Reality Check (2010) (26 page)

Cody carried his duffel down the path to the barn. He remembered that strange line from Clea's letter:
It's hard to know who to trust sometimes. Like rolling the dice--a cliche that turns out to have real meaning.
For a moment he thought he was about to put everything together, total understanding just seconds away; but it didn't happen. A wind rose, very light; Cody felt a snowflake touch his face, and then another.

Agent Brand was waiting by Cody's car; he'd changed the plates, held the Vermont ones in his hand. "What happens with them?" Cody said.

"I'll take care of it," said Agent Brand, opening the door for Cody. Cody tossed in the duffel. "Just follow me," Brand said. "I'll lead you as far as Route Two. After that it's a straight shot across the state line to the Thruway."

"This is better," Brand said. "Don't worry--I'll be in touch."
"About what?"
"Clea Weston. The moment we find anything, you'll hear

The wind rose a little higher, rattled the treetops. "Do you think she's okay?" Cody said; a stupid, childish question, but Brand was smart, worked for the attorney general of the whole goddamn state, and Cody couldn't keep it in.

"No bullshit," said Cody, his tamped-down anger suddenly bursting out. "Tell me the truth."
" T he truth in disappearances like this," said Brand, his voice still mild, "the statistical truth, is that after the first twenty-four hours the odds go way down. After forty-eight, they go down some more, and then it's pretty much a flatline situation."
Cody nodded. There was at least one similarity between Brand and Big Len: They worked the odds. He got in the car.
Brand led him down the road, past the tennis courts and the hockey rink, to the Dover Academy gates. Cody's headlights swept across a figure leaning against one of the stone pillars. Was it--yes, Townes DeWitt. Townes glanced at his watch, perhaps waiting for someone, as Cody drove by. Cody checked the rearview mirror, thought he saw Townes putting his cell phone to his ear. Then he rounded a corner and Townes was gone.
A few minutes later they crossed the town line, Brand's sedan first, Cody four or five car lengths behind. They drove south, winding through dark hills, snow falling but still light, almost not present at all. A crossroads appeared: Route 2. Brand pulled over, stuck his hand out the window, waved Cody on. Cody passed him, hung a right onto Route 2, headed west. Brand flashed his lights. Cody sped up, drove over a long rise and around a corner, came to a lookout. He turned in and stopped the car.
Going back right away? Probably not smart: Brand might be waiting, just in case. Cody sat there, lights off. After a while he took out the letter he'd lifted off the men's-room wall at Big Len's, the one from the Christmas parade committee. He switched on the interior light, read it a few times. T hen he found a pen on the floor, went over the letter one last time: the letter to Len Boudreau, promising to send his corporation a charitable contribution report for tax purposes. Cody lowered the pen to the paper, circled the
L
in Len, the
B
in Boudreau, the
corp
in corporation.
LB Corp.
Nothing to do with Little Bend, Clea, or the Westons. Big Len now owned Midnight. Cody had jumped to a conclusion. Who had warned him against that? Sergeant Orton; Sergeant Orton, who had enlisted Cody's help, while Agent Brand had tried to get rid of him. Did that make Sergeant Orton the one to trust?
Cody wasn't sure. He just did what he'd been intending anyway--had never even considered anything else. Headlights off, he swung the car around and headed back, east on Route 2. No one waited at the crossroads. Cody switched on the headlights and kept going.

ent--Spring Street, the Rev, the village green, all changed. Crazy, but for the first time in his life he was really seeing, seeing the way things were. For example, the man-made part of the visual world--buildings, lights, roads--was no more than a pitiful veneer, could all be gone in a flash. For some reason that made him feel powerful, as though he were connected inside to the might of the great dark earth itself. His stickingplace: some deep anchor in the bedrock. He was the loner, the stranger, as Alex had said, who rides into town. A good feeling, and Cody took some moments of enjoyment from it before he returned to normal. "Get a grip, boy," he said aloud, and turned up Mountain Road, the gateposts of Dover Academy two dark verticals up ahead.

Cody drove through, his headlights sweeping over two figures standing near some bushes off to the side. Twenty or thirty yards ahead, he pulled to the side, cut the engine and got out. Snow still fell, still very light, like a dry mist. A voice-- Simon's voice--cut through the night.

Cody walked back toward the bushes. No moon or stars, but the sky held a lot of reflected light from the town, much brighter than usual, maybe because of all those fine snowflakes. Two figures by the bushes--about an arm's length apart--easily recognizable: the shorter, thinner one, Simon; the big one, Townes.

"You whine a lot," Townes said. "Anyone ever bring that up?"
"Don't talk to me like that," Simon said, with a firmness in his tone that Cody admired. "I was trying to do you a favor."
"You fucked it up."
"It's a lot of money."
"Ten grand? Bullshit."
"But enough so he asked questions."
"And what did you tell him?"
"What we agreed--our plucky little start-up tale, those file-sharing widgets, whatever the hell it was."
"'Plucky little start-up tale'? Do you ever listen to yourself?"
"No. I haven't reached your heights of solipsism."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Look it up."
Cody--maybe there was something in this new way of seeing after all--knew what was coming next, but Simon did not. "You flamer," Townes said, throwing an overhand punch square at the middle of Simon's face. Simon fell straight back in the snow.
"Hey!" Cody said, coming forward.
Townes whirled around. He looked surprised, but no more than that, and only for a second or two. "Get the hell out of here," he said.
Cody went right by him, bent over Simon. Back in Little Bend, he'd been in a fight or two, and witnessed some others, seen guys knocked cold by a sucker punch, but Simon's eyes were open. "You all right?" Cody said. Simon didn't say anything, just moved his hand gingerly over his face. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. Cody reached down to help Simon up; at the same moment a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Cody turned.
"You a little slow?" Townes said. "I told you to go--this is none of your business."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Cody said.
"The fuck I don't."
An idea, a really good one, popped into Cody's head. "Let's see your wrists."
"Huh?" said Townes.
"The left one. Pull up your sleeve."
"Are you on drugs or something?"
"I'm going to have a look at your wrist, one way or another."
"In that case," said Townes, "I'll make it easy for you." His gaze suddenly shifted, aiming over Cody's shoulder. But Cody knew a little about fighting, was at least partly ready for the sucker punch that came next, and it glanced off his temple instead of smashing him in the face. A glancing blow, but still powerful; Cody staggered sideways. Townes was strong-- maybe not as strong as Junior, but much quicker. Cody didn't even see the second punch, left-handed, which caught him flush on the jaw. A bell-ringer; but Cody had had his bell rung before, more than once on the football field. The important thing was not to panic. Even if you were getting the shit kicked out of you, panic was bad. Junior had kicked the shit out of Cody plenty of times when they were little. Boys who grew up in Little Bend--boys like Cody, anyway--learned to take some hits. Cody backed away, shrugged off the pain--you could do that literally with pain, up to a point--and got his hands up.
Townes came barreling in, a big strong guy, throwing punches with both arms; big, strong, and aggressive, but maybe not that knowledgeable about fighting. Cody took most of the punches on his shoulders and upper arms, kept his gaze on Townes's enraged face, saw an opening, and threw a punch of his own.
Townes's head snapped back. For an instant he looked shocked, and then came fury, his lips jutting out, spit spray flying and a whirlwind of flailing blows. Some landed and some did not, but none did much damage: It was all a wild attack designed to induce panic, surrender, flight. Cody didn't flee, moved the other way, in the unexpected direction, stepping inside and driving his left fist right into Townes's gut. Townes doubled over. From down under, twisting up with all his strength--he hated Townes, no doubt about that--he caught Townes on the point of the jaw with his right fist. But maybe not quite that accurate, Townes turning his head at the last instant, then falling forward, or diving, or some combination, a move that ended with Townes tackling Cody and falling on top of him.
Townes clawed his way up to a straddling position on Cody's chest. Panting, bleeding, he glared down at Cody, then grabbed a big double handful of snow and mashed it into Cody's face. Cody squirmed, tried to move, to get out from under, could not. He couldn't even breathe, felt like he was going to drown: panic time now. Townes pressed down on Cody's face with all his weight and power, shoving snow up his nose, into his mouth. Cody tried to wriggle away, got his head averted just a bit. Townes made a growling sound, changed the angle of his arms slightly to keep the heavy pressure on Cody's face. That little movement allowed Cody to jerk one arm free, strike Townes in the neck with the side of his hand. Townes grunted in pain and all at once didn't feel quite so strong and heavy. Cody sliced up at his neck again, this time hitting him right on the windpipe. Townes made a choking, gagging sound and sat up straight, clutching his own neck. Cody twisted out from underneath, scrambled to his feet. Townes rose too, panting harder--they were both panting--his breath whistling in his throat. Cody saw rage in his eyes, murderous rage, and was sure his own eyes looked the same. He raised his hand, made a little gesture with his fingers, meaning
Let's go.
Townes cocked his right fist, charged forward, threw a tremendous punch at Cody's head. Cody ducked, just a few inches--actually feeling the breeze as Townes's fist flew by--and hit Townes with just about all he had left, this time right on the button for sure. Townes went down and stayed down.
Cody bent over him, fumbled back Townes's left sleeve, and found no shark tattoo on his wrist, no tattoo of any kind. Just in case Sergeant Orton and Vin the tech guy had made a mistake, Cody checked the right wrist, too, also sharkless. He let Townes's arm go. It flopped back in the snow, limp; but Townes was breathing all right.
From behind came a groan. Cody turned, saw Simon getting to his feet. His nose was bleeding and crooked; his eyes were wide.
"Did you kill him?" Simon said.
"Of course not," Cody said. "What were you fighting about?"
Simon touched his nose. "I think it's broken."
"Looks like it," Cody said. "Answer the question." Simon shrank back. Afraid? Afraid that Cody was going to get into it with him, too? "Come on, Simon. I need your help."
"For what? I'm not processing very well right now."
"I'm looking for Clea," Cody said.
Simon, so smart, probably the smartest person Cody had ever met, seemed confused. "But we all are. Everybody is."
Cody made an impatient gesture with his hand, sweeping that remark aside; Simon shrank back some more. "What were you fighting about?" A car came through the gates, headlights passing over Simon for a second. His face was covered in blood. "Was Townes trying to borrow money from you? Ten grand?"
Simon nodded. "From my father," he said. "I don't have that kind of money of my own. Not that I can get my hands on, I mean."
"Trust fund?" Cody said; he was getting better at seeing how things really were, no doubt about it.
Simon nodded again. "My father refused."
"Why?" Cody said. "You said he's a genius at making money. Ten grand can't be that much for someone like him."
"I suppose he didn't buy the cover story."
"What cover story?"
"That Townes and I needed seed money for an Internet start-up." Simon gazed down at Townes. "My father, always full of the wrong kind of surprises, turned out to have a number of complex, technical questions, actually demonstrated what seemed to be a deep knowledge of the subject matter, totally factitious subject matter, but irony's no help at times like that."
A lot of that went right by Cody, but he got an insight into Simon's father's moneymaking ability. "What's the real story?" Cody said. "Why did Townes need the money?" More realignment in Cody's mind, even the first faint clicking into place. "Is he a gambler?"
Simon looked surprised. "Mostly just on football--how did you know that?"
"How much does he owe?"
"He never told me."
"But he's rich. Did his father turn him down, too?" "Did I not mention Pegasus Partners?" Simon said.
Cody had a vague memory of it. "Yeah, but--" he began, then saw flashing yellow lights from the direction of the main Dover Academy buildings.
"Campus security," Simon said. "This might be a challenge to explain."
"Christ," said Cody. He glanced at Townes, now stirring in the snow, then back at Simon. "What else do you know?" he said. "About Clea, I mean."
"Clea? Is there some connection?"
"Answer the goddamn question."
"Nothing," Simon said.
"That better be true," Cody said, but he doubted it was. The flashing lights came closer, security on the way. Cody could foresee many ways for things to go wrong with them. He ran to his car, got in, spun it around, and sped away.