likelihood of that was. It did seem a tough argument to make: that either an adjunct film teacher or his by-the- numbers script was important enough to capture the attention of the CIA. 'I can pry into that for you, find out who their media contact is that deals with Hollywood. But if it is the CIA out to teach you a lesson, why would they be backing off?'
'What do you mean, backing off?'
'They showed you where all the surveillance devices were in your house and told you to remove them. If that's not letting you off the hook, I don't know what is.' Her features had rearranged themselves to show impatience at my daftness.
I thought about what Ariana had said in the greenhouse, how everything so far had been merely the setup. 'They're just getting ready for the next phase,' I said. 'Whatever's in that e-mail.'
'So why would they give up the advantage of being able to monitor you?' She smoothed her red locks tight to her skull and flipped an elastic hair tie off her wrist and into place. With her hair back, she looked stunning and severe, a comic-book heroine trying to blend in as one of us. Her baggy black T-shirt undercut the effect, but not enough that a male student didn't slow his beat-to-crap Hyundai to gape at her. Of course she didn't notice; she was too focused on me. 'They're indicating something else, I think. Establishing trust, even. It's a dialogue.'
I thought about how the intruder had run from me, though he was big enough to have snapped me in two across a knee. The conflict hadn't turned physical, at least not yet, but we were adversaries, certainly. Weren't we?
'They didn't threaten you,' she pressed. 'Not explicitly.'
'Just implicitly, about six different ways.' I unlocked my car and threw my overstuffed briefcase into the passenger seat. 'I gotta go. Don't mention this to anyone.'
'Look'--she grabbed my arm--'I'm just saying, maybe you passed some test.'
'How? What have I done that could constitute passing a test?'
'Say this is the CIA. Maybe they saw something in your script. Maybe they were impressed. And this is, I don't know . . . their way of recruiting you.'
Even through the fear, I felt a flush of the old pride. 'You think it was that good?'
'This is U.S. intelligence we're talking about,' she said. 'They don't exactly have high standards.'
The idea took hold for a moment. Did I want to believe it because it was less threatening or because it was flattering? I shook off the thought. 'Nothing about this feels like a game. They've invaded our lives. The surveillance guy who checked out our house said these are top-level--'
'Of course Surveillance Guy doom-and-gloomed you. You said he was a government dickhead. Or former government dickhead. It's their job to tell us how scary the world is. It's in their DNA or something.'
'This situation? I don't need anyone to tell me it's scary.' I ducked into the car. The gas gauge was broken from one of my morning slugfests, the dial stuck on full. A glance at the odometer showed 211 miles since my last fill-up; I'd have just enough gas to make it to Punch without having to stop.
I started to pull out, but Julianne tapped on the window until I rolled it down. She leaned over, her milk-pale skin almost translucent in the blinding Valley sunlight. 'Like I said before. Maybe they're not after the usual.'
I touched the gas, easing back, the tires crackling over dead leaves. 'That's exactly what I'm worried about.'
Even though I was running behind, I circled the parking garage again, making sure I wasn't being followed. I called Ariana's cell phone, and she picked up on the first ring.
'You okay?'
'Yeah. I stayed home. Wanted to clean up a little. Not like I'd be able to concentrate on work anyway. Can you?'
'Home? Look--'
'I know. 'Be careful.' But it's not like they're planning on kicking down the door and shooting me, or they would've just done it already. This whole thing isn't exactly an efficient setup for that.'
I stared at my real cell phone, turned off on the passenger seat. I wanted to give Ariana the number of the prepaid I was using, but her line wasn't secure, and now I was heading into the mouth of the parking structure. 'Okay,' I said. 'Just--'
The reception cut out. Cursing, I zipped up three levels and slotted the Camry into an end space. I spotted Punch sitting on a flat bench near the elevator, reading a magazine. Hurrying over, I checked my shoes again, making sure my Kenneth Coles hadn't morphed into my GPS Nikes in the past thirty seconds.
I reached the bench and sat next to him, but facing the other direction. It was a good meet point--a lot of cars and foot traffic, plenty of ambient noise, a roof to protect us from Google Earth and its more ambitious brethren. But the question, put to me by the electronic voice, reverberated: Do you have any question as to our capability to reach into your life and touch you where we want? Was I foolish to be here? To be looking into this at all? But I had to. Blind submission was what they wanted, but it hardly guaranteed my safety, or Ariana's.
Punch kept his gaze on the magazine. 'I was just calling to tell you I put out some feelers about Keith Conner and got back some really screwy signals.'
'Like?'
'Like why the fuck am I asking around about Keith Conner and stop it. Look, this kind of search, it's improper and illegal. My cop contacts aren't allowed to just run people, especially not as favors for me. But the thing is, no one usually checks or notices. These improper searches got noticed, though. All of them. As in right fucking away. So my guys got chewed out, and I got burned. Someone's watching this shit, and it ain't some tea-sipping publicist for the studio. They're monitoring it from inside or above the department. Now, you want to tell me what the hell you got yourself into?'
I gave him more or less the version I'd laid out for Julianne. Punch's ruddy face got ruddier, accenting the broken capillaries across his meaty nose and cheeks. 'Shit.' He wiped his hands on his button-up. One shirttail was untucked. It was good he and Jerry never overlapped; he was Walter Matthau to Jerry's Jack Lemmon. 'You're all over this. Investigating, figuring out the angles.'
'It's like writing, I guess.'
'Yeah, but you're good at this.'
The elevator doors dinged open, and I felt a stab of apprehension. A mom emerged, tugging a squalling boy behind her. She scowled down at him. 'That's why I told you to leave it in the car.'
I waited for them to pass, then withdrew the mini-recorder from my pocket and handed it over. Punch took the unit from me, folded it into his Maxim, and clicked the button. That voice again: 'So . . . are you ready to get started?'
'Electronic voice modulator,' Punch said. 'We see that shit all the time in crank calls.'
'Any way to untangle it? Get a read on the voice, type of phone, anything?'
'No. I have a hotshot criminalist who wants in on a show I'm consulting for. To let him prove his worth, I let him play with some scrambled-voice threat to a producer, and he came up with jack shit.' He tilted the magazine, letting the recorder plop back into my lap. 'This whole thing is way too big for me and my IQ. Since your phone situation is compromised, don't call.' He raised a sausage of a finger at me. 'And don't send any e-mails either. Once you open that shit, even if you delete it, your hard drive holds the memory of it. Last thing I need is your Big Brothers tracking you right into my computer.'
'So how do I contact you?'
'You don't. Too risky.' He tugged at his jowls, taking in my expression. 'You don't like it, put it in your fourth step and call your sponsor.'
'I'm not in AA.'
'Oh, right. That's supposed to be me.' He stood, curling the magazine in a blocky fist, and offered a shrug before he walked off. 'Good luck.'
He meant it, but he also meant good-bye.
The lecture hall's emptiness seemed all the more glaring given the stadium seating. I stood in the doorway, peering in hopelessly. On the posted room schedule--3:00: PROFESSOR DAVIS, ELEMENTS OF SCREENWRITING. On the clock--3:47. My shirt and pants stuck to me; I'd sprinted from the parking lot to class. Dropping my briefcase, I sagged against the jamb to catch my breath.
As I retreated down the hall, I swore I was catching odd looks from students. The department assistant called out to me as I passed the main office. 'Professor Davis? I have that student file you requested.'
