His belt is empty now, no gun or holster at his hip, and as far as you can tell he’s not carrying anything but the phone. You’re only ten feet away now, so close you can hear his breaths. When he takes another step forward you spring toward him. As you approach you’re suddenly aware of how small you are—he’s a foot taller than you, and though he’s thin he moves quickly, turning before you’re even halfway there.
You shoot the mace, a thin stream of liquid hitting him in the nose and mouth. His face tenses, his back hunched, his hands covering his eyes. In the dim light you can see the sweat collecting on his forehead, moving in thin dribbles down his face.
When you’re certain he can’t see you, you move forward, pulling the plastic ties from your pocket. You get it around one of his wrists, shove his other hand into the tie and pull it tight, until his wrists are pressed together. He tries to run but he stumbles forward, his chin colliding with the dirt.
When he turns over his face is swollen and splotchy, the spray leaving a red stain on his skin. “I thought you were dead,” he says, letting his head fall back against the rocky slope. “I should’ve known it was a trap. They warned me that you were clever.”
“I know you,” you say, realizing in a rush why you recognize his voice. He was the person who answered the phone. He was the one who told you to go to the office building. “You set me up.”
You unsheathe the knife. You start toward him, pressing it against the side of his throat, and you want so badly to know—just to make him tell you something, anything, that is real. “Who are you?” you ask. “Why was the woman trying to kill me? Why did she come after me?”
It’s only when the blade is against his neck that he tenses. Your fingers tighten around the end of the knife, and a familiar voice rises up inside you. Don’t. We’re not murderers. We’re not like them.
The words are so present, so real that you turn your head, waiting to see the boy from the dream. It’s as if he was standing behind you. It was his voice, you’re certain of it, and so you close your eyes, trying to conjure it again. A few moments and you know it’s gone. He’s gone.
The man looks up at you, his face still swollen and red. He can barely open his eyes. “It was me. I never said it wasn’t.”
“Why, though? Why would you tell me to go there? What did the woman want from me?”
“I don’t know.” He wheezes the words, and it’s only then that you realize your arm has shifted. Your wrist is now pressing on his windpipe. You release him, taking a few steps away.
When you turn back to him he seems frightened. His words pick up pace, each one streaming into the next. “My name is Ivan. These men paid me to set that office up, but they did it through people. There are probably four people between us. I don’t even have their first names.”
“Explain,” you say. “I’m listening.”
“A month ago I was doing odd jobs for this guy in Altadena. He was a friend of a client I’d helped buy a house—I’m a Realtor. Anyway, he told me about another job his colleague was looking for someone to do. Fifteen thousand dollars for a month of work. And it involved putting a tracking device on someone. I’d report on where they were, and then I’d do some other work at the beginning and end.”
“Some work at the beginning?” you ask. “So, making it look like I robbed that place?”
“I don’t know why they wanted the police after you; they didn’t tell me. They just told me to set it up and that as soon as you left the subway station I was supposed to keep a record of where you went. They’ve called twice so far asking for your location.”
“Who’s ‘they’? Who are the people you’ve been talking to?”
“I have specific instructions from someone who gets instructions from someone else. I don’t know, exactly. . . . I’m not sure who they are.” He shifts in the dirt, trying to sit up.
“So you agreed to work for them, and you didn’t ask any questions?”
The man shrugs, his expression uncertain. “I needed the money and once I was in it, I couldn’t find a way out. But I’m not a bad person. When I saw she was going to kill you I stopped her. I saved you.”
“Who was she? Did I do something to her? Does she know me?”
“I don’t know who she was; I’d never seen her before.”
“If you don’t know her, why did you shoot her? Why not me?”
The man squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t plan on it; I didn’t know that was going to happen. I’d given them the information about the bus station and then, I wasn’t supposed to, but I followed you. I’d done everything they had asked for weeks straight and I was starting to feel . . . antsy. I just had this feeling something was going to happen, and I wanted to know what, what I was being paid to do. Then I realized she was going to kill you. And something in me . . . I don’t know. I have a daughter who’s just a little younger than you. I had the gun in the car . . . I just did it.”
“And what happens now? Are they after you?”
When he looks up at you his face is swollen and splotchy, his skin stained with the red liquid. He keeps shaking his head and you notice for the first time the scar tissue covering one side of it, where his right ear should be. “I told them you killed her. I had to. . . .”
“Why? Why would you do that?” Your voice is uneven as you say it. All the uncertainty returns. If they wanted you dead before, what happens now? What will they do now that they think you killed one of their own?
He doesn’t respond. It’s hard to tell if he knows more than he’s saying, but there’s no reason to stand here, listening to him, trying to parcel out the truth. You kneel down, pulling one of the phones and the car keys from his pockets.
The phone is a cheap disposable thing, so flimsy it feels like you could break it in half. You go to the call history, pulling up the list of recent calls. Most of the list reads Blocked, but several down there is an actual number, and you hit the button, sending the call through.
“What are you doing?” Ivan asks, studying you, his eyebrows drawn together in worry.
You turn away from him, bringing the phone closer to your ear. It rings twice.
“Esposito Real Estate,” a man says.
It takes you a breath to respond. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, even later on the east coast. Every normal office would be closed.
“I have Ivan,” you say.
“Where are you?”
“Hang up the phone,” Ivan yells behind you. You turn and he is trying to untie his hands, his face frantic. “They know I’m here.”
You look down at the screen, the numbers counting time. Without thinking, you hit the End button, letting the phone go dark.
“You shouldn’t have called them,” Ivan yells. He tries to stand, but he struggles on the uneven ground, his hands still tied behind his back. “Now they know you know. They’ll come here—they’re going to kill both of us.” His gaze darts to the parking lot below.
“We have to leave. They’ll be here soon.” He starts up the trail in front of you. He tries to run but it’s a struggle. His shoulders hunch forward and he keeps pulling his arms back, but his head is down and he stumbles.
You stand there, watching the park below. The woods are dark. It’s barely noticeable at first, the lamplights lit on some of the narrow roads, the brush and trees rising up, blocking your view. But then you see the glow of the headlights. The black Mercedes finally appears in the parking lot below. It pulls in right beside Ivan’s empty car.
“It’s them,” Ivan yells. “Leave both of the phones here. That one has GPS in it.”
There’s a steep path up the trail, to your right. You toss the phones in the bushes and run, knowing that if you can just get up that path you can cut back to the observatory. There are more cars there, more people.
You’re nearly there when you notice Ivan, a crumpled silhouette near the cliff’s edge. He’s kneeling in the dirt. He twists, struggling against the restraints, trying to slip free. You’re nearl
y past him, at the bottom of the path, when you stop. How can you leave him like this? If what he said is true, how can you go, knowing he’ll be killed?
“Please,” he says. “I don’t have a chance.” He is watching the car below. Two men have climbed out. They open the doors to Ivan’s car, then the trunk, searching it.
You pull the knife from your belt and start toward him, cutting the plastic cord binding his wrists. He squeezes his hands closed, then opens them, trying to get the blood back into his fingers. When he looks at you his eyes are wet. The car door slams from below you, and you both run.
The rocks are harder to climb in the dark. As you grab on to the slope in front of you, digging your toes into the dirt below, you see Ivan out of the corner of your eye. He runs down one of the side trails, away from the device, winding back to where it meets another road. He doesn’t know this part of the park like you do. He hasn’t been here before. You want to call out to him and warn him, but he’s already disappeared beyond the bend. He is already moving back toward the parking lot, toward one of the two men.
You climb faster, pushing up the steep slope. Your palms are cracked and bleeding, and you can only see the handholds above, the occasional foothold below. When you finally reach the top, the path empties out to another trail, this one snaking back toward the planetarium. It’s only then that you look down.
Flashlights cut the dark, showing where each of the two men stand. One has already reached the device. The other waits in the parking lot. There is a loud, muffled yell. Then the flashlight falls. A figure runs beyond the trees. “I found him,” he calls up to the other man. “He’s here.”
From where you’re perched you can’t see the other man’s face. He wears a black baseball cap that shields his eyes. He kneels into the dirt, digging under the rock until he finds the metal tracking device.
He scans the cliff’s edge, turning it over in his hand.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EVERYTHING IS IN shadow. The flashlight scans the ravine, searching for you. As it moves past you flatten against the tree trunk. The beam lingers on a patch of shrubs ten feet away. Then it disappears. You listen to his steps receding. When there is only silence you finally move.
The woods feel safe. Your body seems to know exactly how to negotiate the uneven ground, avoiding roots, ducking low branches. You take a steep hidden trail down the side of the cliff face, remaining in the brush near the edge of the parking lot. It’s empty except for the two cars. The inside light in the Mercedes is on, the door open.
The man with the hat returns to the car, shaking his head. “She’s gone. No trace of the keys. We’ll have to come back for the car.”
He climbs into the passenger seat. Ivan sits right behind him, his chin is down, his shoulders hunched forward. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and you notice for the first time that they’ve tied his hands with rope.
Then the headlights flick on. The engine starts. The car pulls out and you realize everything that’s going with them—any chance of knowing, any chance at the truth. You grab the keys in your pocket. You need to follow them. As soon as the Mercedes leaves the lot you run for it, not stopping until you’re in the front seat of Ivan’s car.
The whole car smells of bleach. The glove compartment is open, its insides emptied out. There’s nothing on the floor or passenger seat. It takes you a few seconds to figure out which key is for the ignition, but once you do your movements are automatic, your foot going to the brake, your hand shifting the car into drive. You don’t turn the headlights on. Instead you roll forward, down the hill, barely using the gas.
You stay far behind, waiting until they’re out of sight to make the right turn behind the Mercedes. The street is empty except for a few cars. You follow a pickup truck that is slowed in the right lane, moving when he moves, staying just a little behind.
The road goes on for a mile or two, and the Mercedes disappears for a few minutes. You keep a mental list of the places you pass—the Thai restaurant with the lotus on the sign, the gray-and-pink motel, the underpass and the two gas stations across from each other. You say the names of the cross streets out loud, repeating them as you drive under their signs, hoping to keep a mental record of where you’re headed. Western, Gower, Highland, La Brea. It’s not until the road crests that you see the black car again. It makes a left toward a low building with several barred windows.
Almost as soon as it makes the turn it pulls over on the right side of the road. You go to the next light, circling the block to approach the house from the other direction. Within a minute you have come up the street from the opposite corner, your lights still out, slowing to a stop when the car comes into view.
From where you’re parked you can just see the Mercedes up ahead. The men don’t notice you. They’re too busy pulling Ivan from the backseat. They start toward the entrance.
You cut through the neighbors’ front yards as they disappear inside. Part of the house is covered with a tarp. You climb the chain-link fence, circling around to the cement backyard.
As you move along the back of the house, only one window is lit. It’s so dirty you have to wipe away a patch of dust and grime just to see. Ivan is there with the two men. The house is mostly empty, the foyer filled with construction supplies—ladders and tarps bearing a logo for Parillo Construction. The dining room is outfitted with several tables. Papers cover every surface. Cardboard file boxes are stacked by the door. A map of Los Angeles is spread out on one wall, red pins dotted across it. Another wall is covered with a dozen photos. From your angle you can only see three or so—a falcon, a cobra, a shark. They’re each labeled with cities—New York, Los Angeles, Miami. You try to get a better view but the only other window is on the second floor, too high to reach.
The man in the black hat leans on one of the tables, his eyes fixed on Ivan. “So I hear you’ve had an eventful few days.”
Ivan nods, his expression uncertain. He picks at the rope around his wrists, his fingers worrying the cord. “I’ve told you everything I know about the murder. I saw the girl shoot her, then she ran off. I got rid of the body. That’s it.”
“What I can’t figure out is why you were there when it happened,” the man goes on. “It’s just funny timing that you happened to be checking the tracking device when she was killed. Lucky for us, I guess.”
Ivan just stands there, nodding, knowing it’s not yet his turn to speak. His skin is already slick with sweat, his face still splotchy and stained from the mace. There are wet circles under his arms. The man shoots a sideway glance at his friend, as if to gauge Ivan’s reaction.
“And now this. You give us her location, then you turn up there, then we get a call from the girl on your phone. What are we supposed to make of this? I mean, less than a month working for us and you’re already fucking up.”
“‘Fucking up’ is an understatement,” the other man says.
There’s a long pause. Finally Ivan speaks. “It wasn’t my fault. She set a trap. She knew I would come so she left the device there for a few days and waited for me. She wanted to know about the office building, and what happened there. She asked me about the woman who chased her. But I didn’t tell her anything, I didn’t. I swear.” His voice is strained, his words rushed. As he looks back up at the men, a thin trickle of sweat cuts down the side of his face.
The man in the black baseball hat nods, listening. Then he steps forward. He leans down so his face is level with Ivan’s. He’s just six inches away, so close that it feels like a threat. “Tell us exactly what you told her, Ivan. I want every word of it.”
“I didn’t tell her anything. . . .” Ivan scans the room as he says it, looking to the other men, his voice rising in panic. “She knew it all already—about the tracking device, about the setup. She knew it all.”
“Did sh
e know about the island?” he asks.
“What island?” Ivan says, confused.
The man asks so matter-of-factly you wonder if you heard it right. There’s no way to know if the forest from the dreams was on an island, but thinking back to it, it could have been. The lush, tropical trees. The vines and undergrowth. How the air was heavy and wet. How long were you on the island? Is the boy from the dream real? If he is, is he still there somewhere?
“One last chance, Ivan. You don’t have anything else to say about what happened to the client?” the man asks. “Nothing to confess? Some of our other clients are asking questions. We told them the girl did it, that it was all an unfortunate accident, one we hope to avoid in the future. But she’s never killed before. They might not know that, but we do.”
Standing crouched by the window, you try to make sense of it—how they tracked you only at specific times, how they wanted you dead. Who are their clients? Was the woman who chased you one of them? And what does he mean, you’ve never killed before? How do they know?
“I’m telling you the truth,” Ivan pleads. “I swear I didn’t tell her—”
The first blow comes from the other man. He was so silent you hardly noticed him, but he plows into Ivan, striking him in the side of his face, just below his eye. Ivan doubles over, his hands raised to cover his cheek, but the man moves in, punching him again.
There’s blood all over the man’s fist. You wince as you look at Ivan, how small he seems on the floor, curling in on himself. The man kicks him in the ribs. Then he grabs the rope that binds Ivan’s hands, pulling him to stand.
Ivan’s nose is bleeding, his cheek swollen, a gash just below his right eye. The man with the hat moves in again, leaning down to speak. “Where did she go when she left the park? Is she still there?”
“She went south,” Ivan says miserably. The last time you saw him you were heading north, up the trail, there was no mistaking it. He is lying for you. He’s trying to help you get away. “She was going toward Hollywood, I think, maybe back to the bus station. I don’t know. She just dropped the phone and ran.”