'He wouldn't say who had the master docs.'
Wydell shook his head regretfully. 'He was bleeding out, but he wouldn't say. It took much longer than I'd planned.'
'I thought killing him wasn't the plan.'
The reel played in my head, familiar from countless screenings. The bang of the garage's side door against the outside wall. Frank pointing, not at the key in the alarm pad as I'd always thought but at the open door beyond. The dying utterance he'd choked out. W…? W-why? Not a word, not a question. But the first syllable of the name he'd been trying to tell me: Wydell.
I said, 'By the time you got Jane to give up Charlie's name, he'd vanished. And didn't reemerge until a few months ago to make the senator a discreet business proposal.'
The sprinkler stopped abruptly, the relative silence broken by my breathing.
Wydell gestured at me with the gun. 'So you're pretty fucked here, Nick. Every agency's on alert. But I can present a solution to you. Get this mess cleaned up.'
'That's what you're good at, I suppose.'
'Yes, I am. And right now I'm your only option.'
'Well,' I said, 'not the only one.' I spread my arms, like a scarecrow, or Jesus Christ in a wind-breaker. 'Check me,' I said, 'for a wire.'
'I could rip that thing off you. Torch the recording.'
'It's a live feed. To-as you types like to say-a secure location.'
'How about I hold you down and start breaking things until you give instructions to whoever's on the other end?'
I reached under my shirt and tugged the wire free. Then I broke it in half and threw it toward the outfield. 'Point of no return,' I said.
His lips set with amusement, and he scratched that crooked nose with a single long finger. 'You're still a stupid kid. With all my years in the game, you really think I'd give you a chance to record me?' He tugged a little black box free from the back pocket of his pants and held it up. 'Pink-noise generator.'
I unzipped my jacket, let the flap fall, revealing a device of my own. 'Pink-noise filter.'
I wished Induma could have seen the look on his face. Her gadget did look pretty impressive hanging there. I watched Wydell's expression change. His forehead lined, and then his cheeks quivered. His perfect posture didn't alter, but his head canted forward an inch or two.
He came at me fast, fist laced around the gun, swinging to break teeth. Sidestepping him, I grabbed his wrist and yanked his elbow forward until it locked and then bowed the wrong way. It didn't snap. It just yielded with the gentle crackle of a fresh sprig bending. I rode his shoulder down, driving his face onto the pitching rubber.
His breathing was tight and gave off a whistle from his throat. I peeled the gun from his grip, then stood over him. Wydell didn't move.
'Leave,' I said. 'Forever.'
His breath shoved a furrow into the dirt of the mound. 'You're letting me go?'
'On the run. Yes. If you stop, you know what'll be waiting for you.'
'Why don't you turn me in?'
'By first light every major law-enforcement agency will be looking for you. There won't be a safe place for you anywhere in the country. You won't be able to walk down the street or board an airplane. Who you've been, who you are right now, will cease to exist.' I took a step closer, and he cringed a little. I said, 'I'm not gonna turn you in because this is gonna be so much worse.'
My finger had found its way through the trigger guard. His eyes were closed in fearful anticipation, but I pocketed the gun and walked away. When I reached the edge of the field, I paused and looked back. He was still lying there, flat on his face, his arm bent grotesquely out to the side like a broken wing. I could hear his labored breathing. He might have been crying, but I wasn't sure.
Chapter 48
UCLA was awash in bodies-in lines, at checkpoints, staggering as one when someone lost footing-a great human press, filling Dickson Terrace. Flashes popped and signs waved and groups chanted dumb couplets from behind saw-horses. Thousands of people sat on the ground in the quad, concert style, craning to see the giant video screens suspended from steel cables overhead. The chosen ones tunneled to the checkpoints at the broad steps of Royce Hall, where they handed over security passes as if purchasing the right to be patted down, wanded, and walked through metal detectors. Purses and cell phones rode conveyer belts through X-ray machines. Agents with tight, muscular faces peered out over the sawhorses, putting their rope-line skills to work, searching out hands in jacket flaps, the woman who wasn't grinning, the dusky-skinned young man in a too-heavy coat, beads of sweat running down temples. Cops wore riot gear, agents wore earpieces, and I wore Charlie's rucksack slung over my shoulder.
Hiding in the crowd, I watched the giant video screens, which showed the C-SPAN logo and the blank debate stage. Katie Couric's voice rumbled through powerful speakers. The mighty roar of applause compounded as she introduced each candidate.
The picture was surprisingly crisp. Caruthers and Bilton took their places on low-backed stools before acrylic podiums, inadvertently mirroring each other's posture-casual lean to the outside, head cocked with interest and humility, hands laced across a knee. A lush, royal blue rug bearing the presidential seal stretched beneath the candidates, designating the boundaries should either man decide to pace or roam. Couric perkily continued, 'The debate s town-hall format will permit prospective voters to address their questions directly to the candidates. We ask that you line up in either aisle in front of the microphone, and make sure to introduce yourself and speak clearly when it s your turn. '
I took a moment to collect myself, to quash the rise of fear in my chest, and then I shoved through the elbow-to-elbow press gaggle and made my way toward the checkpoint.
The speakers conveyed the first question, a woman, shrill with nerves. 'Hello, my name is Cynthia McGinty. My question is for Senator Caruthers. You've said we need a change in our policy in the Middle East. But can we really be blackmailed by the likes of bin Laden into changing our views? Can we really rethink our position because of threats and violence? '
Jasper Caruthers's smooth voice, a marked contrast to the timidity of his interlocutor's. 'The question in my mind, Cynthia, is whether we can persist with failed policies simply because we fear looking like we 're willing to learn from the past. '
Black town cars were pulled up onto the walkways and the patio before Royce Hall. Their tinted windows were dark and emotionless, the eyes of predators. The day had gone from Southern California bright to confused dusk. The buildings that had gleamed just fifteen minutes ago now looked cloaked and grainy.
Caruthers was still going on about reacting to different cultures and updating stances, but finally the next audience member stepped to the microphone: 'Hello, my name is Bill Little, and my question is for President Bilton. As an educator I've had a hard time understanding the cuts you've advocated while pushing through tax breaks for wealthy corporations…'
My hands moved back and forth, tapping my pants on either side. Was I really going to do this? I realized I was holding my breath, and I exhaled so hard that static tinged my field of vision. I'd gone without oxygen for the past minute. Nice and subtle, Horrigan, teetering red-faced through the crowd.
Adjusting the rucksack, I approached the line of agents, none of whom I recognized. Robotically crossed arms, hair slicked back, asshole-handsome faces murmuring in polite monotones, 'Hands, please. Can I see your hands? Hands.' Their eyes swiveled past me. One pressed a finger to the flesh-colored earpiece melded into his head and grinned a sharp grin, a Presidential Detail alpha dog baring his perfect teeth. I recalled Frank's old crack about the Presidential Protective Division guys: Two holsters-one for the gun, one for the blow dryer.
Bilton's detail was running the show, of course, but Caruthers had his faithful crew-five or six agents, according to Wydell-at least one of whom was likely stationed outside, on the lookout for me. Though Caruthers's men didn't know the whole backstory, they'd proved they were all too willing to bend laws to protect their
