We Know (31 page)

"We both know this has got nothing to do with Homer. You used him to get to me. It worked. He's not valuable to you anymore. If you want me to talk, cut the guy a break and let him out before they dump him into general pop."

Sever didn't slow. We passed a few open office doors, and then the cuffs bit into my wrists, and my shoulders strained in their sockets as I jerked to a halt. I could hear him breathing hard behind me, feel his fist tight around the handcuff chain. Finally he tugged me back, pivoting me around another corner. A few more painful steps and we were outside a double-reinforced door, peering at a guard through ballistic glass.

Sever leaned close to the embedded microphone and said, "Let him go."

The guard rolled back from the window on his chair and disappeared. The buzzing of secured doors. A metallic rumble. A moment later Homer was escorted through the door, a guard on either side, white latex gloves gripping him at the biceps. He was trembling, a mountain of shivering rags. His mouth worked on itself, his beard shifting. He saw me, blanched beneath the dirt, and tried to tell me something but couldn't. The guards moved him

past us toward the elevator and shoved him in. The doors slid shut, and the guards walked by again, snapping off their gloves and chuckling to themselves.

They nodded through the window. The door clicked open, and they disappeared.

Sever hadn't moved. He said, "What's that bum to you anyway?"

"A friend."

"You got some fucked-up habits, Horrigan."

We were moving again. "Where are you taking me?"

"Interrogation."

"I want to talk to Wydell."

Sever made a noise of severe irritation, and the cuffs sank deeper into my flesh. Another hall, a doorway, past a female agent whose eyes lingered on Sever for an extra beat. I was the piece-of-shit offender, the foil for admirable men with admirable tasks and intentions. My arms pinned behind me, I approached a metal door. Sever didn't slow down. I hit it with my chest, and it banged open. He hurled me inside, and I staggered two steps and fell onto a wooden chair in the middle of the concrete box. The chair tilted up on two legs, then settled back with a clatter. Sever closed the door. Locked it. No security camera. No one-way mirror. Bare bulb overhead for that gulag effect.

Was this where people wound up who threatened the president?

Sever stepped in front of the dangling bulb, his face lost in shadow. My breath caught, but I smoothed out the inhale so it would be less noticeable.

I said, "You can't kill me. People will know."

"Kill you? What the hell are you talking about?"

I said, "Check my sock."

He tugged out the folded piece of paper from my sock and regarded my bad handwriting. My name is Nick Horrigan. I was brought to San Onofre during the "terrorist" incident last week I did not kill Mack Jackman. I am not a terrorist. I turned myself in to the Secret Service at 725 S Figueroa the night of 9/15. At the time I went in, I had no injuries and was in good health.

"The fuck's this gonna do for you?" Sever said.

"I've rented a motel room. With a fax machine that I preprogrammed. If I'm not released from here by midnight, that fax will send."

"To who?"

"The L.A. Times, The New York Times, CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News."

"No one can know you were at San Onofre."

"That's the least of your concerns."

"Yeah? So why don't you tell me what my real

concerns are?"

"What else I'm sending in that fax."

"What else are you sending?"

"I want to talk to Wydell."

"You'd rather talk to me."

"Why would I rather talk to you?"

He paused, wet his lips. "I'm a better listener."

"I'll take my chances on Wydell."

"He's not here."

"Where is he?"

"Overseeing the preadvance for the UCLA debate. Believe it or not, as the special agent in charge, he's got other things on his plate. He can't get here. Can't be arranged."

"You have till midnight to arrange it. Then it won't matter."

"I may have to recommend a psych eval for you." He studied me. My resolve must have been clear, because he grimaced and said, "I'll see what I can do." At the door he paused. "What makes you think you can trust Wydell?"

"I never said I trusted him. But I'll talk to him."

He walked out, setting the dead bolt behind him. I went over to the door, but the interior side had no knob. Not even a metal backing for the dead bolt. The seamless walls left me in a state of near panic. For the first fifteen minutes, I paced the perimeter, skimming my shoulder along the concrete, a hot pain pulsing in the wound on my cheek. At around the half-hour mark, I finally figured out how to step back over the cuffs, bringing my arms in front of me. That relieved the stress in my shoulders, but little else. The recycled air grew dense and moist.

I was on the hard wooden chair again when Wydell entered, Sever at his back.

"No," I said. "Just you."

Wydell nodded at Sever, who sighed and stepped out. Wydell closed the door, then turned to me. The razor-sharp line of his part left not a hair out of place. The knot of his tie was so symmetrical it looked clip-on fake. Sweat spotted his shirt at the crease of his stomach. A long, hot day. He moved toward me, the lightbulb playing off the shadows of that slender nose, bent slightly at the bridge from an ancient break. He stood over me, hands at his sides, too polished to cross his arms, though his impatience was clear.

His eyes picked me apart. "I saw the note you're threatening to fax. I thought we had an agreement about San Onofre."

"Things have changed."

"Yes, you have a lot to answer for."

"Is Sever the leak?"

"No. The leak has been plugged."

"Who was it?"

"Oh, right. I forgot you had a Level-five clearance."

"How do I know you 're not the mole?"

"You don't."

"So why should I talk to you?"

"You asked for me, Horrigan, remember? We can put a name and a face to the third terrorist whenever the mood strikes. You're not in a position to play hard to get." Wydell crossed to the door, opened it, and beckoned. He said, across the

threshold, "He's determined that we're both dirty, or maybe not."

Sever came in, looking no more pleased with me. "Maybe Mack Jackman was dirty, too. Maybe that's why you slit his throat."

"Or maybe Mack Jackman was dead when I got there."

"Was he?"

"You tell me."

Sever looked across at his superior. "What is it with this guy?"

"You think I did what?" I said. "Slit Jackman's throat, then tried to blow myself up and light myself on fire?"

"Ignited the munitions dump inside the apartment with a rifle grenade. To destroy evidence."

I said, "Convenient, that."

"Not for Mack," Wydell said.

"What are you talking about?" Sever turned to Wydell. "What is this jackass talking about?"

Wydell's eyes never left mine. "So," he said. " We killed Mack Jackman. Is that it?"

I broke off the stare-down.

"You fled the scene," Wydell pressed on. "Not the decision of an innocent man."

"After the explosion I wasn't feeling so welcome."

"Me? " Sever was suddenly irate. "You think / set the fire?" His confusion--and anger--seemed legitimate, that southern accent ramping up with the emotion.

"You fled the scene," Wydell repeated. "You were doing business with the victim."

"How do you know that?" I asked. "More pictures from Kim Kendall?"

"Who's Kim Kendall?" Wydell looked genuinely puzzled. I didn't answer, so he asked, "Why were you--and your homeless buddy--in possession of marked bills?"

"Why were they marked?" I asked.

"We don't know. It was in the system. From the top."

"Right," I said. "From the top. The West Wing keeping an eye on those hundreds, maybe."

Sever had his back up again. "What are you saying about the president?" Anger hardened his face. "You're just full of comebacks here in private, aren't you? Not like out in the hall in front of other people where you were too t-t-tongue-tied to say your own name."

Wydell opened the door and reached through. When his hand reappeared, it was holding a Glock in a crime-scene bag. Frank's blood on the handle had gone black with age. "You have a hell of a history, Horrigan, I'll give you that."

Suddenly sweating in an interrogation room. Again. It felt as though the last seventeen years had been narrowing to this needle-sharp point,

waiting to impale me.

Wydell's face was tight with anger. "This got dropped in our lap from above, and I'm starting to

feel a bit like a pawn in a political game. Is that what you're playing? A political game?"

The gun that had killed Frank swayed in the smudged plastic. I was having a hard time taking my eyes off it. I said, "There's a reason why my prints are on that gun--read the report."

"So that's a yes?" Wydell handed the bag back to whoever was waiting outside. The door closed with a decisive thump that said the room was soundproofed. "I don't know what channels this piece of evidence moved through to land on my desk the way it did. But let's just say it looks like magic. There's a lot of magic in politics. Evidence appears. People disappear. Like you did once. You really want to play in this sandbox? Because I sure as hell don't."

Sever's glare hadn't left me. "Have you been in touch with Caruthers?"

"No."

"We think you have."

"Give him a call. Tell him I'm here."

"Why would we do that?"

"Maybe he'll want to know."

"Who the fuck cares?" Sever said. "We don't answer to some senator. We protect him. But our primary charge is protecting the president of the United States."

"Along with his interests," Wydell added coolly.

"So get the Man a message. Tell him I have the evidence he's had the Service chasing."

"What evidence?" Sever asked.

"The evidence that doesn't exist."

Wydell said, "And what is this nonexistent evidence?"

"It's what's going to be faxed to major media outlets in"--I tilted my head to read Wydell's watch--"two hours and fifteen minutes."

Sever chuckled at me. "It's a shame the president of the United States doesn't have any contacts in the media. I'm sure his forces are helpless against a random fax from an unidentified crank."

"If you didn't kill Mack Jackman and blow up that apartment," Wydell asked, "why are we playing an extortion game with a fax machine?"

"So if I get choppered to a covert facility or wind up with my head blown off, at least someone will know."

"Know what?"

Sever brushed Wydell aside, an act of insubordination that Wydell seemed to condone under the circumstances. Sever grabbed the arms of my chair, brought his face so close to mine I could smell his sweat. "The system belongs to us. So we'll play this game. I'll see to it that you're charged for murder--Mack Jackman's and Frank Durant's--and get bail set so high you'll sit in your

stains until trial."

I said, "Give Bilton the message."

Sever grimaced and stood. Wydell stepped forward, blocking that harsh throw of light from the

dangling bulb. His hands tensed at his sides. I thought, Here it comes, but instead Wydell just studied me with what seemed like genuine curiosity.

And then he asked, "What do you want, Horrigan?"

"Answers."

"No," Wydell said. "I mean, what do you get out of this?"

I shifted on the chair, looking up at him. "Nothing."

"That's what makes you so goddamned dangerous."

They drifted through the door, and then I heard the sturdy click of the dead bolt. I could still smell the detergent from Sever's shirt. I banged on the door until the heel of my hand hurt, and then I pressed my ear to the cool metal. Nothing but the hum of wires in the surrounding walls.

Twenty minutes passed, or forty. I was back in my little chair when the door opened. Sever entered first and placed a small table in front of me, and Wydell set an old-fashioned black phone down on top of that. Its cord trailed across the threshold and down the hall. It was like room service, if the waiters hated you.

The agents stood against the wall and stared at me. I stared back. Wydell's impeccable suit wrapped around his slender build, that lank, gray hair with its sharp widow's peak and Baby Boomer

part. And Sever, running-back broad, with menacing assurance etched in each line of his rugged face. They were the kind of white men they don't make anymore, of a generation that missed rap music and fusion cuisine and Hong Kong action movies, a generation of white quarterbacks and whiter airline pilots, men who grew up friendly with Negroes and Oriental girls, the white of golf clubhouses and martinis, white-bucks white, white like Frank, the white of authority, the white of the Secret Service. Wydell had maybe a decade on Sever, probably had already ponied up the down payment for his retirement condo in Sarasota. Their gaze, the impenetrable stare of authority, didn't falter.