burned my eyes. I used the collar of my T-shirt to wipe my forehead. "Pink noise?"
"Subaudible. Pretty much plugs up any frequency they're listening in on."
"I'm not wired."
"Yeah, but you can bet your ass that cell phone they gave you is." He crouched and set the little generator on the floor at his feet, right at the edge of the pool. He flicked his bloody head. "Come here."
I remembered Wydell's warning to get him away from the water. I wanted his rucksack moved away, too. "I'm not going near that pool," I said.
"The radiation won't hurt you. Not unless the water boils off."
"Is that what the bomb's for?"
"There is no bomb," he said impatiently.
"I. . . What? What are you doing, then?"
"I needed the bomb threat to get you here." He took a crooked step toward me, away from the pool. I responded with a half step back, drawing him farther. He raised a hand to the laceration on his cheek, the loose section of flesh shifting under his gentle touch. His grimace held more resignation than pain. "They'll kill me the minute they get me in a scope. I'm not getting out of here alive, and if I do, they'll make sure I disappear." He drew nearer, walking on a tilt, until we were at arm's length.
I was breathing hard, trying not to bounce on my shoes, but my body wouldn't obey. When he swayed closer, I snatched the rucksack from his
shoulder and shoved him away. He stumbled back a few steps and made no move to retaliate. I was shocked at myself, the panicked burst of courage, how easy it had been. With shaking hands I rooted furiously through the rucksack, but it contained only a handgun, two stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with purple bands, a notepad and pen, and a change of clothes.
I dropped the rucksack. "There's no bomb?"
He shook his head and started to say something, but a coughing fit doubled him over, blood spraying from his mouth. The coin-size drops looked like oil in the dim blue light. Finally he straightened up.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm Charlie. I knew your stepfather."
"How? How do you . . . ?"
He swayed on his feet, his eyes glassy with pain or from the crushing pressure of the situation. "I made an awful mistake. But maybe you can set it right. I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life. He's the only guy I ever trusted a hundred percent."
"If you were friends, how come you didn't come
to the funeral?"
I was bluffing; I hadn't gone either. I'd gotten dressed for the service but hadn't been able to stop vomiting long enough to make it into the car with
Callie.
"I was scared shitless," Charlie said. "You
would've been, too. That's what this is about. That's why I needed you here. Frank always talked about you. Years ago. Years. If there's anyone I can trust to do the right thing, it'd be Frank's kid."
"I'm nothing like Frank Durant. I'm not even his kid."
But Charlie didn't seem to hear me. "I prayed to hell you still lived here. L.A. I didn't know who else . . . what else can be done. But if anyone can figure it out, it's you. At least from what Frank said. I don't have anybody else."
"How do I know this isn't a setup? How do I know you and Frank were really friends?"
He moved toward me again, ignoring my questions, digging in his pocket. "Here. Here. Take this. Hide it."
Something glinted in his blood-streaked hand. A key.
He grabbed my arm, shoved the key into my palm. It was brass, maybe two inches long, sturdier than a house key. "Hide it now. On your person."
His sleeve was shoved back almost to the elbow. On his forearm, in a faded tattoo blue, was the familiar kanji script.
TRUST NO ONE.
I stared at the tattoo, stunned. Then I crouched and wedged the key through the cracked plastic window in the heel of my sneaker. With a push it fit into the air pocket. More drops of blood tapped the floor, the tops of his shoes.
His voice sounded loose, pain-drunk. "Your life is now on the line. I'll explain to you. I'll explain to you everything you need to kn--"
The cell phone they'd
"Subaudible. Pretty much plugs up any frequency they're listening in on."
"I'm not wired."
"Yeah, but you can bet your ass that cell phone they gave you is." He crouched and set the little generator on the floor at his feet, right at the edge of the pool. He flicked his bloody head. "Come here."
I remembered Wydell's warning to get him away from the water. I wanted his rucksack moved away, too. "I'm not going near that pool," I said.
"The radiation won't hurt you. Not unless the water boils off."
"Is that what the bomb's for?"
"There is no bomb," he said impatiently.
"I. . . What? What are you doing, then?"
"I needed the bomb threat to get you here." He took a crooked step toward me, away from the pool. I responded with a half step back, drawing him farther. He raised a hand to the laceration on his cheek, the loose section of flesh shifting under his gentle touch. His grimace held more resignation than pain. "They'll kill me the minute they get me in a scope. I'm not getting out of here alive, and if I do, they'll make sure I disappear." He drew nearer, walking on a tilt, until we were at arm's length.
I was breathing hard, trying not to bounce on my shoes, but my body wouldn't obey. When he swayed closer, I snatched the rucksack from his
shoulder and shoved him away. He stumbled back a few steps and made no move to retaliate. I was shocked at myself, the panicked burst of courage, how easy it had been. With shaking hands I rooted furiously through the rucksack, but it contained only a handgun, two stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with purple bands, a notepad and pen, and a change of clothes.
I dropped the rucksack. "There's no bomb?"
He shook his head and started to say something, but a coughing fit doubled him over, blood spraying from his mouth. The coin-size drops looked like oil in the dim blue light. Finally he straightened up.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I'm Charlie. I knew your stepfather."
"How? How do you . . . ?"
He swayed on his feet, his eyes glassy with pain or from the crushing pressure of the situation. "I made an awful mistake. But maybe you can set it right. I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life. He's the only guy I ever trusted a hundred percent."
"If you were friends, how come you didn't come
to the funeral?"
I was bluffing; I hadn't gone either. I'd gotten dressed for the service but hadn't been able to stop vomiting long enough to make it into the car with
Callie.
"I was scared shitless," Charlie said. "You
would've been, too. That's what this is about. That's why I needed you here. Frank always talked about you. Years ago. Years. If there's anyone I can trust to do the right thing, it'd be Frank's kid."
"I'm nothing like Frank Durant. I'm not even his kid."
But Charlie didn't seem to hear me. "I prayed to hell you still lived here. L.A. I didn't know who else . . . what else can be done. But if anyone can figure it out, it's you. At least from what Frank said. I don't have anybody else."
"How do I know this isn't a setup? How do I know you and Frank were really friends?"
He moved toward me again, ignoring my questions, digging in his pocket. "Here. Here. Take this. Hide it."
Something glinted in his blood-streaked hand. A key.
He grabbed my arm, shoved the key into my palm. It was brass, maybe two inches long, sturdier than a house key. "Hide it now. On your person."
His sleeve was shoved back almost to the elbow. On his forearm, in a faded tattoo blue, was the familiar kanji script.
TRUST NO ONE.
I stared at the tattoo, stunned. Then I crouched and wedged the key through the cracked plastic window in the heel of my sneaker. With a push it fit into the air pocket. More drops of blood tapped the floor, the tops of his shoes.
His voice sounded loose, pain-drunk. "Your life is now on the line. I'll explain to you. I'll explain to you everything you need to kn--"
The cell phone they'd
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