American Subversive (23 page)

“Stoli's our best,” she said dispassionately.

“Sure, fine.”

I had one, then another, tipping well each time, and finally the bartender began to thaw. I switched to beer and ordered a cheeseburger. When she brought my food over, I took out the picture. I had nothing to lose.

“She's an old friend,” I said. “Moved up here to get away for a while.”

“If she's a friend, why don't you have her number?” She looked at me, pleased.

“We've lost touch.”

“Well, you're not a cop, obviously, so I'll tell you the truth: I've never seen her. And I see everyone, sooner or later. It's not that big a town.”

“That's what I keep hearing.”

I switched back to vodka. It was only the fourth inning.

Chirping birds and a buzzing cell phone and the sun pouring in through the screens as if the world were in a microwave. I was lying in my boxers above the sheets, and still I was sweating. And then I began to remember . . . the drunken drive back from the bar and . . . oh, no . . . the midnight text to Derrick. What did I say? I picked up my phone to check.

D . . . Srry so late but fam emrgncy mother till tues. Wll cll tmrw. A

Not even predictive texting could help me. I'd never stuck him with Roorback for an extended period before, let alone at the last minute. I was pushing things too far.

It was Monday morning. I had calls to make and texts to answer
and who knows how many e-mails piling up. I showered and dressed, then drove to the Internet café, where I ordered the largest Green Mountain Roasters they had. When a computer came free, I sat down to catch up with the world. Nothing new on Indigo. Nothing on the bombing at all. I spent a half hour going through Derrick's posts from Friday. They weren't funny, and the commenters were getting restless. I needed to get home. Paige Roderick had been a long shot, and long shots don't come in.

When I walked back into the cabin, I felt that same eerie sensation I'd experienced earlier in the supermarket. Nothing was missing—I'd brought hardly anything with me—but . . . the back door. I'd left it partly open to get some air circulating, and now it was closed. Maybe it was the wind, except there was no wind. Just heat. No maid yet either, as the bed was still unmade. Well, whatever. I packed up and went to check out.

There was no real rush, so I drove slowly, peering down roads and into driveways, already nostalgic for the day before, the week before, when finding Paige had seemed truly possible. Now, I just felt like an idiot. Touché had been right. I'd allowed myself to get swept up in something so blatantly . . .
hopeful
. There was a small backup where Route 100 met 17, and I waited my turn as a line of cars snaked slowly past in front of me, cars packed with people, kids and grandparents—families. A cop was stationed at the intersection, and I rolled down the window as I inched closer.

“What's going on?” I asked, when I reached him.

“First day of the fair. Always a mess.” He waved me forward. There was a pause in the passing traffic. I could turn left and head back south, or—

I put my blinker on and turned right, with everyone else. What the hell? I'd never been to a real county fair before. And I wouldn't reach the city until dark anyway. What difference would two more hours make?

The tents started a mile up the road. I parked in a field, then bought a $15 ticket at the front gate. Booths and rides fanned out in every direction. Signs advertised the Waterwheel Park, the Hayseed Theatre, the Woodsman's Forest. A public address system announced a steady stream of impending events—Sheep Dog Trials, a Pig
Scramble, something called a Fireman's Muster. The midway, lined with food stalls and freak shows, seemed a good place to start. It was the pulsing main artery of the fair, already alive with carnival barkers and confidence men honing their pitches for the week to come. I stopped to watch a little boy shoot baskets. He was trying so damn hard, but the whole thing was rigged, of course, the ball too big or the hoop too small, and shot after shot hit the rim and clanked away. But the prizes were
right there
, superheroes and stuffed animals so close you could almost touch them. When the boy was out of basketballs, he looked up at his father and another dollar came out. A crowd had formed to root the kid on, everyone disregarding the laws of physics and common sense, because it
could
happen,
was
possible, it would just take luck, or perfection—

Someone was behind me. Too close. A hand grasped my arm above the elbow. I started to turn, then heard a voice in my ear, stern and steady.

And everything else fell away.

PAIGE
 

KEITH CAME RUNNING IN FROM THE GARAGE AND LAUNCHED HIMSELF THROUGH the open deck door and into the kitchen.

The car keys,
he said, breathing hard. His face was a study in opposing forces—agitation and self-control, anger tempered by experience.

They're on the mantel. Why?

Got a text from Lindsay. The emergency code.

What happened?

I don't know. I'm going to meet her right now. You need to wipe the house down. If one of us isn't back in two hours, then get out of here. We'll meet behind the Downhill Edge. Take the bike.

And then he was gone. We'd run through this scenario over and over in our first weeks here, and I was ready. I donned a pair of surgical gloves and got started. Tables, counters, windows, doors: any flat surface. Plates, glasses, dirty silverware. I rushed from room to room, rounding up our personal effects and stuffing them into a single garbage bag (that's how lightly we lived). Keith had taught us to see the house as a grid, and now I walked it, foot by foot, downstairs then up, dusting, wiping, cleaning. Bathrooms were the worst; one loose fingerprint could mean everything. It took forty minutes, but I got it done, and as I pondered the next problem—namely, how to inconspicuously carry a large garbage bag filled with clothes to a meeting point three miles away
on a mountain bike—I heard a car in the driveway. Panic hit me like an uppercut. But there was nothing I could do; it was one of them, or it wasn't. I held my breath, then peered out the window.

Lindsay's blond hair was bobbing up toward the house. I exhaled. I'd never been so thrilled to see her, to see
anyone,
though I tried not to show it. I walked over and opened the door with a dishrag.

Don't touch anything, I said.

You finished? That was fast.

What's going on?

Funny you should ask, because that's exactly what
we're
wondering, she said. Some guy showed up at Shaw's two hours ago looking for you.

That's not possible.

Paige, I saw him. He came through Tyler's lane with a couple of bottles of wine and then asked him if he knew a girl named Paige Roderick.

He actually said my name?

Yes. And he had a picture.

What?

I couldn't get a good look at it without being obvious, but I think it was you. I mean, he said it was.

Fuck.

I know.

And Tyler?

He said he'd never seen you before. Which he hasn't. So there's that, at least.

What'd the guy look like?

Our age, maybe a few years older. A little scruffy, good jeans, cool shirt . . . definitely not a local. He was kind of put together. He had a
look
. . . like he could have been someone you know.

He can't be.

Are you sure?

Please.

Well, he seemed pretty determined. I waited till he'd walked out, then told the manager I was feeling sick. I texted Keith from Tyler's cellphone and caught up with the guy as he was getting into his car—it's a Subaru with New York plates, by the way. Paige, he was going
store to store, showing your picture to everyone he saw. He ended up at the Purple Moon. Keith's there now. We have to go meet him.

Are we coming back?

I don't know.

We took one last quick walk through the house, then carried the trash bag out to the car. For a moment we both stopped and looked at the garage.

What do you think? Lindsay asked.

I think we shouldn't worry about it. Keith always uses gloves when he's in there. Anyway, I don't have a key.

Really? Lindsay said. You should get one.

Lindsay backed out of the driveway and we started down the hill. Someone wielding my name and picture was sitting in a bar a few miles away. I rolled the window down and began searching for an explanation.

You should roll that back up, Lindsay said, just in case.

Seven silent minutes later, we turned into the Purple Moon's dusty parking lot and pulled up beside Keith's car. Lindsay kept the engine running. Keith must be inside, she said. Stay here, one of us will be right back. With that, she hopped out, walked across the lot, and disappeared through the front door of the bar. I climbed behind the wheel and stared at the neon window signs as my mind raced through dozens of faces, men I'd known, and boys; lovers and friends; coworkers from New York, from Washington; activists from Carolina. Could it be a stranger? But how was that possible?

A minute passed, maybe two, then the front door opened and Keith walked outside. He stretched his arms, rolled his neck around, and came strolling toward me. When he reached the car, I unlocked the passenger door and he climbed in. Without so much as a nod, he took out his cell phone, pushed a button, and handed it to me.

Know this guy? he asked.

The image was dark and unfocused. I couldn't make anything out.

Here, zoom in.

I did as he asked, and now a few figures emerged from the photographic gloom. Bodies on bar stools.

He's the one on the end, Keith said. I got him while he was watching the ball game.

This is the only picture?

Were you expecting a photo shoot?

Sorry.

I stared hard at the glowing image. Keith stared hard at me. He wanted answers. I'd always been good with faces, and when I spoke again, it was with certainty.

Keith, I said, I've never seen him before.

He looked at me a moment more, into one eye, then the other.

I figured as much, he said, because I don't think he's laid eyes on you either.

And you're sure he's not with the Feds or something?

I don't think so. He was drinking. And he didn't look the part. No beeper, no badge, no gun. The only thing he had on him was a Xeroxed photo. I tried to get a look when he showed the bartender but couldn't. She said she'd never seen you—assuming it
was
you.

Well, I've never been in there.

I know.

I handed the phone back. Keith snapped it closed and stuffed it in his pocket.

I'm really sorry about all this, I said. But I have no idea who—

Paige, come on. It could have been any one of us. And, besides, he doesn't know you actually
are
here, so we're okay for now. I told Lindsay to tail him in the other car to wherever he's staying. Lets the two of us get back to the house and figure this out.

So we're not splitting?

Not unless we have to.

Fine, I said, putting the car in reverse. I turned on the lights, pulled onto the road, and drove us back up the hill. Keith stared into the twilight.

Some way to live, he said.

It was a long night, and we spent most of it cross-legged on the carpet in the living room, revisiting our last few months. We wore socks and gloves, just in case. Keith was sure the guy was from New York—there
was the license plate, plus he'd been rooting for the Mets—so we went back through the two days we'd spent in Manhattan, hour by hour—people on the street, faces in passing cars—but came up empty.

When we finally took a break, Keith grabbed a flashlight and went outside. He said he'd be back soon, but I knew better. The garage had a hold on him. Barely a week had passed since the Indigo Action, and already he was hard at work on his next device. He said the middle of the night was the only time he could truly focus, but Lindsay and I worried he'd nod off surrounded by all those wires and timers and, well . . . Every few days, I woke up dazed from a dream that had just ended with a horrific bang.

Exhausted, I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. A ten-minute nap was all I had in mind, but more than two hours passed before Keith shook me awake.

Come on, it's almost four in the morning.

What's going on? I asked, sitting up quickly.

I've been assessing our situation.

And?

I need more time.

To cover our tracks?

To finish things. He nodded in the direction of the garage.

Oh, I said. I'd been trying to clear my head, and Keith's simple statement did it. He acted as if it were a model airplane he was assembling in there. Perhaps that was the only way to approach it.

Also, Keith continued, Lindsay called me. From a pay phone down the road from some place called the Mad Mountain Motel. She's staking out his cabin.