Collision (14 page)

20

Ben and Pilgrim found a chain motel, one so new the landscaping wasn’t finished. It sat near the LBJ Freeway that cut across the northern stretches of the city. Pilgrim paid cash for the room. He left the money and the rest of the gear, except for one cloth bag, in the back of the Volvo.

Pilgrim looked pale as they headed up the stairs.

“Are you all right?”

“My bandages. I might need you to rewrap them.”

“Okay,” Ben said. They went inside the room; it was clean and neat. Ben turned on the television and started hunting for a news channel; Pilgrim tossed the bag onto one of the twin beds. Pilgrim went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Ben found CNN. The deaths in Austin remained the lead story, his face still on the news, still being sought as a “person of interest.” But then a photo of Emily appeared on the screen, and his throat plummeted into his chest.

The reporter, with a perfectly arched eyebrow, said: “Forsberg’s past includes an unsolved murder—that of his wife, Emily Forsberg, two years ago.” Ben grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. No.

He missed Emily with a grief that made his body ache. Fragments of the past spun into his mind: glancing up the green spill of hill that backed to their rental house, seeing no one, in the moments after Emily died; the Hawaiian police telling him someone had shot out windows at four nearby properties that morning, so this was probably a
random shooting,
his life destroyed for no reason; Sam Hector speaking at Emily’s memorial, of her grace and her remarkable work ethic and her dignity; Ben finally leaving their home in Dallas, knowing he could not stay, crowded by memories of her, and yet believing that abandoning the house they’d shared would be a final betrayal.

Pilgrim came out of the bathroom, stopped in the doorway. “I need you to check the bandages.”

“Sure,” Ben said. He stepped inside the bathroom and a bracelet of plastic closed around his wrist.

“What the hell . . .” He struggled and fought, but Pilgrim shoved him hard to the tiles and had already closed the other side of the plastic restraint around the pipe on the bottom of the toilet.

“Sorry, Ben, it’s better this way.” Pilgrim stepped back, breathing hard.

“You son of a bitch.” Ben yanked hard; the pipe didn’t give. Panic surged in his chest. “You would be dead if I hadn’t helped you.”

“I’m protecting you. I don’t know what I’m going to find at Barker’s house. And it’s best that you stay out of the way.”

“Fine, I’ll stay here, just take the cuff off.”

“Ben . . . I can’t have you slowing me down. Or me not being able to count on you. I’m sorry. I’m sure your name will be cleared.”

Ben lashed a kick out at him and Pilgrim dodged. “You bastard, I need you to tell people you stole my name.”

“You’re safer in jail than you are with me.”

Ben yanked hard on the plastic handcuff. “Let me go.”

“Ben. Listen, you don’t want to go into the world I live in. It’s not an adventure, it’s a giant pain in the ass. It’s not for you. I’ll find out who set us up and I’ll make sure they pay. You’ll get bail. You’re an upright citizen.”

“You think I’m a coward? Well, you are.”

“Doubtful,” Pilgrim said.

“You’re getting rid of me because you don’t even know how to accept help that doesn’t involve killing people. And after I patched you together, you goddamned ingrate, I thought we were on the same side. You’re not brave enough to keep a deal you make.”

“I just . . . I don’t believe you have what it takes to do what we need done. So let me handle the dirty work.” Pilgrim stood. “Get a very good lawyer who will ask Homeland Security the hard questions about this Office of Strategic Whatever that Kidwell and Vochek work for. Good luck, man, and thanks.”

He turned and walked from the bathroom.

“Pilgrim!”

“It’s for the best, Ben, for the best.” As though assuring himself of the truth.

And the next sound Ben heard was the click of the hotel door closing.

Pilgrim was sure he’d done the right thing. The police would find Ben, and turn him over to Homeland. He’d tell them about Pilgrim and eventually he’d be believed; no one was going to think Ben Forsberg had escaped from the shoot-out in Austin on his own. Finally he would be shuttled to the CIA and the FBI for debriefing. Then released.

Unless . . . unless what was going on was a group inside the government declaring war on the Cellar, and they didn’t want Ben talking in public about Pilgrim or the Cellar. An unexpected cold prickle raced along his skin. But Ben had government connections; Ben would be fine. This Sam Hector guy could get him a squadron of lawyers.

I thought we were on the same side.
A sentiment of sheer stupidity. Ben lived in a normal world where, yes, you could become acquainted and think a person was your ally. Even your friend. Pilgrim remembered that world; for a brief second, he wanted to pull out his sketchbook, sharpen a pencil, draw the girl as he remembered her, bearing daisies in her cupped hands, her laughter dancing with the sunlight.

Ben’s accusation rattled in his head.
You’re not brave enough to keep a deal you make.
No, maybe he wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. He worked alone. It was the only way to survive.

The address on Barker’s driver’s license was on a street in east Dallas, and two of the houses had “For Lease” signs in the front yard. The neighborhood was quiet, dominated by mature oaks and single-story ranch houses. Most people were at work, but he saw a pregnant young woman kneeling in the shade, weeding a flower bed. She glanced up and waved at Pilgrim as he drove past. He waved back.

Barker’s lawn needed a mow, and nuts from the pecan trees lay scattered and forgotten on the driveway. No police cars stood outside, which meant Barker’s body, presumably lying in the Austin morgue, had not been connected to this address. Taking his driver’s license had been a smart move.

Pilgrim drove past the house three times, saw no sign of life, no sign of surveillance. He parked his car two houses down, at one of the “For Lease” homes, and headed for Barker’s front door. He knocked, rang the doorbell, knocked again. He fixed a picklock, shaped like a small gun, against the lock, squeezed the trigger, and the mechanism eased the lock open. He was inside.

The chirp of an alarm began; this was, after all, a Cellar property, and he’d expected security. He pulled a PDA from his pocket, popped off the plastic cover on the alarm keypad, wired the PDA to the keypad, tapped a program. It scanned the alarm deactivation setting on the pad and fed the system the right combination eighteen seconds into its search. Pilgrim unclipped the PDA from the alarm, memorized the displayed combination, and replaced the keypad cover. Then he relocked the door and reactivated the alarm in the STAY setting, so he could move through the rooms. If anyone came inside, he wanted to create the illusion of an empty house.

The house was dark and still. It was furnished simply, with goods from IKEA, just enough to give the impression of a minimalist bachelor pad. Pilgrim moved through the rooms, not turning on any lights. He searched for the obvious places to hide a gun: the freezer, the narrow kitchen drawer closest to the back door, a spot inside the pantry. Nothing. The kitchen was nicely stocked, as though Barker expected to come home. Well, why wouldn’t he? Teach was supposed to be captured and Pilgrim to be dead. An unopened bottle of French champagne chilled on the refrigerator shelf, awaiting a celebration.

He searched the house. In the den were a portable TV, a scattering of travel magazines, pages turned down on articles about the Bahamas and Aruba, notes about availability the following week jotted in the margins. Barker was planning a vacation with his traitor’s coins. The built-in bookshelves were bare. It felt like home to Pilgrim; his own lodgings, usually changing every few months, were similarly plain.

At the back of the house, he found the master bedroom. Clothes, awaiting laundry, piled at the foot of the unmade bed. A worktable, wide and deep, occupied one corner. No computer, no papers. No trail. A cordless phone with an answering machine. He played the tape; it had been erased.

He began his search. In the back of a drawer he found three pairs of handcuffs, lengths of silk, sexual gels. A few magazines that showed couples lashed and bound to each other in more than love and mutual respect. Whatever, Pilgrim thought. Those in the Cellar led highly stressful lives.

Hidden at the back of the desk drawer he found two fake passports for Barker, under different names, which looked to be Cellar-issue. Teach used superb forgers. But Barker didn’t need to be going overseas with his work. Teach used domestic support in operations; she had Europeans to handle European ops, Americans to handle American ops. Barker and a couple of others were based near American airport hubs, to go quickly where they were needed.

So why had he been overseas?

He found one passport stamped for the United Kingdom, then Switzerland, all of two weeks ago. The other passport journeyed to Greece and then Lebanon.

The United Kingdom. Maybe to Belfast to hire the Lynch boys. Lebanon. Three weeks ago, for three days. Perhaps to hire the group who took Teach.

But then who’d hired Barker?

Pilgrim tucked Barker’s passports into his pocket.

He heard the front door open, the distinctive sound of the lock being eased, probably by the same kind of lockpick he had used. The alarm began its chime. He went to the corner of the room. He heard the door shut. Fingertips tapping in a code. Then silence.

Whoever was here knew the entry code. Pilgrim liked this visitor immediately. This visitor could tell him things.

The soft creepy-crawl of footsteps, two hushed voices, both male. The conversation—he couldn’t hear what they said—murmured on for thirty seconds.

Which meant they didn’t know he was here.

He waited. It didn’t take long. But only one came into the bedroom, and Pilgrim put the gun on the back of his head as soon as he stepped into the room. The man was wiry and compact, in his forties, head shaved bald, and he went still with professional surrender. Pilgrim moved back from him and around him, raised a finger to his lips and kept the gun firmly locked on the man’s head.

“Call your partner back here,” he whispered. “Politely and quietly.”

“I found something,” the bald guy said in a normal tone. Pilgrim pulled him back out of the line of sight of the hallway, put the bald guy between him and the door as a shield. He heard footsteps approaching, then another man, a young, heavy-built Latino, came into the room. He sported evidence of a rough day: two black eyes, a bruised mouth. He wore a suit slightly too small for him: black jacket and pants, a white dress shirt, its creases indicating that it had been recently removed from its store packaging, no tie. He stopped when he saw Pilgrim, tensed for his gun.

Pilgrim said, “Don’t.”

“You’re Pilgrim. We’re from the Cellar,” the man with the bruised face said. “Teach sent us here. I’m De La Pena. It’s my real name. This is Green.”

“Really. Where’s Teach?”

“She’s safe.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where she’s at,” he said. “Just that she’s safe.”

Pilgrim tossed one of Barker’s handcuffs to each of them. “Face each other. Hands in front. Put a cuff on your hand and his hand opposite.” He kept his surprise that De La Pena offered a real name to him; you never shared your true identity in the Cellar.

So the guy might not be from the Cellar after all. That, or he was desperate to create trust.

The two men faced each other as though they were about to ballroom dance, slid the cuffs onto their wrists. Green’s right hand was cuffed to De La Pena’s left, Green’s left hand was chained to De La Pena’s right.

“Lock them,” Pilgrim ordered, and they shut the cuffs. Green looked pissed; he had a small mouth that went to a rosebud. De La Pena was calm. He, Pilgrim suspected, was the more dangerous one.

“These are for girls,” Green said, peevishly. “They’re a little tight.”

“Sit down,” Pilgrim said. He took their guns from them, one in each pocket. Searched their backs and legs for more weapons, found nothing. He put the guns on the desk, well out of reach.

Paired awkwardly, the two men sank to the floor.

“You shouldn’t be here,” De La Pena said, no malice in the tone.

“Neither should you,” Pilgrim said.

“We’re janitors. Cleaning up after a job goes bad.”

“Clean up: destroy data, erase Barker’s trails, kill anyone who needs killing.”

“Crudely put. I haven’t killed anyone ever,” De La Pena said. “I can’t speak for him.” He jerked his head at Green, who flexed an enigmatic smile.

“So you say Teach sent you.”

“Yes.”

“You saw her or she called you?”

“She called Green. I was already here, part of a training exercise.”

Pilgrim pointed at De La Pena’s black eyes. “Were you training to be a punching bag?”

“She told me to get to Dallas and help this guy clean any Cellar evidence out of the house,” Green said.

“She’s been kidnapped,” Pilgrim said.

“She told us you tried to kidnap her,” Green said. “You killed her helper, she escaped. Sell your story down the street, man.”

“I killed Barker, yeah, but he turned traitor. Not me. She got grabbed.”

The two men stared at him. Not believing him, he saw.

“Who has her?” Pilgrim asked softly. “I think you know. Stop the lies, man.” He kicked them hard, nailing De La Pena in the back, and both guys fell over. “She’s not operating of her own accord, she’s under a thumb.”

“She told me what to do,” De La Pena said. “She said you’d gone bad and—”

What are you doing, Teach?
Pilgrim wondered. “Get up,” he ordered them. He could question them in the kitchen; as unappealing as it sounded, a bit of fear at the tip of a knife might loosen their tongues.

De La Pena and Green rose awkwardly, like conjoined twins always facing each other.

Pilgrim gestured them back into the narrow confines of the hallway and they walked sideways, facing each other. De La Pena stood a foot taller than Green, and Green hurried to keep pace. Then Green stumbled, nearly going to one knee. De La Pena stopped and hauled him up, and as Green rose he lashed a sharp, precise kick and caught Pilgrim hard in the gun hand, pinning his weapon back into his chest. Pilgrim backpedaled into the master bedroom.