Flashback

He’d never liked it when Val called him by his first name. “They might be looking for me as well.”

Val shrugged. “But Nick Bottom’s still our best chance. He’s a stinking flash addict, but he may still have some contacts with the Denver PD. Or at least know how to get us out of town. Building security probably won’t let you past the lobby or security airlock or whatever they have in there, but if they don’t detain you and call the cops right away, they’ll probably let you phone up to the Old Man’s cubie in there. If they do grab you, just tell them that you got out of L.A. but haven’t seen me.”

“They’d never believe that I left Los Angeles without you,” said Leonard.

Val shrugged. The silence stretched.

“And you assume your father will be home in the middle of the day?” Leonard finally said. His voice was not completely steady.

“The Old Man’s a flashback addict,” snapped Val. “Flashers are almost always home—unless they’re in a flashcave somewhere.”

“If he is there, and if they don’t detain me and call the police, what do you want me to tell your father?”

“Tell him I’m here and that he should come out to talk to me. Tell him to bring two hundred bucks in cash— old bucks. If he doesn’t have that much in cash, we can go to an ATM together. There are still a few of those things left.”

Leonard didn’t know whether hearing this made him want to laugh or weep. “That’s what this is about? Getting money from your father? So you can get that forged Teamsters NICC and be a trucker?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your anger at him, Val?”

“Well, fuck that. It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t know what went down between him and Mom and I don’t really care anymore. If he’s there—if he hasn’t spent every last cent he has on flashback—have him come out to meet me and bring the two hundred old bucks in cash. You can tell him that I’ll never bother him again after I get the money. I figure that after sending me into exile for five fucking years, he owes me at least that much.”

Leonard shook his head. He paused, then said: “I may have the password to the encrypted text on your mother’s phone, Val. I’ve thought of several possibilities.”

The boy’s head snapped up. “Does that matter now?”

“It might.” Leonard didn’t know if it mattered or not. And even though he’d known his darling daughter well when they’d lived together, odds were against him actually guessing the password she’d chosen. Dara had been extremely intelligent: she’d have known that a near-random mixture of letters and numerals would have been the most secure password she could have chosen. Leonard was almost certainly being sentimental and foolish when he thought he might have guessed the five-letter word.

“I’m not thinking anymore that the Old Man actually had her killed,” muttered the boy. “I just hated it when he didn’t cry when she died. He didn’t cry at the funeral or when we cleaned out her stuff. The sonofabitch never showed the slightest bit of emotion. Then he shipped me off and… well, I guess I was a little nuts for a while. I just want whatever money he’ll give me and then I’ll go somewhere where I never have to see him again as long as I live.”

Leonard began to speak but bit his lip instead. “Will you give me my daughter’s phone then? I want to read her text diary.”

“If you get the Old Man out here and he brings money so I can find the card guy, you can have the goddamned phone, Grandpa. Now go on.”

The condominium lobby where Leonard’s son-in-law lived was a bulletproof, blastproof vault. Surveillance cameras watched. Inner doors were metal and multilayered. One was supposed to speak to a microphone and video camera next to a screen that showed a 3DHD video loop of flowered meadows, grazing deer, and eagles floating in a blue sky, all these images laid over inspirational music that would kill a diabetic.

A man’s voice came from the grill: “Welcome to the Cherry Creek Mall Condominiums. Can we help you?”

Leonard said that he wanted to talk to Mr. Nick Bottom.

There was a hesitation and the voice said, “Please stay where you are. Someone will be right down.”

Leonard panicked. They were calling the cops. They’d called building security and someone was coming to grab him until the police arrived.

Leonard moved quickly to the heavy outer doors and tried one. It opened. He knew the people watching him on video could lock it from their control center, so they weren’t holding him prisoner, which they certainly would have done if the goal was to arrest him. Looking out the door, he couldn’t see Val across the street but traffic moved up and down First Avenue.

Leonard closed the door and waited, his old heart pounding and the constant flower of pain in his chest unfolding to something the size of a fist. It wasn’t his heart, he knew. It was something growing—and becoming more painful—in his left lung. George Leonard Fox felt mortality press down on his shoulders like a lead collar.

The inner door opened and a stolid, heavily muscled older man in a simple black security uniform came through. He carried a radio and other paraphernalia on his belt, but no gun.

“You’re Dr. Fox?” said the man, offering his hand. “I’m Gunny G., the head of security for Cherry Creek Mall Condominiums.”

Leonard shook the offered hand. The man’s fingers were short, blunt, and wide, but shaking the man’s broad callused palm was like grasping a relatively smooth-barked tree.

“Mr. Bottom asked me to watch for you and your grandson,” said Gunny G.

We’re under arrest, thought Leonard.

“… and to escort you both to his quarters and make sure you’re comfortable,” finished the security man. Leonard noticed that this Gunny G. person’s face was a lunar-terrain map of subtle white scars under the permanent tan.

“When did my son-in-law talk to you about us?”

“This morning, sir. Before he left.”

“So he’s out right now?” Leonard said stupidly. If one of his students had responded this way, he would have put a tiny “n”—for “nullwit”—next to the student’s name in his attendance book, just to save time when the grading period came around.

Gunny G. nodded. “But Mr. Bottom said that he’d be back this afternoon or early evening and asked me personally to make sure you and your grandson were comfortable.”

“How did you recognize me?” asked Leonard, his voice not quite feeble but certainly sounding lost.

“Mr. Bottom showed me photos, sir,” said the security chief with a smile. “Do you have luggage? I’ll be happy to carry it as we head upstairs.”

Upstairs to the holding cell, thought Leonard. He was so frightened that it was almost funny.

“My grandson has our luggage,” he murmured, almost as if the real world still existed. “Perhaps we’ll come back later.”

Could they outrun the authorities? Leonard knew that he couldn’t. He couldn’t even outhobble them.

Gunny G.—what kind of name was that?—reached into his shirt pocket, removed a slip of paper, and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Fox. I forgot that Mr. Bottom asked me to give you this.”

The note read—Leonard and Val—I’m glad you’re safe. Please trust this man. He’ll let you into my cubie. I’ll be home later today—Saturday. It’s imperative that I see you. I’ve left cafeteria chits on the table in my room if you’re hungry or thirsty. See you soon.—Nick.”

There was a hastily scribbled postscript: “Gunny G. will phone to inform me that you’ve arrived.”

Leonard had no idea if it was his son-in-law’s handwriting since he’d never seen Nick’s handwriting. He put the note in his pocket, more confused than ever.

“I’ll go get my grandson and the luggage,” he said at last. His words echoed in the blastproof tomb of an entry box.

“Very good, Dr. Fox,” said the square-faced security chief. “I’ll wait here for you.”