Plot counterplot, p.7
Plot/Counterplot, page 7
“I need a favor,” Leilani said. “One only you can provide.”
“And that would be?”
“I need to disappear.”
Chapter 10
1:32 p.m.
Ten hours, twenty-eight minutes left
Dobie always loved the beach, even when he lived in California and taught at Stanford. Back then, Dylan spent many an oceanfront evening with his favorite professor, talking about books, dreaming of a life as a writer. Dobie had written a book in his youth, a brilliant novel called Challengers of the Abyss. It was highly acclaimed and nominated for the Pulitzer—but Dobie never wrote again. He didn’t seem to have a second book in him. So he focused on his teaching, mentoring the next generation of writers—like Dylan.
When the time came, Dylan brought him to Oahu and found this place for him—and a room with a lanai facing the beach. Excellent caregivers, the kind who didn’t butt in when they weren’t needed. If Dobie had to be in a home, this was the best possible choice. Dylan made sure he was always given first-rate attention.
Dobie sat upright in a wooden chair, slightly hunched but clean-shaven, wearing suspenders and a brown bow tie. He was eighty-nine years old, but he looked as if he were ready to go into the classroom and teach Modernist Literature.
“Dylan! What a delightful surprise!”
Dylan halted Dobie’s attempt to stand and pulled a chair beside him. Dobie was in astonishing shape for his age, but Dylan was well aware that the doctors had diagnosed him with early-stage Alzheimer’s. Every day his memories remained was a blessing.
“How are you, Dobie?”
“Oh fine, fine. Just watching the tides. Same old same old. Has anything exciting happened to you lately?”
Dylan almost laughed. “You could say that. But I can’t go into the details. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me. Have you read the new Jonathan Lethem?”
Dylan was startled, though not surprised, by the sudden change of subject. “Naturally.” He couldn’t help scanning as he talked. Hard to concentrate on literature when he knew killers were searching for him—and possibly for Dobie, too. He thought they were safe, but he couldn’t risk overconfidence.
“And your thoughts?”
“Ingenious. As always.”
Dobie nodded enthusiastically. His eyes lit, as they always did when he talked about books. “It’s his best work yet. Why more people don’t read him, I’ll never understand. He’s one for the ages. I know talent when I see it.”
“I know you do,” Dylan said, suppressing a smile.
“Back in the day, I was telling everyone in the faculty lounge to read James Joyce’s Ulysses. Did they listen? No. They went on reading John Galsworthy and John Q. Marchand and a lot of other claptrap. And who was right, eh? Who was right?”
“Ulysses was the most important book of the century.”
“Damn straight.” Dobie tucked a thumb under a suspender strap and snapped it. “I was right, that’s who.” His eyes narrowed a bit. “I was right about you, too, Dylan.”
“I’m hardly James Joyce.”
“You write a damn good book.”
“I’m pretty certain James Joyce never wrote gunfights, terrorist masterminds, or the world on the brink of an apocalypse.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve learned the fundamentals of storytelling and transformed them into a higher form of literature.”
“I write adventure stories.”
“So did Conrad. So did London. They took the conventions of the genre and infused them with entirely new levels of meaning. You’re still searching for your voice, true. But when you find it, you’re going to write something important.” He leaned forward slightly. “You have something profound to say, Dylan. You just don’t know it yet.”
Behind Dobie, Dylan saw activity at the front door. The new security team had arrived. “I’ve still got the fountain pen you gave me when I graduated. Remember?” Dylan removed the Delta Dolcevita from his pocket. Gorgeous orange and black resin, a sharp fine nib. “When you gave it to me, you said, ‘Every time you pick up a pen, you have the power to change the world.’”
“I meant it. And I still believe that you can.”
“I’m having some books sent to you.”
Dobie’s eyes lit. “New masterpieces?”
He nodded. “Anne Tyler. Dennis Lehane. Thomas Perry.”
“Brilliant?”
“That’s what the critics say. But of course, you’re the final arbiter.”
“As it should be.” He made a sniffing sound, straightened himself. “Thank you, Dylan. For everything.”
“Dobie—I may have to go away for a while.” He thought it best to reveal as little of his plan as possible. Just prepare him for the worst possible contingenCy. And pray no one was listening. “I’m not sure when I might be able to return. So I’ve arranged for people to watch you.”
“I don’t need more keepers!”
“It’s just temporary.”
“I suppose I can put up with it if I have to.” He paused. “Thanks for coming to see me. You’re the only one who does, you know.”
“I know,” Dylan replied quietly.
“That boy of mine never visits. Just lives twenty minutes away.”
His hand twitched. He almost reached out—then stopped. “You’re...my real son, Dylan.”
“And you’re the father I—well, you know.”
They looked at one another for a long moment.
“Yes, indeed,” Dobie said. “I know.”
* * *
After Dobie’s new security team arrived and Dylan wrote another check, he spotted a phone on the reception desk by the front door.
All he had to do was make one phone call. To the proper authorities. One call and Xavier and Mr. X’s sick game would be over.
His hand hovered over the phone.
Could he be certain they weren’t watching? Could he be certain they hadn’t bugged this phone? They knew about Dobie.
No. He couldn’t be certain. And he couldn’t take any risks until Leilani had time to get to the cabin.
He’d like to get it over with, but he had to be careful. Stick to the plan. No improvising. There was still plenty of time left before the twelve hours were over. He would do this right and make sure no one got hurt in the process.
He left the retirement center and returned to his hijacked pickup, scanning his surroundings. No one was watching. No one was following him.
Dobie was safe now. Leilani would be soon.
And then he would strike at the heart of that nest of vipers. Mr. X had squeezed him, hard. Now he was going to squeeze back.
* * *
Leilani had barely been at her desk for twenty minutes when the call came in—a shooting in Kalihi Valley, one of the poorest districts in the Honolulu area, perpetually troubled by street gangs. A teenage boy was down.
She usually paired with Michael Anders, a heavy-set and relentlessly amiable paramedic a couple of graduating classes ahead of her. This time, at Dr. Iaukea’s direction, Maria Cameretti came as well. She was a dark-haired woman about Leilani’s age.
“What are the odds?” Michael said, as he flipped on the siren and tore down the driveway. Leilani knew what he meant. What were the odds the kid would still be alive by the time they arrived?
“We can hope for the best,” Maria replied. And that was the truth. They always hoped for the best. Because hoping didn’t cost you anything. She would not have mentioned prayer. Because if they started praying for good results, soon every paramedic on earth would be an atheist.
“Sometimes I think they ought to board up the whole neighborhood and shut it down,” Michael said. “Send everyone away.”
“Are you kidding?” Maria replied. “I don’t want thugs coming to my neighborhood.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t all come. Just the ones who like petite raven-haired paramedics. That would be maybe half the thugs, tops.”
“You can’t cure crime by forced relocation. You cure it with education and job opportunities.”
“Right. If those gang homeboys just had Ph.D.’s, crime would evaporate.”
Leilani closed her eyes. She couldn’t drum up any interest in what passed for current-events discussions in the front seat of an ambulance. She had far more pressing problems.
“What did you do to yourself, Leilani?” Maria asked.
Leilani was startled by the sudden digression in the conversation. Her mind had been elsewhere. “Me? I’m fine.”
“You’re limping, girl. And I can see the cuts on your neck and arms.”
“Oh, that. It’s too stupid. I was stumbling around in the dark last night and I walked into a mirror.”
Michael whistled. “Do you sleepwalk?”
“No, we were still up. It was just...an exciting evening.”
“Oh ho ho. I’m getting the idea now. You and your writer were having wild-and-crazy monkey sex and he gave it to you so good you couldn’t walk a straight line afterward.”
Leilani liked Michael, but he had the emotional maturity of a fourteen-year old. “That wasn’t exactly it.”
“What part did I get wrong?”
“The part about the monkey. There is no monkey in Dylan. It was more like wild-and-crazy Adonis god-like sex. All night long lollipop sex. Multi-orgasmic, ultra-intense, can’t-get-enough-of-him, I’m-begging-for-more, do-him-till-candy-drops-out sex.” She paused. “But I’m sure you know what that’s like.”
Michael fell silent. Maria grinned from ear-to-ear.
Chapter 11
2:51 p.m.
Nine hours, nine minutes left
As soon as Dylan rounded the corner onto Smith Street, pulled into the only available parking space, and waited.
He didn’t think anyone was following him. But he was cautious. If he had a tail, they would round the corner and not see him until they were already past him. He would get a good look at them and he would know from their reaction whether they were tracking him.
He waited two minutes, then three, then five. Only one car rounded the corner, and it was driven by an elderly woman who did not appear remotely interested in him. She drove down the street, then took the first left toward Bishop.
He was not being followed.
He could go to the police station, or the local FBI or CIA office. He knew where they were. But that was where Mr. X would expect him to go. They might be watching, waiting for him, especially now, after he’d given them the slip. A phone call would be safer. Especially since Leilani had not had time to get to the cabin yet.
Dylan ditched the fake pot belly, the cotton balls in his cheeks and the glasses, jumped out of the pickup and headed toward Keona’s Spy Shop. Dylan had been here on numerous previous occasions conducting research, checking out the latest high-tech gizmos and quizzing Keona about spyware too expensive or restricted for retail sales.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. He loved this place. He could easily pass an afternoon browsing. But this wasn’t going to be one of those afternoons. Today he had a much more focused purpose.
Keona’s had the look and feel of a pawn shop, that dusty, low-rent, anything-goes ambiance. The shop smelled like its clientele, which was not a selling point. Even the air had a certain oiliness that made Dylan want to shower immediately. But he could tolerate that if it got him what he needed. He surveyed the cards on the endcaps. Recording devices, some so small as to be virtually invisible. Vehicle trackers. Spy cameras. Listening devices. Night-vision optics. Voice distorters. Bug sweeping gear. Computer-monitoring thumb drives. A paradise for those with a desire to snoop.
Keona sat behind the front counter eating. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a week or washed his hair or changed his shirt, which bore distinct traces of the last four hula burgers he’d consumed.
He didn’t recognize Dylan at first. Only when he was a few feet away did Dylan see the light of recognition dawn in the proprietor’s eyes.
“Whoa, Dylan—is that you? Extreme haircut, dude.”
“It’s me.”
“How the hell are you?”
“You don’t want to know. I’m in a hurry, Keona. I need to make a phone call.”
Keona pushed forward the phone beside the cash register. “Go ahead. I assume you’re not calling Marrakesh.”
Dylan thought for a moment. What if he did use Keona’s phone? They couldn’t possibly anticipate that move. They couldn’t pick up a landline on a frequency scanner. But it was still risky. No improvising, he told himself. He had a safer plan in mind.
“Listen to me carefully, Keona. I need to make a phone call without the slightest chance that the phone could be bugged, the line could be tapped, or the call could be overheard.”
“Don’t you have a cellphone.”
“Not secure.”
“Buy a burner phone at ABC.”
“Still not necessarily safe. Especially if I’m being monitored.”
Keona grinned. “What kind of trouble has Fargo Cody gotten himself into this time?”
“This isn’t about Fargo, Keona. This is about me.”
* * *
The kid was dead before Leilani and her colleagues found him sprawled across the front seat of the car. The kid’s face was a ghastly translucent pale blue and his wound had stopped bleeding.
Leilani couldn’t look at him without flashing on her parents, trapped in the front seat, their prostrate position and blood-caked faces all too similar. She washed it out of her brain. She needed to focus on what she was doing.
After the investigators finished their work, the body needed transport to the ME’s office. Michael got the gurney out of the ambulance and they lifted the body onto it. A few minutes later they had the corpse wrapped in the standard black zipper-up-the-front body bag. They lowered the ramp and wheeled it into the ambulance.
A small crowd stood on the outskirts of the crime scene. Others watched from their porches. At least one woman cried. Leilani wondered if she knew the victim, or if she was lamenting what had happened to this once-respectable neighborhood.
Police officers arrived from the downtown headquarters and asked questions. Leilani was tempted to grab one of them and tell her story. But who would believe it? And what if Pock-Face was watching? No, Dylan knew more about the situation than she did. She would play this his way.
“I’ll ride in the back,” Maria said.
“Me too,” Leilani replied.
Michael frowned. “You don’t both need to attend a corpse.”
“Is there a rule against it?”
“No. But I thought we might play the alphabet game during the drive back.”
“You can play with yourself. I imagine you’re used to it.” She grabbed Leilani’s arm. “We need some girl-talk time.” She and Leilani jumped into the back of the ambulance and took their seats on either side of the gurney.
Michael was disappointed, but not entirely surprised. The surprise came when he pulled into the driveway outside the ME’s office, got out, and opened the back doors.
There was only one woman in the back of the ambulance.
Leilani was gone.
Chapter 12
3:24 p.m.
Eight hours, thirty-six minutes left
“So can you help me?” Dylan asked Keona. “Can you get me a phone that cannot possibly be traced or overheard?”
“What’s going on, Dylan?”
“I don’t have time to explain.”
“Trying to duck the NSA?”
“A much more dangerous organization. Just sell it to me, Keona.”
Keona’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “Whatever you say. Want a weapon to go with that?”
“I don’t use guns.”
Keona gave him a look he didn’t like. “You said this wasn’t about Fargo Cody. So why are you playing by Fargo Cody rules?”
Dylan drew in his breath. “I know what I’m doing, Keona. Can you just get me the phone?”
Keona disappeared into the back room. Dylan heard furious rummaging, followed by a murmured, “Where did I put that?” A few moments later, he reemerged.
He plopped two objects down on the counter. One looked like an ordinary cellphone. The other was a small metal capsule, about the size of a fortune cookie. “That’s what you want.”
Dylan picked up the phone. “This can make calls? Safely?”
“Guaranteed. In the first place, the phone is clean. No one knows the number until you open this sealed canister. So no one is listening. The only possible problem would be if they know who you’re going to call and they’re monitoring that line, or if they scan the airwaves and pick up your frequency. But we can prevent that, too.”
Keona pulled a small flat rectangular object out of his pocket. It was the same length as the phone and had a metal input plug at the bottom. Keona plugged it into the earphone jack.
“That’s a Belmont RF-52 frequency scrambler. It’s automatically active anytime you have it plugged into the phone. Someone tries to trace your signal or eavesdrop, either by working backwards from the line you’ve called or by using a frequenCy scanner—they get gibberish.”
“What about the FBI’s ‘hot mike’ technology? I understand it can trace any cellphone. Can even turn a cellphone into a listening device they can activate at will.”
“That’s true—but it requires a special SIM card, and they have to know your number or trace it back from someone you’ve called. I’m telling you, Dylan. This phone is safe.”
“Sounds good.” Dylan studied the apparatus carefully. “But I know that if something like this exists, the CIA is working on a countermeasure to beat it. Probably already have something.”
“You’re right. They could beat this by monitoring the signals at the cellular server tower. That would give them the frequency and enable them to pinpoint your location, even if you use the scrambler. But it takes at least an hour, even assuming they’re ready and waiting for you.” He paused. “Dylan—are you hiding from the FBI?”
“No.”
