No Way Back (40 page)

Pearce says: ‘We’re positive on the ID. Matched her prints. She has quite a record. Twelve arrests for prostitution in the past five years. Vegas is cracking down. Trying to be more
family friendly. More Disney, less blow jobs.’

‘Now that’s a slogan I can get behind,’ Mitchell says. ‘More Disney, less blow jobs. Wonder what that sounds like in Latin.’

‘
Magis Disney, minus BJs
,’ Pearce suggests. He looks down at the corpse. He gestures to Mitchell, a polite ‘after you’ twirl of the fingers.

Mitchell grabs the sheet, near the dead woman’s shoulder. He turns to me. ‘Now I hope you can help us out here, Mr Thane. Maybe you can recognize this girl from your… well,
your various travels. Maybe in California, maybe in Florida. Who knows – maybe you two met in Las Vegas. On some sort of business trip, away from the wife.’ He clears his throat.
‘Mr Thane, may I introduce you to Danielle Diamond, aka Sandra Love, aka Dierdra Starr, aka DeeDee Starr.’ He pulls the sheet.

My wife, Libby Thane, lies lifeless on the gurney. Her eyes are closed. A long black slit, the colour of road tar, stretches across her neck, a wound so deep that a tap on her head would sever
it from the body and send it rolling to the ground. Her skin is pale and bloodless, as white as the sheet that hid her.

‘Mr Thane,’ Agent Mitchell says, ‘do you know this woman?’

I use every bit of self control I can muster to stay perfectly still, to keep my feet planted firmly beneath my shoulders. I feel the earth shifting, and for a moment I think I will faint and
hit the cement with my chin. But I take a breath, and I stay upright, and I turn to Agent Mitchell, who is staring at me. I return his stare.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I have no idea who this woman is.’

I rush out of the morgue. I slam the door of the cooler room, race down the hall. Agent Mitchell runs after me, trying to keep up. ‘Mr Thane,’ he calls. ‘Mr
Thane, wait!’

I don’t slow. I don’t stop. I just run, past the security door, into the tiny lobby, and into the heat.

Five steps across the parking lot and I hear Mitchell calling for me. ‘Mr Thane, please!’

I let him catch up. He’s sweating and out of breath. ‘Mr Thane, wait. Are you all right?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not used to seeing things like that.’

‘No, sir. No one is.’ He regards me thoughtfully. ‘I guess you don’t recognize her, then.’

‘No.’

He looks at me cautiously, as if he doesn’t quite believe me. But then again, who can blame him? They just found two dead Mexicans and a murdered whore in my car. I’m not exactly in
the running for Citizen of the Year.

‘Come on then, Mr Thane. Let’s head over to my office, and we’ll start the paperwork.’

‘Paperwork?’

‘Missing Persons. Isn’t that what you wanted? To find your wife, Libby?’ The answer to his question is that I have already found my wife Libby. She is lying on a gurney, with
her throat open. Except maybe her name isn’t Libby. And maybe there never was a Libby. And maybe the woman I married ten years ago, the woman who was a waitress at The Goose, back at Stanford
– maybe she never really was a waitress – but instead was a hooker named, variously, Danielle Diamond, or DeeDee Star.

‘Of course I want to find her,’ I say.

Mitchell puts his hand on my shoulder. We walk together to his car. I’m about to let him guide me into the passenger seat when a loud musical trill startles me. It’s Amanda’s
cellphone, in my pocket; its ring is unfamiliar. I look down at the incoming number. Gordon Kramer.

I step away from the car, and away from Mitchell, and gesture for the FBI agent to wait. ‘Hello, Gordon,’ I say.

Gordon’s voice does not sound the way I expect. What I expect is the typical Gordon Kramer: gruff, take-no-bullshit, Roman Centurion, drop-and-give-me-twenty. What I hear is high and
strained – quavering with some emotion that I can’t quite identify. ‘Jimmy,’ he says, ‘are you with him? Is the FBI agent with you right now?’

I look at Agent Mitchell. He’s standing a few yards away, on the other side of the car, staring into the sky.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’re about to drive over to his office.’

‘Listen, Jimmy,’ Gordon says, and now finally I recognize the emotion in his voice. It is something I have never heard before in Gordon Kramer.

It is fear.

‘I asked around,’ Gordon says. ‘That name you told me. The Russian. You should have told me before. Damn it, Jimmy, you should have told me right away! You should have told me
everything. I could have helped you. I could have prevented all this—’

He stops. I can picture him at the other end of the line, pacing, rubbing his huge hand over close-cropped grey hair, the way you rub down a deerhound after a good hard hunt.

He says: ‘Jimmy, listen to me. Just answer yes or no. Don’t say anything else. Just yes or no. The man you’re with right now – you said his name is Tom Mitchell. Is that
right?’

‘Yes.’

Agent Tom Mitchell is smiling politely at me, waiting for me to finish my call. He takes out a pad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He clicks the top of his pen.
Click
.

‘You said he was from the FBI. Are you sure you got that right? He’s on the Special Crimes Unit? At the Tampa Field Office? You sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

Agent Mitchell pushes his pen again.
Click
.

‘Listen carefully. I called my friend at the FBI. There is no Special Crimes Unit, Jimmy. There is no agent named Tom Mitchell. Not any more. Agent Tom Mitchell was killed five years ago,
in Long Beach, doing undercover work. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

I manage to squeeze a sound from my throat, just a whisper. ‘Yes.’

‘You need to get away from him. Do not get in his car. Do not be alone with him. Can you get away?’

I look around. We’re standing in the middle of a parking lot. It is surrounded by chain-link fence. A red Honda pulls into the lot. Two middle-aged black women are in the car.

‘I think I can make it,’ I say, nonchalantly, as if I’m agreeing to meet him for drinks after work.

‘I’m coming in on the red-eye,’ Gordon says. ‘I’ll be there first thing in the morning. I’ll call you when I land. We can deal with this together, Jimmy.
I’ll get you out of this mess, I promise.’

‘Thank you, Gordon.’

‘I’ve worked too hard on you. You’re the fucking salvage operation of the century. I’ll be damned if I’m going to find you cut up into little pieces in a plastic
bag. Now get the hell away from that asshole.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘I will. Talk later.’

I hang up, put the phone in my pocket. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say to the man who calls himself Tom Mitchell.

He shrugs. His voice is polite, melodious – a true Southern gentleman’s. ‘No problem, Mr Thane. You ready to go, now? I’ll take you over to my office. If you’d be
so kind as to seat yourself in my automobile.’

He clicks the top of his pen once more.
Click
.

That’s when I see his hand. How did I not notice it before? His right hand – the one gripping the pen – consists of four fully-formed fingers, and one mutilated remnant –
a pinky that is just a red raw stump.

I step away.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Thane?’ he says, smiling. ‘You look a bit feverish. Why don’t you have a seat in my car. I don’t want you to faint from this
heat.’

He circles around the car, towards me.

‘Get away,’ I say.

‘Mr Thane? What’s wrong?’

‘I have to go.’

‘Go?’ He holds up his hands, to encompass the parking lot and the empty streets beyond. ‘
Go where
?’

I run.

‘Mr Thane, you don’t have a car!’ he calls after me, sounding more amused than menacing.

I sprint past rows of cars, towards the parking lot exit. Just past the fence, a black Lincoln Town Car pulls up, and waits at the front gate, blocking my path. Through tinted glass, I barely
make out the driver. It’s Ryan Pearce, the medical examiner.

I turn to the other direction. Agent Mitchell is coming my way, approaching slowly and deliberately, with his hand in his jacket pocket. ‘Mr Thane,’ he calls out calmly. ‘You
know who I’m looking for, don’t you? I simply need your help to find him.’

Nearby, the red Honda pulls into a parking spot and cuts its motor. The two black women – both large, in colourful blouses – hoist themselves from the car. Each holds a big Starbucks
cup.

‘Ladies!’ I call out to them, as I sprint in their direction. ‘Ladies, a moment of your time!’

They look up. Like all women, they’re prepared to be polite to any man who calls them ‘ladies’, with a gentle voice. Indeed their faces have expectant, almost radiant
expressions.

Then they see me. I imagine how I must look to them: sweat-drenched, red-eyed, crazed – probably high – and racing towards them. Their faces abruptly change.

The woman nearest the driver-side door is overweight and she wears big owl-eyed sunglasses, giving her a surprised and wide-eyed look. I stick Amanda’s gun to her head. ‘I need your
car keys.’

She glances across the parking lot at Agent Mitchell. He’s running towards us, arms pumping.

‘Now!’ I yell. I slap the Starbucks cup from her hand, as if that’s the one thing preventing a brisk response. Warm caramel macchiato splashes my pants, and I look down to see
a dollop of whipped cream on my shoe.

But the slap seems to do the trick. ‘All right,’ she says, handing me her car keys.

Agent Mitchell yells, ‘Stop that man! Stop him!’

The owl-eyed woman looks to him, her expression managing to convey the impracticality of his request. I squeeze past her, into the Honda. The seat is too close and I bang my knees on the
steering wheel. I twist the ignition, put the car into reverse, and peel out.

Smashing into the car behind me.

There’s a crash, and crunching metal. My head smacks the head-rest. I pull the gear back down into drive, and the car surges forwards. I cut the wheel, turn, and floor it.

The Honda races through the parking lot, its little engine whining. Up ahead, the wooden gate arm is down, and beyond it, the black Lincoln waits, parked perpendicularly across the exit. As I
accelerate, I see Pearce’s fat face behind the tinted window, as it changes from merely self-satisfied, to alarmed, to – at the very last second – quite terrified and rigid, as he
grips the steering wheel and braces for impact.

The Honda crashes into the gate arm, sending wood splintering, and then into the hood of the Lincoln.

I hit the Town Car sidelong at the wheel well – and the bigger car spins ninety degrees, like a compass needle on a magnet. I scrape past, metal rubbing metal, chrome peeling and curling
from the Lincoln’s right side.

In the rearview, I see Agent Mitchell running towards the Town Car. He pulls open the passenger door and leans inside. That’s the last I see of him, or Ryan Pearce, because I turn left,
and speed down the empty street; and when I next look behind me, they’re gone.

When I return to Amanda’s apartment, I know immediately that something’s wrong. I knock on her door, but there’s no answer. I try the knob, and it opens.

The apartment is empty. There’s no sign of a struggle, but, even so, things don’t look right. The air conditioner is off. The lights are on. The pillows are askew on the couch. Her
purse lies in the middle of the floor, as if dropped precipitously.

Amanda is gone.

I go to the window and peer through the Levolor blinds. Are they waiting for me outside? There are two dozen cars in a parking lot, an asphalt basketball court, two black men shooting hoops. No
Russians that I can see.

The cellphone in my pocket rings. The Caller ID says: ‘Anonymous’.

I answer. ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Thane?’ The voice on the line is male, quiet, precise – not someone I recognize.

‘Who is this?’

‘You know who I work for.’

‘Yes. You work for—’

‘Please, Mr Thane. Don’t say his name.’ A pause. ‘I’m watching you right now.’

I step away from the window, push my back against the wall.

‘Not through the window, Mr Thane.’

I look around Amanda’s apartment. There are a dozen places to conceal a camera: the framed watercolour that hangs over the couch, the thermostat on the wall, the metal clock on the coffee
table, the smoke detector on the ceiling.

‘Yes,’ the voice says, ‘a lot of possibilities.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m very sorry about your wife. I’m sorry you had to see that.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Things have gotten a little… ’ He pauses, searches for the right words. ‘Out of hand,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry for that. But we can fix them. We can make
everything right again Mr Thane.’

‘How can you do that?’

‘Come, and I will explain. We’re all waiting for you. Amanda, too.’

‘Where?’

‘Look down at the table.’

I glance at the coffee table next to me.

‘Not that table,’ he says. ‘To your left.’

I turn in the other direction, to the end table near the couch. On it lies a single piece of paper. It’s the same stationery that Agent Mitchell found in my house – the cuddly bear
jumping for honey. If at first you don’t succeed, bear with it and try again.

On the paper, written in cursive woman’s handwriting, is an address: 17258 Pine Ridge Road. It’s not Libby’s handwriting.

‘That’s where you’ll find her,’ the voice says.

‘Did you hurt her?’

‘Not yet,’ he says.

Of course it’s a trap. Why else would they call, and tell me where to find her, if not to lure me to a place I should not go?

But I don’t care. I feel a desperate craziness – the same craziness I feel when I’m high: I’m ready to tangle with anyone, to try anything – wild sex, sloppy
bar-room fights, more drugs – it doesn’t matter – bring it on.

I’d like to take Amanda’s gun from my pocket, feel its heft, be comforted by it. I have never fired a gun in my life, yet it somehow feels familiar hidden there. I go to
Amanda’s computer, and use Google Maps to find the address where I’ve been told to go. I study the route intently. Then I’m off, back downstairs, and into the Honda.