The Identity Man

  Shannon got in the car and started the engine. As he backed out of the driveway, the blaze seemed to leap up around the white shingled house on both sides like two enormous red hands rising from the earth to grab hold of the place and drag it down.

  At the same time, Super-Pred staggered out into the night, a small black figure against the great, red, rising flames. He had a gun in his hand and was firing wildly at the darkness as he went on screaming curses.

  Shannon saw all this in the rearview mirror for another second or two. Then he guided the car around the corner, and there was nothing of it visible behind him but the orange glow against the blue-black sky, and that was quickly fading.

  It was only one more of over fifty fires burning just then across the night city.

  SHANNON DROVE ON through the dark streets. The old man sat beside him. Teresa sat in back, cradling her son in her arms.

  "You all right?" Shannon asked the old man.

  "Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. Where're we going?"

  "How about you back there?"

  "We're okay," said Teresa.

  "Where're we going?" Applebee said again.

  "I know a place," said Shannon. "Just hold on."

  Then he drove in silence. He darted glances here and there, watching the street for danger. He caught the eyes of gangsters who looked up to check him out as he passed. He caught the eyes of whores and hustlers looking to deal. The scenes back in the house kept flashing in his mind. The bangers holding Teresa on the table. He was furious and ashamed, and he wished he had killed them all. It wasn't his fault this happened, he told himself. It was this guy Ramsey's fault—and Foster's fault, too, the seedy federal bastard who'd set him up. But it didn't matter what he told himself. He felt as if it was his fault anyway. He felt he had come to Teresa and her family and brought this down on them. It didn't matter how it happened. He felt as if it was all because of him.

  "Where are we going, Mommy?" said the boy faintly in the back seat.

  "Shh," she said. "Henry is taking us someplace safe."

  "I want them to see a doctor," Applebee told Shannon.

  Shannon nodded. He drove in silence.

  He came onto a street of brooding darkness, old office buildings rising on either side. Most of their big, arched windows were dark, but here and there a light shone through thin curtains. Here and there, firelight flickered, too, as squatters on some abandoned floor huddled around a flame.

  Shannon pulled the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Applebee glanced at him.

  "I gotta go see someone," Shannon told him. "You all better come with me."

  "Where are we, Mommy?" said the boy.

  "Shh. I don't know."

  Shannon got out and came around the rear of the car, scanning the street's shadows. The old man climbed out more slowly. Shannon opened the door for Teresa and held it as she slid out with the boy in her arms. When she set the child down on his own and straightened up, she faced Shannon and looked at him. It was not a hard look—or a soft look either. It was neither angry nor kind. She was just searching his face for an explanation.

  He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell her it wasn't his fault. He wanted to tell her he was sorry because he felt like it was his fault even if it wasn't. There was no time to tell her everything he wanted to.

  "My name is John Shannon," he said finally.

  Teresa nodded, as if that were enough for now.

  The lock on the building's front door was long broken. Inside, there were no lights working. It was nearly pitch black. Shannon had to feel his way to the stairs and whisper at the others to come to him. The little boy kept asking questions: "Where are we going, Mommy?" Teresa kept answering, "Shh. I don't know."

  They climbed the stairs slowly in the dark, clinging to the rutted banister. It was eerily silent. When they reached the fourth-floor landing, they went down the hall, brushing their fingertips against the rough, pitted wall to feel their way. Shannon could see a dim light gleaming under the door at the end.

  He reached the door. He remembered the coded knock and rapped it out with his knuckles. There was an instant response from the other side. A chair shifting. Quick, soft footsteps approaching. A whisper from within: "Who is it?"

  "Shannon."

  He heard the locks turn. Foster opened the door. He looked at Shannon. He looked at Teresa and her family.

  He laughed and stood back to let them in.

  At the far end of the stakeout loft, there was a small enclosure formed by plywood dividers. There was a card table in the enclosure and a couple of folding metal chairs. Shannon sat on one of the chairs and waited there alone, leaning forward, his hands clasped together between his knees. He could hear the voices on the other side of the dividers: Foster and one of his men—only the slick agent was in the loft tonight—talking to Teresa and to Applebee and the boy. After a while, he heard footsteps. He sat straight as Foster stepped into the opening between the dividers and came into the little room with him.

  The small, narrow man was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened. His gun was in a shoulder holster. He was fidgeting, shifting his neck in his collar.

  "We're going to take them to a doctor," he said. "We have a car coming to pick them up. They'll be safe."

  Shannon nodded. "Thanks. I wasn't sure you'd still be here."

  "We were going to close up shop first thing tomorrow."

  "Well, happy days then. You're back in business."

  Foster gave a series of quick, nervous expressions and gestures: smiles, shrugs, winces. Then he settled into the chair across from Shannon. After that, for once, he seemed to stop moving. He became unusually focused, his features unusually still.

  "Okay," he said. "Let's hear it."

  "I sent Ramsey a message," Shannon said. "I told him I'd deal."

  Foster's eyes shifted once, away and back, as he took this in. Then he was still and attentive again. "Okay. You figure he'll get the message?"

  "He'll get it."

  "And then?"

  "Then ... I fi gure—you brief me on what it is I'm supposed to know. I go in wired, meet with the guy, deal with him, maybe draw him out. When you hear what you need to hear, you move in and bust him."

  There was another moment of stillness between the two of them, Foster's eyes on Shannon, Shannon's on Foster, both men silent. Murmuring voices came from the other side of the dividers, the other end of the loft. Then Foster's face went bright with a grin. He shook his head. He laughed.

  "What?" said Shannon.

  "No, no, dog, nothing. It's a great plan. Great, really. Except if you go in wired, he'll find it in half a second."

  Shannon thought about it. "Not wired then. We set it up somewhere you can mike."

  "He won't come into anything like that. He won't come just anywhere."

  "He'll come. He'll have to."

  "No. He's not stupid. He'll have to feel safe."

  Shannon thought some more but couldn't come up with anything.

  Foster helped him out. "We have some tools available. If they work, we'll be able to listen in."

  "There you go. Do that then. Use your tools."

  "What we won't be able to do is stay close. If he's smart—and he is smart—we'll be too far away to get to you."

  "Why do you have to get to me?"

  "Stop him killing you. We won't be able to get to you in time to stop him killing you."

  "If he kills me, then you've got him. Isn't that what you said?"

  Foster shook his head. "That was before. Now you're a cop-killer."

  "He still can't just kill me. Not if you're listening in."

  "Maybe."

  "All right then. It's a plan."

  "He will kill you, Shannon. You know that, right? He may talk to you, he may not. He may just open fire."

  "Then you've got him. That's what you wanted."

  "I'd say probably. I'd say he'll probably just open fire."

  "Well, then you've got him," Shannon said agai
n.

  "And if you do live ... in the unlikely event ... man, I'm telling you—I can't promise you anything. Not thing one. I'm not in that position."

  "Doesn't sound like it's going to be an issue, does it?"

  Foster laughed again. "No, it doesn't. No, it definitely does not." He lapsed into another silence—silence and stillness—studying Shannon.

  "Is there a problem?" Shannon said.

  "Maybe. I don't know. I'm not reading this. It makes me uncomfortable."

  "I guess we all have to take our chances, don't we?"

  "Maybe. I mean, give me a clue—what am I dealing with here? Is it silver bells, Christmas time in the city? You suddenly discover your inner good Samaritan...? Oh wait ... The girl."

  Shannon said nothing.

  "You're kidding me," Foster said. "This is about the girl?"

  "And the boy and the old man, too."

  "Well, well, well."

  "Whatever."

  "What do you want exactly?"

  "I want them out of here. They're not safe in this city. The cops are after them, the bangers are after them. The cops and the bangers are the same people here—what the hell? I want them safe. I want them out. New city, new job, new names if they need them."

  "New life, like princess in fairy tale, huh."

  Shannon's lip curled. The skeevy federal bastard had been listening to that, too. "That's right. Why not? They'll never be safe here now."

  "No, they won't. You're right about that. They're dead if they stay."

  "So what's the problem? Can't you do it? They're clean. They got no records. Nothing you got to clear or pull strings for. You got programs that handle stuff like this, don't you?"

  "Oh yeah. We can do it. For them? It'd be easy."

  "So there it is. That's the deal."

  "You go in, Ramsey kills you, we get Ramsey, the girl and her people are safe. That's the deal?"

  "Well—who knows? Maybe he won't kill me."

  "Oh, he'll kill you, Shannon. I don't mind making the deal, but that's what it is. He'll kill you."

  "All right. But you'll make the deal?"

  "I might. Is that everything?"

  Shannon hesitated, pressing his lips together. He didn't like to tell this skeevy bastard any more than he had to. "Tell her how you set me up. When it's all done, tell her how I didn't know. When I came into her house, I didn't know anyone was after me. I wouldn't have brought them into it, if I'd known."

  "That's right. It was my doing. I'll tell her that."

  "And about Gutterson, how that happened. And how I never did Hernandez. I was never anywhere near that."

  "Your last will and testament, huh?"

  "Whatever. Don't be an asshole. Just tell her."

  The federal agent sat still, watching him, thinking it over. "I don't think I've ever seen this before."

  "The world is full of things you don't see."

  "Is it? I wouldn't know." He stood up quickly. "All right."

  Shannon stood up. "We're good to go?"

  Foster nodded. He stretched his neck, moving his shoulders up and down in an undulating rhythm. The tics and nervous shiftings had begun again. "We're good. We'll have to move fast before Ramsey figures it out."

  "That's your department. Do what you do."

  Foster moved away, moved to the edge of the plywood divider. He paused there. He glanced back at Shannon.

  "What now?" Shannon said. "For Christ's sake, Foster."

  "All right. All right. But it's kind of out of character for you, this, isn't it?"

  "I guess it's not, since I'm doing it."

  "I guess that's right." But he studied Shannon another moment or two.

  "We all have to take our chances, Foster," Shannon told him.

  "I guess that's right," Foster said again. He walked out.

  Shannon stayed where he was, alone in the little enclosure. He paced back and forth behind the plywood walls. He didn't want to go out in the loft and see Teresa. He didn't want to see Applebee or the boy, either. He just wanted them to go so he could do what he was going to do and get it over with. It would be easier without seeing them.

  But the boy came running the length of the loft. Shannon heard his footsteps, and then the kid came into the enclosure.

  "Hey," said Shannon, looking down at him.

  "The car is here to take us to the doctor."

  "That's good. The doctor'll fix you up."

  "I don't even hurt anymore."

  "Well, you're a tough guy."

  Teresa came looking for her son. She took him by the shoulders. "Come on, Michael, we have to go."

  The boy stood looking up at Shannon. "You beat the gangsters," he said.

  "That's right."

  "There were a lot of them, too."

  "They won't hurt you anymore. You'll be safe now."

  "Come on, sweetheart," said Teresa.

  "Isn't Henry coming to the doctor?"

  "We have to go," she told him. "The car is waiting."

  "I'll see you, kid," Shannon said.

  "Go wait with Grandpa," Teresa said.

  She sent the boy back into the loft. She stepped into the enclosure with Shannon. She stepped close to him. Her face was swollen and lopsided, but it didn't bother him. He looked in her eyes and he was crazy in love with her. He wanted to explain that he hadn't known he was dangerous to her or he would never have come to her house in the first place.

  "Listen..." he said.

  She put her hand on his face and drew him toward her and kissed him. It was a good kiss. When she drew back, he couldn't find any words.

  "We'll talk later," she said softly.

  "Sure," he said.

  "We'll figure it all out. Nothing's impossible."

  He was crazy in love with her; he couldn't believe how much. "I'll be seeing you, Teresa," he said.

  "See you."

  She walked out of the enclosure. He listened to her footsteps, moving back across the loft. He listened to the voices. He heard the door closing. Then the loft was quiet.

  He was glad they were gone. They just made it harder. Now he could do what he was going to do. Now he could get it over with.

  IT WAS A LONG NIGHT—a long, long night. The waiting was bad. The waiting is always the worst part, Shannon thought. He lay on the cot where the slick agent had read the girly magazine. He lay with his eyes open, staring up at the pipes zig-zagging through the shadows on the loft ceiling. He thought that this was what it must feel like to be on death row. The weird combination of suspense—as if you didn't know what was going to happen—and the sickness of inevitability. Shannon figured you felt the suspense because even though you did know what would happen, you couldn't help hoping you'd be saved from it somehow. Where there's life, there's hope—that's what makes the whole business so terrifying.

  Funny, he thought, he had done all this to escape from death row and yet here he was. But then what did you expect in the long run? In the long run, it was all death row. There was only one way out of the world.

  Foster and the slick agent stayed with him through the night. Mostly, they sat silently in the metal folding chairs. Once or twice Foster went into the enclosure. Shannon could hear him in there, murmuring into his cell phone, but couldn't make out what he said. After a while, Foster left the loft altogether. A few hours later, he came back and the slick agent left. Shannon figured they were going somewhere to get some sleep.

  Shannon himself slept now and then. He would doze off and then wake with a start, realizing the morning was now that much closer. He figured it was just as well to sleep since the waiting was awful, but still, the end was that much closer, and the suspense and the sickness of inevitability grew worse.

  Finally—suddenly—he saw blue dawn at the loft windows and figured he'd dozed off again. There was something lingering in his mind as if it had come to him while he was asleep. It was a story someone had told him a long time ago, when he was a little boy. He must've been very little, beca
use he couldn't remember who had told him the story. He only had the sense that it had been a woman and he'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor looking up at her and she had been very kind. It was strange the things that came back to you and the things that didn't.

  As for the story itself, it was about a boy who went to a magical country in his dreams. Shannon couldn't remember the details of it, only that the boy had met a magical fairy and she had given him a golden ring. Then, at the end of the story, the boy woke up in his bed and realized it had all been a dream—but when he looked down in his hand, there was the ring. It was still there. As a little boy, Shannon had been very impressed by the story and had found the ending wonderful.

  He lay there on the cot for a moment, gazing out the window at the lightening sky, sick with the waiting and inevitability. He hadn't thought about that story in a long time, but he sort of understood why it had come back to him now. It was his story in some sense. What had happened to the boy had also happened to him. He had had a dream, too—a dream that he could have a new life with a new name and a new face in a new city—and now he was awake and it had only been a dream, but he had met Teresa there, and the way he felt about her was like the gold ring in the story.