The Fugitives (35 page)

Mulligan’s face registered a kind of dumb smirky pleasure.

“Obviously, I was interested,” she went on. “I found out a lot more about you than I expected. You’re notorious, in a way. Or you were, anyhow.”

“Good old Internet,” said Mulligan. “Keeps everything fresh.”

“All that trouble, over this little piece of private business that didn’t have to hurt anyone. I’ve done it. As you’re aware. The gas station attendant’s probably done it. Look at all these motel rooms around here, Alexander. How do you think they pay the bills all winter long? A pair of bodies coming together, just for fun. No greater motive. And it could have stayed just between the two of you, but you both tossed a grenade into a crowded room and then stayed around for the explosion. Which makes me think something.”

“What,” said Mulligan, tightly.

“You must have liked it.”

“You think I liked it.”

“I think you both liked it. It was built into the affair, some self-destructive drama factor. So don’t come on all shocked about why Saltino would want to get caught.”

They rode in silence for a while. Kat said, “You know what else? What you did, what Saltino’s doing, that’s the typical thing. Look, Mom, no hands. Check me out. Which I don’t get. I think that every day you should do one thing you’ll never tell anybody about, that you’ll make sure no one ever finds out about. Every single day, to remind you that you’re free. To
be
free. Sometimes it’s the only way you know you’re alive, by keeping some secret knowledge that’s going to die when you do.”

“That’s a whole lot of secrets.”

“And a lot of inconsequence. All that BS about everything being connected, about chains of cause and effect. It’s not true. We’re just each of us alone.”

“Pretty cynical.”

“It’s not that it
never
matters, Alexander. It’s that it
rarely
matters.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“’Course you don’t. It’s the total opposite of you. Secrets? You don’t need no stinking secrets. Whatever you do, whatever pops into your head, you have to turn it into a story. It’s compulsive.”

Mulligan didn’t speak. They were in some traffic now, moving into downtown.

“What happened to her, anyway? You went back to your wife. Did she end up back with her husband? When you were done with her?”

“No,” said Mulligan. “She never went back to her husband.”

“You in touch?”

Mulligan glared at her. “I thought you looked it all up.” He made a left and headed into the residential sections. “I’m taking you with me to my house,” he said. He felt a sharp thrill speaking to her as if she were an object.

“What if I want to go back to the hotel?” she said.

He didn’t have to look at her. “You don’t,” he informed her.

FOUR DAYS AGO

Hanshaw dressed in a clean, faded pair of coveralls that he found in his garage, in a box that hadn’t been touched since Annie had packed and labeled it and hoisted it onto the shelf. It was a box of folded clothes she’d probably intended to take to the Goodwill, and she had left nothing of her essence in it, but he’d lingered over her careful everyday handiwork for a moment. She’d been a tidy one. Then he’d rifled through the box until he found what he was looking for and shoved the box back on the shelf. From under the front seat of the truck he retrieved a magnetic sign that read
SUMMIT HEATING AND VENTILATION SERVICE AND REPAIRS
and slapped it on the driver’s door. He drove to the casino in a light mist, wipers flicking intermittently across the windshield. He went around to the back of the building and parked near the service area. He took a toolbox out of the truckbed and carried it inside. He rode up in the service elevator with two maids and their trolleys.

“What’s broken now?” one said.

He looked at her.

“I don’t know what holds this place together,” said the other. “The entire building must have been rebuilt already piece by piece.”

“Did you know,” said the first, “that all your cells die and get replaced numerous times over the course of your life? We lose over a pound of skin alone every year. There’s no part of us you can see that’s original.”

“Have a nice day,” he said, getting off on his floor. He walked purposefully into the corridor, deliberately nodding at a passing pair of guests, then crouched at the door to Argenziano’s suite. He opened the toolbox and removed a butter knife and a pair of gloves. The likely cycle programmed into the security system would bring his image into view on the monitors in the security room at ninety-second intervals for four seconds each time. He assumed that the odds were in his favor. Of course, all of his activities would be recorded on the DVR, but it was unlikely that anyone would review the data before it was deleted, unless he was interrupted, in which case it would hardly matter. Still, he worked quickly to get the door open, inserting the blade of the knife between the Saflok and the jamb and forcing it downward. In and out. Once inside, he placed the toolbox on the floor and removed his shoes. The suite was modest; the door opened onto a small sitting room with a love seat and an easy chair. The television dominated the room. A kitchenette was in an alcove to one side. Hanshaw crossed the space and entered the bedroom. There was a bed, a bureau, a nightstand, a desk. He proceeded from most obvious to least obvious and hoped that he would find what he was looking for before he had to plunge his arm down the toilet or into a jar of mayonnaise. It occurred to Hanshaw as he flipped through the papers in the desk that while he rarely asked questions, he often looked for answers. He knew that he wanted to be sure about what he was doing. He had about three scruples left and he liked to exercise them when he could. He looked through financial documents for ten minutes before deciding that Argenziano probably hadn’t left any obvious record of his misdeeds, which figured. He opened the closet and poked around for a while amid the suits and shirts. Nothing. He sat down on the bed and looked around. As he gazed at the wall opposite the foot of the bed, he noticed a jagged crack running from about eight inches beneath the ceiling. It disappeared behind a framed reproduction of
Wheat Field with Crows,
then appeared again below the frame. Hanshaw stared hard at it. The reproduction, alone amid all the fussily symmetrical decor, was off-center, and appeared to have been moved from its original spot above the bureau. He rose and lifted the frame from the wall. A safe had been installed behind it. It was definitely aftermarket: he’d already spotted the room safe in the closet. It was also definitely too small to hold much cash. He returned to the front door and retrieved the toolbox, then sat on the bed again and contemplated the safe. It had a basic keypad entry system. He could try to remove the safe from the wall and reset the code through the mounting-bolt holes, but it would be crude and time-consuming. He went to the desk and found a document with Argenziano’s birthdate, then returned to the safe and entered the first four digits, figuring it was worth a shot. The safe emitted three beeps and a small green light went on next to the keypad.

The interior of the safe was cylindrical, with a diameter a little greater than that of his calf. He reached inside and felt around, withdrawing three pieces of correspondence from Banco de Pegado (Panama) and a U.S. passport. There were also four Polaroid photographs, each of which showed a different faded-looking and overly made-up blonde performing oral sex upon the photographer, presumably Argenziano, right here in this room. The photographs saddened Hanshaw in a way he couldn’t articulate to himself. He put them back. The passport was Argenziano’s, and it showed that in April 2007 he’d traveled to Juan Santamaria International Airport in San José, Costa Rica, made a two-day trip to Panama City a week after arriving, and then had returned to Costa Rica for another four days before traveling back to the United States, entering the country in Miami. The correspondence was addressed to a P.O. box in Cherry City. Inside one of the envelopes was a smaller envelope that contained a safe deposit box key. Hanshaw thought about it for a moment. Then he laughed and tucked the key back in its little envelope. He returned everything to the safe. He straightened the room up and prepared to go. As he was headed to put his shoes back on, the door opened and he found himself face to face with one of the maids from the elevator.

“You’re still here,” she said. “Did you fix the problem?” She stood with her shoulder to the door, holding it open. He could see her trolley behind her in the hallway.

“Yes,” he said. He set the toolbox down and reached for his shoes.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said. “You can’t imagine the stuff the guests here track in.”

“Who you talking to, Patty?” said a man’s voice. “Mr. A’s not in there.” Hanshaw drew his breath in slowly and held it.

“Myself, of course,” said Patty. “Who else do I have to talk to all day?” She winked at Hanshaw.

“Watch out,” the man’s voice said. “People’ll think you’re nuts.”

“I am nuts. This job makes you nuts.”

The voice laughed. “Well, I need to get in there, but I’ll stay out of your way. About how long’ll you be?”

“Me? Super quick. Ten minutes, tops.”

“OK.” The voice was already moving away. Hanshaw let out his breath.

“Guy’s such a pain in the rear end,” Patty said, coming in and letting the door close. “He wants me to tell him who’s in here. Like he’s not the one whose job it is to know.” She shook her head. Hanshaw laced his shoes quickly. He nodded and moved past her and to the door.

“It feels nice in here,” she said as he left. “Warm, like it’s supposed to.”

“WE BEES DOING
this shit up right, yo,” said Jeramy, looking over Hanshaw’s shoulder. They were in the front room of Jeramy’s house. The hallway receded behind them, doors on either side.

“Oh, you think so?” Hanshaw gave him a silencing look and then jotted down the make, model, and plate number of Argenziano’s car and logged off the CJIC system. He handed Jeramy the information and a portable GPS tracker in a magnetic case. “It’s in the underground garage,” he said.

“How’m I’ma get there?”

“Howmima?” said Hanshaw. “Does she make pancakes? Wear a bandanna?”

Jeramy looked at him blankly.

“Take the truck,” said Hanshaw. He handed him the keys. “Remember, in and out. No fucking around. And put it under the rear end, ennit? If you put it under the front all he has to do is take a curb cut too fast, that’s the end of the story.”

Hanshaw stood up, as if he were the host and Jeramy were a visitor he was shooing away. Jeramy shrugged into his coat and ambled toward the door using his peculiar hobbling walk.

“Drive carefully,” said Hanshaw, and walked outside with him, standing on the porch in his shirtsleeves. He watched Jeramy drive off and hoped for the best. He thought that the surveillance was probably unnecessary, but he also knew enough about Argenziano to know that he was a man of fixed and limited habits. He didn’t like to take long lonely walks in the woods or jog the length of isolated beaches. Opportunities might be few. In and out. Hanshaw nodded to himself. He went back into the house and picked up the stolen laptop, opening it as wide as it would go. He leaned it against the leg of the coffee table, and then broke it into two pieces with one quick stomp. Mazel tov! he thought. He took the pieces and found a plastic shopping bag for them, then put on his coat and turned out the light in the front room. Carrying the broken computer in its plastic bag, he went down the porch steps and walked two, three houses up the road. He lifted the lid on the garbage can there, tossed in the computer, and then headed back to his place.

TODAY

Kat settled in the armchair where Mulligan liked to do his reading and he felt a vague discomfiture—his father rising up in him, he figured. Slave to habit and obscure household rituals. He fought it off. She closed her eyes and rather unceremoniously fell asleep. Pure of heart, he thought. In her fashion. He felt better, now that he was at home. It was just a little before two o’clock, but he went into the kitchen and made himself a drink, then returned and stood watching her for a few minutes. In the light of the lamp beside the armchair, her face looked like something that ought to be carved on the lid of a sarcophagus. He finished the drink, found her purse, quickly went through it. Someone named Nables had called three times and left a text message saying it was urgent that Kat should call back. He chucked the phone back into her bag, then made another drink and sat on the couch. He wondered how much more interesting things could get.

“You’re incorrigible,” he said aloud to himself. The booze had hit him just enough that he felt the desire for a cigarette, and he got one from the pack on the table and, after thinking about it for a moment, went outside to smoke it. He descended the porch steps and stood on the lawn, one hand in his pants pocket, looking up and down the block. When he went inside, Kat was awake again, still in the chair and looking around her as if she’d woken up after falling asleep someplace else.