Go-Between (32 page)

“A tranquilizer gun? Are you shitting me?” Troy felt around the back of his thigh, flinched a little as he apparently found a tender spot. “This is insane.” He stared at Caitlin. “Should we call an ambulance?”

Would an ambulance mean police?

“I guess. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Still a little woozy. Got kind of a headache.” His eyes went a little wider. “Is that a gun?”

“Oh. Right.” Michelle took the little pistol from where she'd tucked it against her pelvis and laid it on the coffee table. “Not mine. That was hers.”

Now Caitlin began to stir. Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment she seemed to stare at nothing, her expression vaguely puzzled. Then it was as if something snapped into place, and her eyes grew wide with fear.

“It's okay,” Michelle said quickly. “You're safe.”

“Oh my god,” Caitlin managed, her voice cracking. “Troy?”

He leaned over, rested his hand on hers. “I'm right here. I'm fine.”

“We're going to call an ambulance,” Michelle said. And while they were bundling up Caitlin and Troy, she'd slip away. She needed to bail, like Danny said. Not to try and fix this.

“No. No, I don't
. . .
I'm just a little dizzy, that's all.” She took in a deep breath and winced, put her palm on her ribs. “I feel like I got kicked by a horse there.” Caitlin slowly sat up. “What just happened?”

“I don't know,” Michelle said. “She looked like the woman who tried to pick your purse at the conference. Remember? Maybe she's some kind of stalker.”

At that moment, there was a huge bang, something solid crashing into the front door, then another as the door splintered and broke off its hinges. Bright lights, so light she couldn't see. And shouting: “On the floor!
On the floor! Now!”

Men in black, wearing helmets, holding rifles.

“Hands behind your head! Behind your head, now! Motherfucker!
Get your motherfucking hands behind your head!”

Michelle hit the floor and put her hands behind her head. Something, a knee, pinned her down. She could see the armed men swarming around Troy, one of them lifting a baton, slamming it down.

“No!” Caitlin was screaming.
“No!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

“My god, officer.” Caitlin
sat on the couch, shaking and furious. Troy sat next to her, resting his head in his hands. “You could've
killed
him. He's a
victim
here.”

“We apologize, ma'am. But we had a report that
. . .
”

“I don't want to hear about your report. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Too bad, Michelle thought, because she actually would have liked to have heard about the report. She figured that Carlene had called it in, her last little “fuck you” to Michelle. But her guess was that this had been the plan all along.

Kill Caitlin. Make it ugly. Pin it on Troy.

Lucky for you, Troy Stone is going to save you a considerable amount of grief.

“Could've been worse,” Troy said, finally lifting his head.

The police sergeant, or captain, or whatever he was, shifted back and forth from one foot to the other.

They'd cuffed Michelle and Troy and kept them on the floor until Caitlin had managed to convince the police that they weren't a threat. It took a while. The policemen with the big guns had left, replaced by several uniformed officers and a technician who took photos of the scene and Michelle's bruised face, the abraded patch on her scalp, her bloody hand, which he also swabbed, along with a few samples taken from underneath her nails—evidence of the fight she'd said she'd had with Carlene. Another officer bagged the paring knife and the gun and a sample of bloody carpet. The knife and the blood were probably the only things that made her story remotely credible, Michelle thought.

“The assailant's blood?” the lead officer asked.

“Of course it's her blood,” Caitlin snapped. “None of us are bleeding, are we?”

He turned to Michelle. “So you fought her off? You stabbed her with the knife and took her gun?”

Michelle nodded.

The lead officer gave her a long look. “Well, I guess that was pretty lucky, wasn't it?”

“I guess so,” she said. “Look, she wasn't exactly James Bond. Just some kind of crazy stalker.”

“What about those text messages?” Troy asked suddenly. He patted his pants pocket. “Oh, man. My phone. It's gone. She must have stolen it.”

“Text messages?” the officer asked.

Troy opened his mouth, then closed it.

“We'll be assigning this to a detective for a more extensive follow-up,” the officer said. “Any other details, make a note if that helps. We'll get this whole thing sorted out.”

Not likely, Michelle wanted to say, but of course, she didn't.

“They want us to
go up to the medical center and give blood samples and get more detailed exams. Have some other photos taken if need be.” Caitlin shuddered. “I told them we'd take a cab over.” She waved at the splintered front door. “After the board-up men come.”

Michelle stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the blood off her hand. She'd already given all the evidence she planned on giving.

Don't wait around and try to fix things.

It was past time for her to make her move. To get away from Caitlin and Gary's surveillance, if she could.

Caitlin managed a shaky chuckle. “You think a glass of wine would get in the way of those tox screens they want to run?”

“I don't know,” Michelle said. She turned off the water and dried her hands on a dishtowel. “After the drugs, maybe it's not a good mix.”

“You're probably right about that. But you've been right about a lot of things, haven't you?”

Her voice had suddenly changed. She sounded steadier. More in control. And pissed as hell.

“Why don't you tell us the real story, Michelle? Because I know there
is
one.”

Michelle considered the dishtowel in her hands. She folded it and hung it on the rack next to the sink. Got out three glasses from the cupboard and filled them with filtered water.

“Okay,” she said. “But you're not going to like it.”

She showed them Danny's logbook, the letter of explanation he'd written. Caitlin read it first, her brow wrinkling as she did. After she'd finished, she pushed the book over to Troy without comment, the expression on her face neutral, impossible to read.

Michelle waited, counting the minutes this was taking. There was a squad car parked in front of the house, and she didn't think Gary would try anything right now, not so soon after a major police incident. Not his style. He didn't have a platoon of men in black to storm in here and shoot up the place. She didn't think.

But she needed to make her move.

Pop smoke. Get the fuck out of here.

“What do you think?” Caitlin asked Troy.

He shrugged. “We've been saying for years the CIA's the ones behind all that crack cocaine in the eighties. People said we were paranoid.”

“I know the person who wrote this,” Michelle said. “And I know that it's true.”

“Okay,” Caitlin said. She still seemed oddly calm. “If this
is
true
. . .
I'm not sure I understand what it has to do with me.”

“The people he's talking about
. . .
” Michelle began. “They've been using you and Safer America. They don't want you changing direction. They want the propositions here in California defeated. There's a lot of money tied up in keeping things the way they are.”

“I
. . .
” Caitlin sat very still. She abruptly shook her head, like she could shake everything she'd heard out of it. Then she straightened up.

“And you? What's your part in all this?”

“They blackmailed me. Pulled strings to get me the job as your assistant. I was supposed to babysit you, they told me.”

“You mean, spy on me. That's what you mean, isn't it? Spy on me and pretend to give a shit.”

Her stillness had turned to rigidity, as if that was the only way she could hold herself together. She sounded furious.

Michelle couldn't really blame her. She nodded.

“And when you say ‘pulled strings'—who's fucking me over in my own organization? Is it Porter?”

Michelle felt suddenly, utterly exhausted. Her head and ear and scalp throbbed. “Probably. I'm not sure. You can't trust any of them. That's all I know for certain.”

“And now I'm supposed to trust
you
?”

Michelle shook her head. “I'm not asking you to trust me. Just
. . .
think about what happened tonight, and try to believe what I'm telling you.”

Caitlin's head thumped back against the couch. “I don't know
what
to think.”

“What do we do?” Troy clenched and unclenched his fists. “How are we supposed to protect ourselves against these people? We go to the police with this, they're just gonna laugh at us.”

“I think you have two choices,” Michelle said. She turned to Caitlin. Caitlin was overwhelmed, Michelle could tell—who wouldn't be? Michelle couldn't be sure that she'd absorbed it all or entirely believed it. But Caitlin needed to understand the situation she was in, and Michelle didn't have a lot of time to help her get it. “You forget about changing Safer America's direction, and go back to how things were before, do the election work they want you to do.”

“I won't,” Caitlin said. “I can't.”

“Then you need to go public with your change of direction now. Don't wait to get back to Houston and talk to the board. Draft a press release, send it to the board, send it to everyone you can think of. Do it tonight. I don't think they'll try the same thing twice, not after it's too late for them to stop you from speaking out.”

“I see.” Caitlin nodded, like this was all some sort of normal business discussion. She sipped her glass of water. Swallowed hard. “That girl, she was here to kill me. Wasn't she?”

It was tempting to lie, to try and make it hurt less, but she needed to know the truth.

“Yes,” Michelle said.

“To keep me from changing Safer America?”

“And to scare people, I think. Maybe influence the vote.”

“And Troy?”

“I think they wanted to blame him for it.”

The color drained from Caitlin's face. She suddenly looked as pale and insubstantial as when Michelle had first met her.

Troy's jaw worked. He stared down at his hands.

“I don't know what to do,” he mumbled.

“You can walk away,” Michelle said. “Pretend this never happened. Maybe they'll leave you alone.”

Maybe they would. It wasn't like he had any proof of any of this. And his usefulness as a fall guy had probably expired.

Or maybe they'd kill him anyway.

Caitlin briefly rested her hand on his forearm. “You know what, Troy? If you don't want to partner up now, I understand. You don't need any more grief because of me.”

“You're still going ahead?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” She laughed shakily. “Second time somebody's tried to kill me. Either third time's a charm, or the devil's used up his chances.”

Troy was silent for a moment. Then he let out a chuff. “Good. Because I'm pissed off, and I want to do some damage to these assclowns. But the pretty white lady's the one they're gonna listen to. Not me.”

They eyed each other.

“Well, I'm glad you think I'm pretty, anyway,” Caitlin said.

“Come on, you know I do. It's just
. . .
you
.” He gestured at the broken door. “All this. It's a lot.”

“Yeah.” Caitlin sighed. “Yeah. It is.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

They waited in the
driveway for a taxi after the board-up men finished securing the door to Caitlin's condo. They'd left the porch light on, and now it lit a sheet of plywood. Michelle had Danny's ruck, Caitlin her small wheeled suitcase and Troy, a gym bag.

“I can drive the rental over,” Michelle had said, but Caitlin rapidly shook her head.

“I don't think you should be driving,” she said. “If you could see your face in a mirror right now
. . .
”

Funny, she'd thought she felt calm. She took a few deep breaths, drew in the scent of damp eucalyptus.

“I wish we weren't getting these damn exams,” Caitlin said. “I'm of a mind to skip the whole thing and just check into the Hyatt.”

“It's best we go along with it,” Troy said.

Michelle wasn't planning on having an exam. She hadn't been drugged, and the cops had all the physical evidence from her they needed. What would be the point?

A few neighbors stood outside their townhouses in the dark, watching the scene. They'd had quite a show earlier, Michelle thought.

Caitlin smiled in their general direction. “If this whole thing gets out in the press, and I'm guessing it will, how do you think we should handle it?” she asked Troy.

“I think we stick with an attack by a nut job. Not comment at all unless we have to. But we might as well get these tests done, just in case it comes up. We should have all the evidence we can on our side.” He glanced sideways at Michelle. “In case.”

“Maybe we could use it as a pivot, you know, say something about how it points to the need for more mental-health funding in communities.”

Michelle could hear the enthusiasm in Caitlin's voice, the part of her that could make those speeches, that knew how to reach out and hook people, and enjoyed it.

Troy laughed a little and gave Caitlin's shoulder a tentative squeeze. “I like the way you think.”

Michelle wondered what would happen to them. She hoped they'd make it. After all that Caitlin had been through, having her life upended a second time and still be willing to fight back
. . .
Whatever her partnership with Troy turned out to be, maybe they could find some strength and comfort in each other.

They'd need it.

I did what I could, she thought.

Caitlin suddenly turned to Michelle, as though she'd picked up on her attention.

“I guess I should thank you.” She still sounded more angry than thankful. “I guess you could've just
. . .
let things take their course, and you didn't. Why is that?”

Why
wouldn't
Caitlin wonder? She had no reason to trust anything that Michelle had done, or might do.

Funny, how much it hurt being thought of that way.

“I didn't want to go along with these people,” Michelle said. “I never did. I still know what's right, and what isn't.”

Maybe she knew better now than she used to.

“I'll give you an email address,” she said. “If something comes up
. . .
I don't know if I can help. But I'll try.”

Caitlin seemed to study her. Michelle couldn't tell what sort of conclusions she might have reached.

“I guess there's nothing I can do to help
you
,” Caitlin said.

“I doubt it.”

Michelle fished around in her hobo for something to write on. Her hands closed on a business card at the bottom of her purse. She pulled it out. It was a card for Evergreen: the abstract redwood silhouette, the woodblock letters. She stared at it for a long moment, then carefully printed the email address she'd given to Maggie.

“Here,” she said. “I hope
. . .
I hope you won't need it. But if there's anything
. . .
” She shrugged helplessly and held out the card.

Caitlin stared at her for a long moment. Then she took the card. She held it close to her chest and nodded.

“What are you going to do, Michelle?” she asked.

Michelle smiled tightly. “I'm going to disappear.”

She took a taxi
to Mission Valley and checked into the Motel 6. She debated about what name to use and decided on Emily. If the case against “Jeff” had been dropped, no one should be looking for her any more, should they? No one in law enforcement, anyway.

Gary would still be looking. If he didn't already know where she was.

But she didn't want to use the new passport. If she and Danny had any hope of really disappearing, she couldn't risk being Meredith Evelyn Jackson, not yet.

She paid cash for the room. No sense making it any easier for Gary to find her.

Lying in bed, she
thought about tomorrow, about what she was leaving behind her. The loose ends.

One of them was Evergreen.

Evergreen was hers. Her creation. Her responsibility.

Was there anything she could do to leave it the right way?

With the DEA out of the picture, maybe the restaurant could remain open, if Helen and the staff wanted to keep running it. She'd already cut her own salary in half when this whole thing started so she could bump up Helen and Joseph and Guillermo's pay. She could take herself off the books altogether, just draw a small percentage as a return on her investment, have Derek set that up so she'd still have money to send for her father's care and her nephew's college fund. All it would take was an email now and then, wouldn't it? That wouldn't be too much of a risk.

Be real, she told herself. It was tempting to think that something she'd created might go on without her, at least for a little while. But she had a long way to travel between here and some form of refuge, if there even was such a place.

Gary wouldn't give up so easily.

Danny called at 6:15
a.m.

“I'm still a few hours out,” he said. “Can you meet me at nine
a.m.
at the border crossing in San Ysidro? There's a trolley that takes you right to it.”

“I'll be there.”

“You okay? You sound a little rough.”

She laughed. “I'm fine. It was a rough night.”

“It's good to hear your voice, Em.”

“It's good to hear you too. I'll see you soon.”

A taxi took her
to Santa Fe Depot, the train and trolley station downtown. It looked to be a beautiful day, but most of them were here.

She drew in a deep breath, the air scented with brine from the harbor.

You can do this, she told herself.

She walked through the broad archway of the station entrance, flanked by Spanish-style towers that were topped with yellow and blue tiled domes.

The hall was an arched building with lines of copper chandeliers above, darkened wooden benches below. The station was close to one hundred years old; she'd read that when she was doing her research. The benches were mostly occupied; other people milled around the souvenir and snack counter, lingered by the arched exits onto the platform.

7:50
a.m.
A busy morning.

The Amtrak counter was at the north end. Four people waited in line to buy tickets.

There's plenty of time, she told herself. The train didn't leave until 8:20.

Fifteen minutes later it was her turn.

“One to Los Angeles,” she said. “Reserved coach is fine.” She counted out fifty dollars.

“May I see some ID?”

This is it, she thought. It will either work, or it won't.

She slid Emily's license across the counter.

The clerk, a middle-aged black woman, held up the license, glanced at Michelle. Typed at her terminal. A printer whirred and clattered.

“Here you go, Ms. Carmichael,” the clerk said with a smile, the ticket in her outstretched hand. “Enjoy your trip.”

“I will,” she said. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”

Passengers had started to line up out on the platform, the queue already stretching into the lobby. Michelle took her place at the end.

She glanced around, as normally as she could—just a tourist, taking in the sights—to see if she could spot any obvious tails. She couldn't, but then, Carlene had wanted to be spotted, back in Houston. There were so many people here. Any one of them might be following her. Or no one was. She couldn't know, one way or the other.

A few minutes later, she heard the warning bells that signaled an approaching train. Funny, because the train was already here, waiting across a set of tracks. The line started moving.

Now she was out on the platform and could see the gate that had lowered to protect passengers crossing the trolley tracks to reach their train. A trolley waited on the other side of the barrier, its doors open, passengers getting in and out.

Michelle stepped out of the line, walking quickly up the platform toward the trolley. She kept walking till she reached a gap between buildings at the end of the depot and turned right, passing trolley customers heading to the tracks. She turned right again, doubling back toward the front of the station. The back half of Santa Fe Depot had been turned into a contemporary art museum; she glimpsed vaguely sculptural shapes inside through the glassed-in archways, on the exterior wall, a black sign with scrolling red diode letters spelling
be all that you can be
.

Up ahead, at the back of the train station proper, two taxis waited at the curb.

The taxi stand was there, like her research said it would be. “Just don't expect to always find taxis waiting,” a guy on TripAdvisor had said. If there hadn't been, she'd planned to walk to the closest big hotel.

Who knew if her feint to Los Angeles would work? But it was worth a try.

She approached the first cab. “Can you take me to San Ysidro, to the border?”

He nodded, and she climbed in.

She could see the
city changing as they headed south, from the harbor with the tall ships, the shiny highrises and condos of downtown, to a more industrial area: shipyards, a Navy base, car lots; then small, faded stucco houses, graffitied cinderblock walls, a weed-choked wetland, outlet stores. There was less money here.

Twenty-five minutes, and she was at the border.

The trolley station was a giant McDonald's: a cream and brick red stucco building that looked like it might have been a small warehouse once, or a garment factory, a long building with two low stories. There were three brick-red cement ellipses in descending order, like an upside-down series of steps, at the top of the building.
McDonald's Trolley Station
was spelled out in square white plastic letters on the uppermost, largest step, next to a small pair of golden arches, just to clarify this was actually a McDonald's, maybe. The building also had signs for check-cashing and money-changing in English and Spanish, and something called “Saldos Gigantes: Ropa, Cosméticos, Miscelánea.”

She'd gotten there early. It wasn't even 8:45. Maybe a cup of coffee, she thought. McDonald's coffee wasn't bad.

She went inside.

The McDonald's took up most of the back wall on the first floor. Above it was a Shoes for Less with a small neon sign that said
Abierto.
A few other small glassed-in stalls filled the remainder of the space. The middle was dedicated to seating for the McDonalds: Plastic-benched booths and tables divided by low orange walls topped with Plexiglas panels. The place was about three-quarters full, the languages she heard a mix of Spanish and English: tourists on their way to Tijuana, residents from both sides of the border. Michelle got her coffee and sat down at an empty table, facing the entrance, Danny's ruck on the bench by her side.

About ten minutes later, Gary walked in, wearing his Humboldt Crabs baseball hat.

There was no point in running. Where would she go?

She waited as he crossed the room, pulled out the chair across from her and sat.

“Pretty good try at evasion there, Michelle.” He smiled, that phony grin she hated. “I'm sorry you and I never got a chance to work on that together.” He gestured at her cup. “Coffee?”

She nodded.

“Why don't you go get me a cup? Black.”

Of course he wouldn't get his own. Easier for him to watch her this way.

She returned with his cup of coffee. She thought about throwing it in his face and trying to run. She wouldn't get away, but it would be satisfying, for a moment or two.

Instead she put the coffee in front of him and sat back down.

He sipped. Leaned back in his chair. “Do you know how much you piss me off, Michelle? I can't think of many people who piss me off more.” He wagged a finger at her. “Believe it or not, I've got a pretty good track record with these kinds of ops. And this was gonna be so sweet.”