Callie is silent, watching the road with an unsettling intensity. Her right cheek is smudged. I see what looks like a spot of dried blood on her neck.
'It feels strange,' she says, as though she feels me watching her.
'To be leaving while everyone else is back there.'
'I know. They have it covered, though. We need to be doing what we're doing.'
'It still bothers me.'
'Me too,' I admit.
We make very good time getting to Moorpark, and not long after exiting the freeway, we walk into Gibbs's office. His eyes widen and his mouth falls open.
'What the hell happened to you two?' he asks.
'You'll see it on the news,' I say, and hold out the subpoena. 'Here you go.'
His eyes linger on us for a moment. He opens up the writ and reviews it.
'This only compels identity,' he notes.
'That's all we need.'
'Well, that's good,' he says. He seems relieved.
He opens up a desk drawer and pulls out a thin file. He drops it on the desk.
'It's a copy of the signed contract between us and a copy of his driver's license.' He smiles. 'You got good legal advice. I would have fought you on the trust, but identity?' He shrugs. 'It's been ruled on too many times.'
My smile back is perfunctory. I drag the file over and open it. The first page is a contract, typed. It details fees and services, agreements to pay, liability. I skim this, going to the bottom to find what I really want.
'Gustavo Cabrera,' I say out loud.
A name, finally, to put to The Stranger?
Maybe.
I flip the page over. What I see shocks me and yet doesn't--an unsettling combination. Gooseflesh runs across my body.
'Smoky?'
I point to it. Callie looks. Her eyes narrow.
The color photocopy of Cabrera's driver's license is clear and sharp and we recognize him right away.
The hard-faced man from the lobby.
'Son of a bitch,' I murmur.
Are you really that surprised?
No. No, not really.
I fight the urge to leave the office at a dead run. Everything in me screams for motion, but the conversation between James and me comes to me now.
This is the most dangerous part, I realize. We've arrived, he knows we've arrived, and he wanted us here. If we take the steps he's expecting us to take, what are the consequences? He's made his intent clear already, with bullets and grenades. His desire means a conflagration, an Armageddon he plans to grin and groan through. How do we keep from giving it to him?
And what about the other? The thing that's been trying to swim up through my subconscious, the thing that nagged at James as well?
'Thanks,' I say to Gibbs. 'We have to go.'
'You'll let me know?' he says. 'In case the outcome affects the trust?'
'We will.'
'Who is he?' I'm on the phone with Barry.
'Gustavo Cabrera. Thirty-eight years old. Came to the US from Central America in 1991. Naturalized citizen as of 1997. That's all pretty uninteresting. What is interesting is that he's got himself a huge house on a lot of property with no evidence of holding a steady job, and there's some unsubstantiated chatter about him stockpiling weapons.'
'What--like militia?'
'Or maybe just a gun-nut. Nothing ever came of it. The informant that tip came from was generally considered unreliable and has since died of a drug overdose. Two other pieces of information. Both are supposed to be confidential--personal medical information--but someone found out and made a note of both. First one: Cabrera is HIV positive.'
'Really?'
'Yep.'
'And the second?'
'Doctor noted at some point Cabrera had been a victim of torture. What appeared to be whip-scars on his lower back and--get this--scars on the soles of his feet.'
'Holy shit. Anything else?'
'That's it.'
'I'll let you know what happens.'
I hang up still feeling troubled and distracted.
There's a missing, a nothing, a something-that-should-be-there. Cabrera. He seemed to come from the right place, geographically. He's got the scars. Was he The Stranger? Why was I so reluctant to just say yes?
Sarah's diary. What did she leave out?
'What's the problem, Smoky?' Callie asks me, her voice soft.
'What's troubling you so?'
'It's too easy,' I say. 'It's too pat. Something about it doesn't fit him. It doesn't fit who he is.'
'Why? How?'
I shake my head, frustrated. 'I don't know, exactly. I just don't think it should be this simple. Why would he lead us right to him?'
'Maybe he's
'No. He knows exactly what he's doing. He wanted us to get a subpoena, and he wanted us to see that file. He stirred the FBI like a beehive by doing his
'You're the one who can think the way they do,' she prods. Expectant. Confident that I'll provide a revelation.
'I can't see it. I know it's there to see, but I can't see it. Something about Sarah's diary. Something missing from it.'
I can feel it now, on the edge of my vision. I can see it out of the corners of my eyes, but if I turn to view it head-on, it disappears. Something not there that should be there.
Something, something, some--
I stiffen and my eyes go wide as understanding rushes in. This is how it happens. This is the end result of drinking down the ocean of information, evidence, considerations, conclusions, possibilities, and feelings. It's like filtering a mountain through a sieve to obtain a grain of sand but, oh, how vital that grain can be. Oh my God.
Not something.
Someone.
'You've figured it out, haven't you?' Callie murmurs. I manage a nod.
Not everything, I think, I haven't figured out everything. But this . . . I think so, yeah.
Some things have just become clearer, clearer and more terrible.
51
'ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, SMOKY?' AD JONES ASKS ME.
'Yes, sir.'
'I don't like it. Too many variables. Someone could end up dead.'
'If we don't do it my way, sir, we could lose hostages that might still be alive. I don't see an
