America Rising (12 page)

“I brought you some coffee and pastries and OJ. And whatever toiletries I could think of.” I looked at Megan. “And I brought something for you too.” The girl shrank back and I thought she might begin sobbing again. Julie went to her and stroked her hair. I took one of those cheap portable DVD players and a stack of kiddie movies out of a bag and pushed them across the table. “I thought you might like to watch a movie.”

Megan’s eyes brightened just a little. We took the DVD player out of its box, stuffed it with batteries and a movie, gave Megan some juice and a pastry and watched her lose herself in the story of an animated rat. I didn’t want to intrude any further. “I’ll leave you two alone now,” I said to Julie. “Knock on my door when you decide what you want to do.”

I stood to go but she stopped me. “Please stay, Josh,” she said. “I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

Fine by me. I didn’t want to be alone either.

“Thank you for this,” she said. “For thinking of Megan.”

I shrugged her thanks away. “She’s seen more than any little girl should ever have to. Maybe this will help.”

“It will,” she said, looking lovingly at her daughter. “That, and time.” She straightened up, set her face, looked at me. “I was up all night, thinking about what to do. I can’t stay here, not after this. While you were out I called my parents, told them what happened. Some of it, anyway. They’re upset but they understand. I called my sister in San Diego. She and her husband have an extra room we can stay in until I find a job. The perv—” she smiled ever so slightly. “The manager let me use his computer. I bought two airline tickets. Our flight leaves in a few hours. As soon as we freshen up I’ll call a cab.”

She put her hand over mine for just a second, then withdrew it. “I’m sorry the interview didn’t work out,” she said. “Thank you for bringing us here, for the room.” She reached for her purse. “I’ll pay you—”

“Don’t you dare,” I interrupted. Polite but firm. “There’s no need to call a cab. I’ll take you and Megan to the airport.” In my pants pocket was an envelope. I took it out and set it on the table. “And I want you to have this.”

The envelope was crumpled and bulging, like it was pregnant. Julie eyed it warily, then me, then it again. Through the partially open flap she could see a thick stack of green. She shook her head adamantly. “No, no, no. I couldn’t possibly—”

I put my hand over hers. “You could. I want you to. It’s five thousand dollars. Call it a down payment on your bakery.”

Julie’s eyes glistened. “I can’t, Josh. I just can’t.”

“Yes, you can. The insurance company that killed my wife gave me lots more to keep me from suing them.” I removed my hand and pushed the envelope closer. “I want you to have this. Carolyn would want you to have this. Please.”

Julie bit her lip.

“Don’t say anything. Just take it. I’m going to go pack and make a few phone calls. Come by when you’re ready to leave.”

Forty-five minutes later she knocked at my door. She looked a lot better, almost like herself. Megan looked better too. I gathered our suitcases and took them out to the car.

The ride to the airport was quiet and full of meaning. Julie and I tried to make small talk, pass the time and miles, but words were futile things, insignificant, like air. When we pulled up to the curb at Departures we turned to each other—awkward, proud, bonded—like soldiers who’d survived a battle but weren’t quite sure how or why. I offered to walk her and Megan to the gate but Julie shook her head. “We’ll be fine,” she said.

And I knew they would be.

Then she gently took my hand and I saw her face glow with the light that John Teichner must have seen the day they met, the glow that lit when she looked at her daughter, the glow that only comes from inside and shines like an aura.

“You’re a good man, Josh Henson,” she said. “Carolyn must have loved you very much.”

I felt a football lodge in my throat.

“I loved her very much too.”

“I know.”

Julie Teichner leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, right above the bandage. Then she took her daughter’s hand an led her out of the car and into the airport.

I couldn’t explain it, but I didn’t hurt for the rest of the day.

W
hen I finally got back to Key Largo I wanted to fall to the ground and kiss every inch of impenetrable coral rock. But it was late and I was tired and my own bed beckoned so I settled for throwing my suitcase in a corner, tearing off my clothes and falling asleep on the bedspread.

In the morning I showered, shaved around my wounded cheek, took a cup of coffee across the street to the beach, pulled a plastic chair up to the water and sat. It was my all-purpose remedy for anything that ailed me. Better than any drug. The rest of the day I did as little as possible. I was already showing symptoms of what locals—called “conchs”—referred to as “Keys Disease”: an unbending aversion to doing anything other than drink, fish, dive and soak up the sun. I always thought it a glorious affliction; I hoped to contract it for real one day.

I went to the doctor and got my cheek sewed up—a half-dozen stitches, no big deal—then stowed the Miata’s top and enjoyed the coolish evening air on a drive to Pilot House. It was the heart of “season,” as in “tourist,” so the bar was packed. Robert was at his favorite seat at the bar, though, and even drunken tourists had the sense to leave the seat next to him empty. He caught my eye, waved me over and ordered a couple Sierra Nevadas. I took a big gulp, wincing as it went down.

“Cut yourself shaving?” he said.

“Something like that.” I told him everything, from Marilyn Kravitz’s warning call to the scene at Julie Teichner’s house. I could feel the intensity of his concentration.

“The three people at the house—tell me about them,” he said. “Everything you can remember.”

“Not a lot, really,” I said, trying to recast the events in my mind. “Dressed all in black. Not military. Jeans, sneakers, sweater, jacket. Ski masks; holes for eyes and mouth.”

“Vests?”

I assumed he meant bulletproof.

“I don’t think so.”

“Go on.”

“Men were large, muscular but not body-builder types.”

“One of them Gutierrez?”

“I don’t know. Could be. The one who did the talking was too big, the other one was the right body type. But he didn’t say anything and I couldn’t see his face.”

“What about the woman?”

“Small, wiry. The big man did most of the talking but she seemed to be in charge. It seemed he had a problem with that.”

“How so?”

“He told the other guy to get Julie’s daughter from the bedroom and she jumped all over him. He smacked her down and the woman told him to knock if off, let Julie get the kid herself. They didn’t argue or anything but they exchanged looks. He wasn’t happy.

“Accents?”

“Not that I could tell. Though the woman could have been from New England or thereabouts. You know,
Bah
-ston.”

“Gloves?”

I had to think about that one for a moment. I pictured the man holding the gun on me.

“Not leather but disposables, I think.”

“What about weapons?”

“Nasty things, like a squared-off pistol. Short barrel, rectangular body, pistol grip with a clip sticking out the bottom.”

“HK. Micro-Uzi. Lot of firepower for a woman and a little girl.”

“They seemed prepared to use them.”

“They were.”

“So who the hell are they?”

“Specifically, I don’t know. Less specifically, they’re professionals. Of a sort. Ex-military but not elite. How long did the whole thing take?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

“Too long. And there’s no question who’s in charge. The more interesting question, though, is who do they work for? The people who employed your Gutierrez perhaps?”

I’d thought of that one myself. “Perhaps.”

Robert must have seen something in my face. “Don’t fuck with these people, Josh,” he said. “You don’t have the weight to take them on.”

“Bullshit. I’m going to find the bastards and nail their hides to the wall. This is still America. You can’t get away with shit like this.”

My friend smirked as if I’d announced I was going to flap my arms and fly off the barstool.

“And how do you think you’re going to stop them?”

“It’s called journalism.”

“It’s called dreaming. You really think you’re going to get the people who pull the strings? Or the people who pull
their
strings? You can’t touch them, and if they think you’re getting even the tiniest bit close, they’ll take you off at the neck. Believe me, Josh, those guys at the house are bad news, but they’re just the tip of a very large, very deep iceberg.”

“So what are we supposed to do, Robert? Sit by and let the entire country be taken over by a bunch of thugs in ski masks?”

He took another sip of beer and regarded the foam billowing up in the glass for a second.

“No,” he said. “Not that.”

* * *

It was a childhood Christmas ornament, AnnaLynn Conté realized later, that saved her life.

She’d arrived at her Saint Philip Street home on the fringe of the French Quarter just before dark after a long and nerve-racking day. After telling her staff about Josh Henson’s warning everyone was stressed, jumpy. Before leaving for the office that morning she’d taken her father’s old Remington out of the closet, loaded the magazine and placed the gun under her bed. She bought a can of Mace and stashed it in her purse too. She appreciated Henson’s call—he seemed like a nice enough guy—but also something of a paranoid. Still, she told herself, better safe than sorry.

Then nothing. No men in trenchcoats lurking around SayNo’s Warehouse District office. No one being followed, watched, harassed. No cyber attacks, denial of service. Nothing out of the ordinary. But she did as promised. Backed up files on external drives and stashed them in a safety deposit box. Had the burglar alarm checked out, had a company come in and sweep for bugs.

Again, nothing. So when she got home that evening she was pissed, mostly at herself for letting some guy who’d called out of the blue push her into acting like a scared little girl. But it was almost Christmas, and the tree in her living room made her smile and the day’s hassles drop away. She was looking forward to a glass or two of wine, an old movie on the TV and eight hours of peaceful, dreamless sleep.

The wine was good, the movie was terrible. When sleep came it was fitful. She’d probably had one glass too many and it kept waking her up every couple of hours. She was fading away again. . . then a sharp pop, a soft crunch.

A memory floated in as if in a dream. She was eight years old, couldn’t wait to see the new bicycle her parents had gotten her for Christmas. She’d waited until they had gone to bed, crept out of her bedroom, into the living room. . . then a sharp pop, a soft crunch, and she was bleeding and wailing in pain, shards from an ornament that had fallen off the tree embedded in her bare foot.

It wasn’t a dream! She bolted up in bed, sleep falling from her eyes, frightened disbelief mixed with dreadful certainty.
There’s someone in the house!
There was no time to think, only to act. She slipped off the bed, pulled out the Remington, thumbed off the safety. Knelt on the floor, elbows on the bed, using it to steady the heavy rifle, aiming chest-high at the bedroom door.

She waited.

The old gun felt incredibly heavy. She fought for calm, to keep the rifle steady. Her ears strained to pierce the silence. She waited. Panic like tiny tongues of flame licked at her insides. Her muscles twitched under the weight of the gun. Her back ached. Her eyes watered. The barrel wavered, dropped. She willed it to stop, fought harder, brought it back up.

She waited.

Another squeak of floorboard. More silence.

She could feel the intruder’s presence, the building menace.
What is he waiting for?
Her heart raced. Her muscles twitched, the rifle barrel wavered. . .

Then a split-second of madness. Pure reaction. Survival.

The bedroom door banged half-off its hinges. A black shape filled the doorway, rushing in like a giant wave. . .

AnnaLynn Conté’s heart stopped pounding. Her hands were steady. Her breath came slowly, evenly. Smoothly, gently, her finger closed on the trigger, squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded. It sounded like thunder. Once, twice, three times. The black wave disappeared. She kept squeezing. The firing pin clicked on an empty magazine. Then the adrenaline left her and her whole body began to shake. She realized that her ears hurt, her shoulder ached. The air in the bedroom was gray; it smelled of burnt matches, smoldering embers. Death. She waited until the shaking stopped, then she picked up her cellphone, dialed 911 and said in calm, firm voice, “I want to report an intruder.”