… never mind what I thought.’ He shoved Miles away, leveled the gun at him. ‘You only want me to stay because you’re afraid I’ll call the cops, tell them where you and Celeste are. That I’ll be the hero again. Don’t worry. I’ll treat you better than you treated me.’ He walked backward into the quiet of the street.
‘This is crazy, you don’t have money, you don’t have a car.’
‘I’ll keep my mouth shut about you and Celeste. Unless you follow me. Then I talk till my throat’s sore, you got me?’ Lowering the gun, Nathan walked away from him.
Miles stepped into the street to follow him and the gun came back up.
Miles watched him walk into the darkness and went back inside the house.
‘I’m sorry, Miles,’ Victor said.
‘He might be back in ten minutes or ten hours when he calms down,’ Miles said. ‘He thinks I hate him. I don’t. But he doesn’t understand what trust is.’
‘How much of your plans do you think he heard?’
‘Enough to know I wanted to leave him and Celeste with you. He might have heard that in the car; we thought he was asleep.’
‘Will he go to the police?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, the only law I’ve broken is harboring fugitives, and if I haven’t had the TV on, I can’t know you were fugitives.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You and Groote might need to head out. Just to be safe.’
‘Can Celeste stay? I can’t put her in further danger. She’s been through too much as it is.’
‘You better go while she’s asleep. Otherwise she’ll fight you tooth and nail.’
The faces connected to Frost stayed frozen on the computer screens. Except for the computer on the far left: it displayed Victor’s Web site for trauma patients. He had a poll running, a purely hypothetical question, the one Sorenson had asked him a lifetime ago: If you could forget the worst moment in your life, would you?
Ninety-four percent said yes. That was the power, the promise, of Frost.
So if you find Frost, can you find Nathan again? To help him?
Miles watched Celeste sleep, lost in the heaviness of her own dreams. He took the confession from his pocket, left it propped against the lamp. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
*
‘Let’s go,’ Miles said. Groote stood from his patio chair. Miles thought it best not to mention Nathan had left; Groote would want to hunt him down. ‘Maybe we can get a late flight to Austin.’
‘Actually,’ Groote said, ‘I have an idea. Allison stole the buyers’ list from Quantrill. That’d be useful information.’
Miles saw where he was going. ‘We get details on the auction from a buyer, we might get real close to Sorenson without him knowing it.’
‘And we can get that list tonight,’ Groote said. ‘You’re not afraid of alarm systems and men with guns, are you, Mr. Spy?’
FIFTY-THREE
Nathan had a dollar fifty in quarters he’d stolen from the blind soldier’s room and he fed a few into the pay phone at the gas station. Stealing from a blind guy, God, he was classy. He wiped the tears and snot from his face with his sleeve. He had a wallet with five hundred dollars in cash and a photo ID Dodd had slipped him back in Yosemite, a ticket to reenter society after his mission at Sangre de Cristo. But he had had no change to operate the phone, and five hundred dollars might not be enough money to do what he knew he must do. His legs hurt, his back ached from the beating Groote had given him back in Santa Fe, and he didn’t want to be alone. But he would be, until he finished his duty.
His mother answered on the third ring.
‘Mama? I’m out of the hospital. I’m all fixed.’
‘Sweetheart? Oh, thank God,’ then a torrent of Spanish. He waited for her words to subside and he tried to laugh so she would believe he was happy.
‘I need a favor, Mama. I’m not in Santa Fe. They moved me to a different hospital near Los Angeles to finish the treatments.’
‘I don’t understand…’ and she started in with the questions, rat-a-tat, and he closed his eyes.
‘Mama,’ he interrupted her, ‘I got to have money. To eat, to get home.’ But he wasn’t going home. No. He had to finish being a hero first.
FIFTY-FOUR
Miles picked the kitchen door lock with a special attachment on Groote’s Mr. Screwdriver, not wanting to think about its being the weapon that had brutalized Nathan. The tumblers clicked into clear and Miles gave the door the barest push. Groote stood behind him, gun at the ready, and they listened for the hum of the alarm. None.
Quantrill hadn’t activated the system yet; he hadn’t gone to bed. Probably he was upstairs in his office, trying to persuade the buyers not to attend Sorenson’s auction, assure them that all was well, that he alone had the one and true Frost.
Miles slipped the screwdriver/pick into his back pocket and followed Groote into the house. They heard the distant roar of gunfire, then a billowing blast of artillery, the scream of a jet. Then the rising pulse of an orchestra, music thundering along with the battle, all coming from a half-open doorway off the living room.
Guards, Groote mouthed to Miles. He gestured Miles toward the upstairs, mouthed, Office, gestured Miles to go up.
Miles went up the stairs. Groote waited, gun at the ready. If the guards stayed put in front of their blockbuster, no worries, no need to kill them.
Quantrill sat in the chair, at his empty desk, head back, a red-and-black smear on his forehead, eyes half shut.
Miles touched the dead man’s throat. Still warm.
The man’s computer was gone from the desk. Miles went into the bathroom next to the office, grabbed a hand towel, used it to slide open drawers, search the closet that doubled as a supply cabinet. No handheld computers that might have carried a backup of Frost or the buyers’ list, no CDs or DVDs, no disks – all cleared out.
Sorenson was cleaning house, eliminating every possible interference, and they had just missed him or his hired killers.
He eased the dead man out of the chair and searched his pockets. Wallet, full of cash, untouched. He found a cell phone, folded shut. He tucked the cell phone into his pocket.
Miles came down the stairs; Groote was still in position, the movie still playing. Miles walked past him and into the media room. The two bodyguards were sprawled on the couch, a bowl of buttered popcorn between them, three bullet holes marring both faces.
‘Well,’ Groote said, ‘I guess Quantrill won’t be writing me a paycheck.’
‘We just missed him. This happened about fifteen minutes ago. Sorenson just ended the buyers’ option of sticking with Quantrill. Now he’s the only game in town.’
Groote leaned down and took a handful of popcorn. Miles tried not to puke as the man munched. ‘Assume he made efforts to contact buyers, warn them away from the auction, plead with them not to buy from a thief, or even threaten them with exposure if they didn’t boycott the auction.’
Miles held up the cell phone. ‘We might find a buyer he called. I get a cell number, I can find nearly
