Surrender, New York
“Yep. There certainly isn’t a better group we could come up with. Now, just one more point…” Turning from the pictures to face me, Mike became very serious: “L.T.—just so we’re straight with each other, this is the first time since we became partners that you’ve asked me to do something without giving me the full list of reasons why.”
Badly mauled as my emotions were, I still tried, at first, to evade: “What do you mean, Mike? You know the reasons why: we’ll gain valuable time if we just cut to the chase with them, and—”
“I’m not asking,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard me, his voice more sympathetic, now. “Because I know you won’t tell me. Yet. All I’m saying is that I know you’re pretty conflicted about this. I think I can guess why, but just promise me one thing: now that you’ve finally found some real happiness, here, and maybe I have, too; you won’t go sabotaging our entire situation by taking on the powers that be over one case—a case that might not be worth it.”
Once more, I was reminded of why Mike’s and my fellowship had lasted so long. Stumbling badly in my attempt to answer his correct reading not only of my mind but of my heart, I finally said, “I know the dangers, Michael. But ‘not worth it’? You and I both know that we made a deal a long time ago: maybe with the devil, maybe with some god, maybe just with the idea of justice as we understand it. But it is, in fact, the deal that we honor above all others. So—if this thing plays out safely, fine; if not, hey…we’ll still be able to look ourselves in the mirror.”
He nodded once, smiling grimly. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he said; but, having no wish to press the issue, he then turned to the photos again. “Right—so what do we do?”
I steeled myself: “We send out an e-mail to this group tonight, and stress that it is highly confidential, as it involves a real case. We ask them to go online before our classes tomorrow—I’d say noon, our time, but that’s too cruel to Vicky. But she’ll be compos mentis by eleven or so, which means two p.m., our time. Fine. We discuss the matter face-to-face. They’re either all in, or all out.”
“Why?” Mike indicated the pictures. “What if we can get, say, three out of the five?”
I shook my head. “Not good enough. The group’s small enough, already, and even more importantly, the other two will know something’s going on. We can’t predict what’s about to happen, or how public it’s going to get. So far as they will know—unless and until they all agree—this is just an extra-credit opportunity we’re offering to the five of them, in light of their continued exceptional achievements. Then, if they come on board, I figure it’ll take them a day or so to go over the material. At that point, we’ll have a nice synchronicity of all things: classes ending, our getting ready to go, Clarissa pulling the funding together from her bank, and the Augustines getting back from their cruise. And one more thing: they have to decide if they’re in or they’re out immediately. We can’t let them think it over outside the conference.”
“You afraid one of them will leak it?” Mike asked.
“Not intentionally—but they might ask an acquaintance, a relative, or a boyfriend or girlfriend for advice. We can’t have that. They need to be ready right on the spot with answers.”
“Don’t worry,” Mike answered. “Knowing this group, ready is one thing they will be…”
{iv.}
And the next day, we made sure we were ready, as well. At two p.m. Mike and I were side by side at the instructor’s table in the JU-52, my partner having made sure that our webcam would get us both into frame in front of the black backdrop without any need to crowd ourselves. I’m not sure that some of our “guests” fully appreciated the gravity or the possibilities of the moment until they saw the pair of us together and facing them, along with how few of their own number had received invitations; when they did, the expressions on their faces indicated simultaneous uneasiness, respect, and varying degrees of excitement. We got greetings out of the way, and then Mike went straight to work, laying out the ground rules: none of them would have to do any further work (meaning take finals or write term papers) in our classes, although the job that we were asking would run beyond the end of the summer session. In addition, my partner said, they would all be granted highest marks in those courses simply for participating, while those of them that were receiving their degrees at the end of the session could expect particularly effusive job recommendations from both of us. This, it was plain, got the interest of all five fully ignited; but they were a canny group, and they figured there had to be a downside coming soon. As usual, that job was left to me:
This was not, I explained, an offer being made to each of them individually. They had all been picked for particular reasons, and that, combined with certain matters of security regarding Mike’s and my own position within SUNY as well as our profession, dictated absolute secrecy. So, before any details would be released, the five of them would have to decide, on the spot and as a group, whether they were in or out. For their part, the candidates asked for a few moments to discuss the matter among themselves, a request we had anticipated: but the same basic rule applied: we didn’t want them phoning anyone for advice about the offer. I told them that we would leave the “room,” virtually speaking, for fifteen minutes: the sound in our system would be shut off, but we would leave our screens on, and they would be expected to remain visible if unheard as they talked. Then Mike and I pushed our chairs back and had a smoke as we watched the monitors.
“How do you rate the odds?” Mike asked eventually, studying the quintet. “Four to one?”
“Really? Who’s your holdout?”
“Mei-lien, actually. And it’s not because she isn’t into the idea. But Chinese culture, dude, you do not deviate from the plan. Only bad things come of it.”
“How would you know, I thought you were an American.” I exhaled smoke and then shook my head. “No, they’re all into it; and if they decide not to do it, it won’t be because of anybody’s culture. It’ll be because it’s a crazy fucking idea…”
Ten smoky minutes later and our sound was restored, after which the first to speak was Linda Walker, perhaps because she was the oldest of the group, perhaps because she was a genuine New Yorker and accustomed to putting things plainly:
“We all want to do it, obviously,” she said, her enthusiasm tightly controlled. “And we’re all honored by the opportunity. But there’s just one thing.”
“Just one?” I said.
“If this is, like you say, a real case,” Frankie Arquilla continued, his big, powerful frame leaning forward toward his computer screen, “we’re not gonna be liable for what we say, are we?”
“This is the only reservation,” Mei-lien added, as softly as ever. “But it is an important one.”
Mike and I gave each other a quick glance, then just as quickly turned back to our students. “What would make you think that there’d be any question of your liability?” I asked.
“Well, we do get MSNBC, even in Boston, Doctor,” Colleen stated, quietly and evenly. “And the other networks, too. There’s been quite a bit of—chatter…”
“And we’re not utterly dense,” Vicky added, smiling. “Even if some of us are blond and from California. A case that’s achieved national attention? It could be dangerous.”
“True,” Mike said, before I could answer. “So, no: your names will never be mentioned.”
They all glanced at one another on their computer monitors one more time, and exchanged nods. “Okay, then,” Vicky said. “Looks like we’re in.”
“Good!” I replied, making no attempt to hide my enthusiasm. “In that case, Dr. Li will immediately transmit the case file—” Just then I caught sight of the second folder Mike had brought out the night before, the cover label of which I had not read; but its corresponding flash drive bore the same single word that was on the cover, scribbled with a Sharpie:
I leaned over so that I would not be visible to the others as I whispered, “ ‘Cheetahfucker’?”
“Hey, you know I always use code words for our cases, L.T.,” Mike answered, smiling.
“But ‘Cheetahfucker’?” I pressed, a little ticked off. “Will they see that?”
“Well, sure, I mean, the digital file’s keyed to that password,” Mike answered, still smiling at the students. “It was Lucas’ idea, actually. I can change it now, but it’ll take a few minutes—”
But I just shook my head. “Lucas’ idea, my ass…” Remembering our students, I turned back to them, regaining my composure. “I beg your pardon—just clearing up the details of security. Dr. Li?”
“The case file is a little long,” Mike said. “Don’t bother trying to open it right off, it’s encoded—I’ll send the, uh, password in a separate e-mail, which will come from a second IP address, using a deliberate variant on a common junk mail subject heading: ‘Russian Mail Order Husbands,’ it’ll say.” All five students laughed: a good sign. “So keep checking your spam files.”
“You’ll have twenty-four hours for your evaluation,” I said. “Then we’ll meet again, same time.”
Four of them looked taken aback; and Linda said, “That’s seems like a tight schedule, Doctor.”
“Perhaps, Linda,” I answered. “But ask Colleen, who’s actually worked in a crime lab. She seems less shocked—how long do profilers and techs often have to catch up on a case, Colleen?”
“Less than that,” the quiet, scribbling Colleen agreed. “Sometimes…”
“Indeed. So it will be good practice for you all. Until tomorrow, then.” I searched their faces rather sternly one last time. “And above all—surprise us, ladies. And, of course, gentleman…”
“Fuckin’-a-right.” Frankie stacked his books with each of his next syllables: “Gen-tle-man!”
At that the screens began to go black; and, with the sudden realization of what we might have let loose on our little world, I simply sat back as Mike grabbed the laptop on the desk and began to transmit data to our five new advisors: our own little Privy Council, as we would come to call them.
“Is there any way,” I mused, “that this could be both the best and the worst idea that we’ve ever come up with?”
“I don’t know,” Mike chuckled. “But we’ll find out—and I’d say sooner, not later…”
The following twenty-four hours passed in a bizarre combination of hard work and emotional turmoil. Final classes were taught that same afternoon in a very relaxed atmosphere, my only real focus of hard judgment being how the five invited to become our Privy Councillors behaved around the rest of our students when participating in the ordinary debates of the day; but each was very smooth, never giving a thing away. On this unique note, the summer semester ended, Mike and I trying to behave as if we shared the collected groups’ senses of relief at the coming time off. When all the screens had at last gone black, we turned at once to the tasks left to perform, that day and the following morning. Above all, we had to come up with a group of prioritized questions upon which we hoped our Councillors might shed at least some light when we met next. First, we would want to know if the five students had been able to detect any trace of duplicity in Derek Franco’s behavior during the case prior to his leaving home; and if they had sensed such duplicity, had they gone on to postulate some kind of active role for the young man in the throwaways scheme? Would they conclude, as we had, that he had been a part, rather than a victim, of the circle that was responsible for procuring the kids and indoctrinating them for their journeys south?
The next area of focus would, we hoped, grow quickly out of the first: we would ask the quintet to put together a preliminary profile of the person directly above Derek, the person who had apparently made such lavish promises to him, as well as to the other dead children. This was a matter that had absorbed my particular attention in recent days, while Mike had been assembling his summary of the physical evidence for our case file. The profile that I had assembled had gone into two separate digital folders, one of which I showed to Mike and was perfectly prepared to share with our students. Its title had been of my partner’s contrivance, going back to when we’d been discussing the last line of the script of The Maltese Falcon: “The Dream Stealer.” It would offer an excellent test of the students’ intuitive abilities, by determining if they, first, had detected the importance of the person in question, and, second, could add any valuable details to the profile, such as to what entities, if any, that person might in turn have been answering. But the second file I did not show Mike, even though I knew that it, too, would show us just how far the students had pushed their speculations. Yet it would also place an enormous strain on my own resolve; and I was praying that I would never need to reveal it. So it remained stored on a flash drive tucked safely into my vest pocket…
For two very tired minds, all this represented an excellent series of exercises to test the aptitude of the Privy Council. Now we needed to eat a calm meal and get some sound sleep: and with these concerns in mind, Mike finished locking away all the materials we’d used that day, while I went down into the hangar to defrost some meat for Marcianna. But there, waiting for me, was Ambyr, removing any hope that the evening would go as restfully as I’d planned. She stood very still just inside the hangar, listening to the sound made by my feet as it changed from the creaking of the steel treads to the shuffle of my prosthetic leg against the concrete floor, moved by my nagging hip.
“Clarissa,” Ambyr began haltingly. “Clarissa sent me up to tell you guys to knock off for the night.” She attempted to get a firmer grip on her emotions: “You know, for two guys who were trying to keep a secret, you were talking awful loud, up there…” It was a strange moment for me; and much would depend on what she said next: “You cut us out of this step, Trajan. You actually believe that Derek is part of this whole thing…After all we’ve been through—why?”
“Ambyr,” I said gently, moving toward her but getting no reciprocal advance. “You’ve really never suspected it might be possible?”
She began to nod slowly, tears coming to the curtained violet eyes. “I guess I did. But it sounded like you guys have a lot more than suspicions.”
I gently put a hand to her cane arm. “We’ll know more tomorrow. Then we leave for New York. I didn’t think Lucas should know while we’re on this trip. He’ll have enough to deal with.”
“And me?” Ambyr asked, finally turning her face up to mine. “Why not tell me?”
“For your own sake,” I lied. “If it turns out to be untrue, why make your suspicions worse, even for a day or two?”
She nodded, then wrapped her arms around my neck. “Oh, Trajan,” she whispered. “Could I really have done that bad a job?”
It was hellish. “I—don’t know” were the lame words I finally found; then, to repair them, I added, “I mean, I don’t know if anyone could have made up for what his family did; I just don’t know if that’s a hole that can be filled.” But it would have made him an easy kid to manipulate, I mused.
“Yeah,” she answered, sniffling tears away. She moved her face around to kiss me tenderly, even gratefully, for saying what I had aloud. “I appreciate that. And you did right, I know, not telling Lucas. If Derek is involved, baby brother will be a basket case.”
“Very true,” I said, returning her kiss and holding her tightly, tightly enough, I prayed, to make everything that had happened, that was going to happen in the coming days, simply cease to be real. Such are the moments that are the most self-deceptive, when we believe that we can remove a passionate love from space and time: two forces that will always reassert themselves…
“I assume you’re going to feed the crazy girl?” Ambyr eventually asked, holding my face in her hands gently. After I’d tilted my head slowly up and down within that sweet grasp, she lightly moved her fingers down to my chest. “Okay—I’ll go down and tell them you’re on the way, baby.” And then, with that lightning-swift change in tone of which she was such a master, she whispered into my ear: “But don’t you ever lie to m
e again…” She brought her head back around to kiss me again, her voice softening once more: “Remember that I’ve had about enough of being lied to, and about enough of being used. Got it?” Then she turned away. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she said, smiling in that devilish way of hers; then she raised her voice to call out, “You too, Mike!”
Mike’s head popped out of the JU-52. “Hmm? What’s that? Oh—see you at dinner, Ambyr!”
Once she was starting down the path to the barns, Mike descended the steel steps. “Whew,” he whispered. “I thought maybe I was gonna catch it, too.”
“Were you listening to that entire exchange?” I asked, as I cranked up the microwave.
“Well, what the fuck did you expect, L.T.? I tried not to, but it’s very quiet in this place; and I wasn’t going to come down and get my ass kicked. Besides, what’re you worried about, you’re golden.”
“Thank you, Michael, as ever,” I said slowly, pulling the warm meat from the oven.
“Seriously—she’s nuts about you. But she’s tough, too, and you know why as well as I do. But take it from one who knows—you two are solid. You’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be in a relationship, not that you were ever in a relationship with a woman that’s got her kind of class.”
I paused before leaving the hangar. “You really believe that?”
Mike laughed. “Trajan, for fuck’s sake, look at your record: that crazy nightmare who was your last girlfriend, all the nightmares before that, when all you were really looking for was somebody to give you a little fucking comfort and empathy after all those lousy years of goddamned pain.” He shook his head. “And unlike all those nutjobs in the city, this girl knows you, L.T., she’s been in your hell. At the same time, though, she demands real respect. And it freaks you the fuck out.”
As he walked over to me, I just stood there, a bit nonplussed. “How the hell do you see all this?”