Eleven Twenty-Three (53 page)

“You can fill in the rest,” Mr. Scott says,
sitting up. “Do you mind if I bum one of those smokes?”

I toss him the whole pack and promptly lean
over to vomit.

Mitsuko Miriyama tries to take my hand in
hers again, but I pull away and increase my gait. The sun is
setting, and out over the shark-infested waters, the fog is coming
in. The authorities will close the footpath soon.

“Layne, you can walk away from me all you
want,” Mitsuko says. “The fact remains: we’re meant to be together.
What happened between us that night at the beach was no
coincidence. It was fate.”

“I can say with some certainty, Mitsuko, that
you’re the goddamn Devil,” I say, bundling up in the cold.

The footpath of the bridge is almost empty.
Cars zoom by in both directions, navigated by mannequins with no
eyes, nose, or mouth. Mitsuko and I only pass other pedestrians
intermittently, and when we do, they have no discernible facial
features. The wind seems to increase with each step I take. The
schooners and fishing boats down on the water head in, leaving
swirling gray waters in their wake.

“You want to know why we’re going to be
together, Layne?” she asks, catching up to me again. “You want my
hard evidence?”

I don’t speed up this time. Instead I run my
hand along the orange vermillion railing. It feels like ice.

“Okay, Mitsuko,” I sigh. “Shock me.”

She purses her tiny drowned lips and pulls
her jet black hair behind her ears. She turns toward me and stops
me with her stare. I hold onto the railing and look out over the
Bay. In the distance, a helicopter floats silently over
Alcatraz.

“Why did my brother look at his watch Sunday
morning?” she asks me.

I’m about to throw out a sharp rebuke, but
hesitate. Instead, I continue looking out over the water.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.
What do you mean, look at his watch?”

“The one time Hajime went under during the
eleven twenty-three, he succeeded neither in killing himself nor
anyone else. Then eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds later, he
actually had to check his
watch
to confirm the time he was
supposed to pass out. Doesn’t that mean something to you? Doesn’t
it seem just a bit
odd
?”

I say nothing, and lean over the railing to
peer over the side. Below, there’s only water and the occasional
whitecap. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man rubbing at his
temples several feet back. Then I notice that no one else on the
bridge is walking anymore, either. No one else is pedaling their
bicycles or gliding along on their rollerblades. No one chats on
their cell phone or sends messages from their Blackberry. All
motion, all semblance of normality across the footpath, has
ceased.

“The reason I know we’re meant to be together
is because my brother has willed it, Layne. He’s wanted it from the
beginning.”

“I love my girlfriend, Mitsuko,” I mutter.
“That never changed. Even last summer.”

“Yeah, maybe, but Tara isn’t going where
we’re going, sweetie. So cheer up. Kiss me.”

Mitsuko tugs at my jacket and tries to reel
me in. I resist, and when she finally manages to get me to face
her, I look at the sky. I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I look
anywhere else.

“It’s just you and me, Layne. There is no one
else.”

“If I walk away right now and leave you here,
will you jump?” I ask, grinning at the possibility.

She considers this for a moment and
coughs.

“Why don’t you try it and see?”

I immediately break away from her grip and
resume walking toward Marin County. The fog surrounds us, and
instantly the horns bellow into the mist, warning ships to stay
clear. Mitsuko doesn’t follow this time.

When I finally peek over my shoulder, she is
standing in the same place I left her, arms folded and a smirk
across her face. But the man who was rubbing his temples has
climbed onto the railing. So has the old woman farther back, who
sits on the balustrade with her feet dangling over the side. The
young college student walking his dog a few feet down is on the
railing too, still clutching the Yorkie in his lap.

The more I peer out into the fog, the more it
becomes clear to me that everyone on the bridge has done the same
thing, and harbor the same inescapable urge.

“Mitsuko—what is—what are they—?”

Everyone on the Gate simultaneously leaps
from the railing. The divorced middle-aged men and widowed old
women, the failed writers and depressed college freshmen, the war
veterans and bankrupt entrepreneurs, the schizophrenic mail men and
bored nine-to-fivers…they all jump, and they all plummet into the
black ink below. Only Mitsuko and I remain.

Tara regains consciousness not long before we
get into Orlando. She coughs from the acidic odor of throw up,
which slides up and down the floor and creates patterns as the
truck wobbles and merges in Tuesday night traffic. I help her to
sit up, and cradle her in my arms. She’s weak. Her skin feels
prosthetic.

“What’s going on?” Tara asks sleepily.

“Um…quite a bit, actually,” I say. “Mr. Scott
has had much to tell me.”

“Did he tell you that this is all simply a
bad dream?” she murmurs, still groggy from whatever the suited
Japanese man did to us back in the woods. “Did he tell you the
truth, which is that we’re both simply asleep in Suzhou right now,
and that our family and friends are alive and well back home?
Please tell me that this was part of the debriefing he gave
you.”

“Not really, Sunshine.”

Mr. Scott watches us and smiles.

“You know, you’re actually very lucky,” he
tells me.

“Explain that statement before I go over
there and strangle you, asshole. How could either of us even
remotely consider ourselves lucky at this point? Even as some kind
of obtuse, wholly abstract comment, what you just said is
preposterous.”

“I just mean that you’re lucky to have her
with you. For them to have allowed both of you to escape together
like this, that’s—well, it’s not standard operating procedure for
these people, believe me. The truth is that they only need
you
for their next objective, Layne. Tara was just as
expendable as everyone else back there. No offense or anything,
Tara. But consider yourself blessed with the small favor of having
a friend on the inside. Lydia—that was my wife’s name—she wasn’t so
well-connected. She died the very first night.”

“Look, man,” I begin, “I’m really sorry about
that but—”

“Consider yourself lucky, Layne. You two get
to stay together, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly
ideal.”

Shortly after that, the truck pulls off the
Interstate and slows down for the first toll booth.

“So now then,” Mr. Scott says. “We’re almost
there now, so I suppose this is as good a time as ever.”

“Good a time as ever for what?”

Mr. Scott clears his throat and leans in
toward us.

“Want to know what’s in that briefcase you’ve
been carrying?”

Meredith Prescott looks out at the glowing
red lanterns that dangle from wires strewn across the canal. She
gazes in awe at the fireworks exploding in brilliant colors over
our heads. Saggy men in stained wife-beaters wave to us as our boat
passes. Children splash their feet into the water at their
doorsteps. Pale tan women and their pale tan mothers-in-law stir
hand rolled
jiao zi
around in huge steel cauldrons, honoring
New Year’s tradition.

“I can see what you mean, baby boy,” she
beams. “This is absolutely
amazing
. How long did you say the
fireworks will last? At least a week?”

“More like fifteen days or so,” I tell her,
putting my arm around my mother’s shoulder. “This is China’s big
year, after all. It’s 2008, which is lucky in and of itself because
of the eight; the Olympics are in a few months; the nation’s
economy is booming; everything is great here. In fact, there’s
going to be so many fireworks that by the time the celebrations
finally end in a couple of weeks, you’ll have shell shock and a
thousand yard stare.”

My mother giggles. I hold her close. The old
man rowing the boat flashes us a rotten-toothed grin and resumes
his course down the narrow canals of Suzhou.

“You know, Paul would have hated it here,” my
mother says. “With the exception of the massage parlors and tea
houses, he wouldn’t have much to do, would he?”

“I guess, Mom. It doesn’t matter though, does
it? You’re here now, and we have about a million things to see
together. So let’s enjoy it and not talk about him anymore.
Okay?”

She nods and continues leering at the
fireworks bursting in the January sky. I look up too, but can’t
concentrate. Something is amiss. I wrinkle my nose and detect
something in the air, something faint that grows stronger the
deeper the boat heads into the canal.

“Do you smell that?” I ask.

My mother ignores my question and lowers her
hand over the side. Two of her fingers graze the surface of the
water, creating lines that expand across the surface. The smell is
stronger now. It’s something I used to love as a kid, and told
everyone that I’d wear as cologne if I could. No one believed
me.

“You know, baby boy, I love it here so much
that I think I might stay for a while,” Mom mutters, no longer
watching the fireworks. She gazes absently into the water instead.
The water gazes back into her.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s just—it’s just so nice here, why would
I want to leave? In fact, why would
either
of us? Back in
Lilly’s End there’s cat hair on the furniture, my pot roasts are
always getting burnt, and I’m alone, Layne. I’m always
alone
. But here, in this moment, everything is all right.
Don’t you understand? Here, your father never abandoned us and we
never have to attend another funeral. Here, we can just celebrate
the present moment forever and don’t have to worship the past
anymore. We can—”

“Mom, get your hand out of the water,” I
interrupt. “There’s something wrong with it. It’s bad. Get your
hand out now.”

She brings her arm back into the boat and
slaps it against her thigh. Liquid splatters across her blouse. She
plunges her hand back in again and splashes more water up into the
boat, soaking her entire lap.

But it’s not water anymore, I realize.

It’s gasoline. The entire canal is full of
gasoline.

“Layne, you still smoke, right?” she
asks.

Before I can answer, however, the Chinese man
paddling the boat turns around in his seat to face us. Except when
he opens his mouth this time, he no longer flashes a macabre yellow
grin, but instead two rows of straight white teeth. His black oily
hair is shorter and dried out from too much hairspray. He’s taller
than before. He only speaks English. He is my father’s son.

The man driving the boat is me.

And I’m lighting a cigarette.

It’s a black leather Schlesinger American
Belting attaché case, four-and-a-half inches deep,
eighteen-and-three-quarters by thirteen-and-one quarter inch in
size. It radiates nothing. It hints only at modern ubiquity. If not
for the metal coil and handcuff emerging from the handle plate or
the myriad dents, bloodstains, and scratches all along the surface,
this case would look no different than any other. The world would
ignore it.

Tara and I stare transfixed at it for some
time before I finally relinquish my hold and slide it over to Mr.
Scott.

He gingerly takes it from me and inspects it
in the fluorescent light. Then he rests it on my lap. We watch as
he reaches down and begins turning the three number wheels on the
left side. I can hear the click as he moves from digit to digit.
The sound seems to go on forever.

He stops the first lock on the numbers ***
[
at the request of the author, the combination will remain
undisclosed
] and there is a sharp snap as the left side of the
briefcase pops open.

Mr. Scott moves on to the second lock. No one
breathes. Not even him.

I watch as he positions the wheels on the *,
the *, and the *.

From inside the case, an insignificant
beeping sound. On the outside, a loud click.

I exhale, half-expecting the case to suddenly
erupt in a fiery explosion, spew sarin gas, or begin speaking to us
in Enochian tongue. It doesn’t.

“Are you going to take the handcuff off too?”
I ask in a low voice, afraid of disturbing it.

“I was instructed not to do that until we
arrived at the hotel,” he says. “But you can look inside now, if
you want. See what you’ve been carrying around with you this entire
time. Go ahead.”

Tara clutches my battered arm, which causes
it to spasm. The pain is almost unbearable. We exchange a glance
and I reach down.

I open the case wide and rub my hands against
my pants feverishly, trying to get the sweat off.

The three of us peer down into its
recesses.

Attached to the handle plate and connected to
wires running through the metal coil of the handcuff is a small
black box dotted with a tiny green light and another red. The green
one is illuminated now, indicating that the case has not been
compromised. Emerging from the black box are more wires, which run
along the sides of the compartment and feed into cylinders full of
what I imagine is a very strong dye or acid. If one were to attempt
to force the case open in any way, the sensors in the box would
detonate and spray the chemical agent all over the contents
therein, destroying them.

I reach in and push aside five folders,
looking for the device that squelches any signals at eleven
twenty-three. When I discover nothing else inside except for the
folders, I grab them and toss them out onto the bench. I rummage
around inside, knowing there’s nothing else there but continuing my
search anyway.