

Her wide cheeks grew wider—a grin, despite herself. She backhanded his shoulder.

“Proud of you?” he said. “You’re the single best thing I can take
any
credit for.” He hoped for some eye contact, but she kept her focus glued to the passing water. A blush came up in her cheeks, and it wasn’t all from the wind. “I gave you up once already,” he said, “and I’m gonna have to again sometime soon.” He swallowed, and it took some effort. “Besides your mom, you’re the only thing I’ll miss.”

Cielle looked away, and then she smiled a sweet, faint smile. “Shut up.” She wiped her running eyeliner, and as a small gift to her he pretended not to notice. “But there’s so much stuff”—she sniffled, dragged her sleeve beneath her nose—“so much stuff you didn’t get to do.”

He put his arm around her shoulder. “I got to do this.”

The azure sheet of the sky dimmed a degree at a time. After a while she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Chapter 53

Rusted metal numbers nailed to a split-rail fence indicated Agent Abara’s address. The long driveway sliced through a swath of eucalyptus, towering trunks that disappeared into the ink-black sky. No house in sight from the main road. Nate drove right past, parked a quarter mile up the street, and cut back on foot. The past ten days had taught him that he couldn’t be cautious enough.

Abara’s property was isolated here on a shoulder of the Santa Susana Mountains. Craggy boulders hemmed in the road. To Nate’s back loomed Rocky Peak, and unfurled below was the apron of the Valley, Chatsworth in the foreground with its parks and porn studios, its family homes and crack dens. A little something of everything in a brief throw of land, a rural twist on downtown L.A. thirty miles to the southeast.

Curls of shed bark littered the driveway, softening his footfall. The cell phone in his pocket, now on silent mode, contained Abara’s last text with the address.

The scent of the eucalyptus laced the breeze, reminding Nate of the heavy air of the
banya.
A humble ranch house lurched into sight around the bend with every step, coming visible in vertical slices between the trees. Farther back among the gray trunks, a freestanding barn blended into the shadows. Much of the main house was dark, though lights glowed in a few rooms. A piece of paper fluttered from the front door, distinct beneath the porch lamp. Odd. Nate felt a stab of apprehension. A good ruse for an ambush.

He stared at the note, debating, then left the driveway, circled the ranch house as quietly as possible, and peered through the rear windows. The house, smaller than it appeared, was clearly a bachelor’s place. No girls’ rooms or purses or feminine jackets slung over chairs. In the main room, a TV and wet bar predominated. A single bedroom decorated with Lakers memorabilia. For a moment Nate questioned whether he’d approached the wrong house. But then he spotted the framed certificate from Quantico on the wall of the converted office and the badge resting next to a set of car keys on the desk. This was Abara’s house, all right. But there was no Puerto Rican wife who misplaced her birth-control pills, no deceptive teenage daughters, no loyal dog who came home after Abara let him out through a gate that didn’t exist.

Though Nate knew that Abara told his family stories as a manipulation tactic, the scope of the deception was pretty staggering. At the end of the day, he was a law-enforcement agent who lived alone and had invented an entire family life in hopes of eliciting rapport with suspects. Nate wanted to feel betrayal, even anger, but peering in at the single unwashed plate on the kitchen counter and the line of remote controls on the couch’s armrest, he could summon nothing but empathy.

Still, it was odd that Abara had asked him here to the house where all the lies could be discovered. Had the direness of the situation made him abandon pretense? What else had he lied about? Was it possible that he might even be one of Pavlo’s well-paid contacts inside the system? It seemed unlikely. In his gut Nate sensed that Abara was a good agent.

But he would find no firm answers here. He had to get to the note nailed to the front door.