The Anonymous Source (15 page)

AT SFO
THEY BOUGHT
carry-on bags, toiletries, and a few clothing items, then took a booth at a seafood restaurant so Camila could eat clam chowder from a sourdough bowl. Alex ordered two grilled swordfish steaks and a side of steamed vegetables.

She laughed at him when the waitress left. “What is that, like a hundred grams of protein and four-hundred calories?”

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we need to do something besides trying to track down Sonia Hollinger. She’s a long shot at best.”

“What about your source?”

Alex pulled out the folder James had given him, scanned the names, then threw it on the table. “I’ll try some things after we eat.”

While they waited for the food, Alex checked his voice mail. He had four new messages.

The first message was Baxton, and Alex immediately recognized his irritated tone. “Alex,” he said, “it’s Tuesday at three. Why haven’t you gotten me Santiago copy? I’ve talked to the folks upstairs and they are considering sending the video to the police, but they want to meet with you, so get your TV-model ass in here.”

The second message was from James Stacy. “Something’s going on h-here. The Colonel has been on the phone all d-day. Some suit came and asked me about helping you with whatever that file was. I played dumb. I mean, I am dumb in this case.” James was breathing heavily and whispering. “I didn’t tell them I gave your friend a copy of the v-video. They didn’t ask but I didn’t volunteer it. And Lance is looking for you, too.” James told Alex to call him at home and left his number.

Alex looked at Camila. “They want to meet with me.”

She laughed. “To find out how much you know? Or to kill you?”

“Thanks,” Alex said.

The third message was from Greta Mori. “Hey Alex,” she said in a perky voice. “Just wanted to say hi and see what you’re up to this weekend. We had talked about getting together again, maybe meeting at Dive Bar on Friday. I think your friend Lance wanted to flirt with me some more. Anyway, bye.”

Alex looked at Camila but turned away before meeting her eyes.

The fourth message, left just half an hour earlier, was Baxton again. “Alex, I don’t know what in the hell you’re up to, but this is entirely unacceptable. I’ll assume you’re half dead with the flu or something. But I will only assume this until tomorrow morning at nine.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

The waitress brought the food and Alex looked down at the fish.

“Looks dry, doesn’t it?” Camila said, ripping off a piece of sourdough and dunking it in the soup. Alex poked at the fish with his fork, then ate a few vegetables.

When she finished her soup, Camila called the secretary of the journalism department and canceled her classes for the rest of the week. “It’s the flu,” she said, sounding weak. “It’s going around.”

“You’re a good liar,” Alex said when she hung up. “A true sociopath. You can lie without remorse.”

Camila smiled at him. “I think a sociopath doesn’t know she’s lying. I
am
without morals, but I only use my powers for good.”

As the waitress cleared their plates, Camila ordered a chocolate milkshake and Alex called Bearon, his friend at the courthouse. He explained why he hadn’t been in court that day, then told him about the strange calls and Downton’s video. It took him a few minutes to convince his friend that he was serious. Finally, Bearon said, “I guess it’s not a huge surprise that they got a brown kid for something he didn’t do. We’re used to that, but I didn’t see
this
coming.”

“No one did, but I need to ask you a question. Can you think of any police employee who might have inside information on the Santiago trial?”

“Lots,” Bearon said, “but none who would make the kind of calls you’re getting.”

“What about a disgruntled prosecutor who wants to stick it to the police? Anyone who could benefit from exposing a shoddy investigation?”

“I can think of a lot of people who’d want to embarrass the department,” Bearon said, “but nobody would go about it that way. Have you considered the possibility that your source is crazy?”

“I’m assuming he is, but he’s also been right so far.” He pulled out James’s list and read the names one by one. Bearon didn’t recognize all of them, but he was able to eliminate three officers who had transferred out of the borough and wouldn’t have access to the Santiago file. Alex crossed off their names.

“Plus, the last two,” Bearon said. “Waxman and Yardley. I know them well enough to know they wouldn’t leak that type of information. Sorry I can’t be more help. What are you gonna do?”

“Better if I don’t say. And Bearon, thanks.”

Alex hung up and stared at Camila’s milkshake. “That just leaves about seventy more names,” he said, dialing Lance Brickman.

“Lance, it’s Alex.”

“You stupid bastard,” Lance said. “You bailed, huh?”

“How’d you know?”

“I know because the Colonel is running some bullshit I wrote on the front page of the Metro section instead of the piece you were supposed to write on Santiago. We’re gonna have to use the AP report.”

“Damn,” Alex said. “That’s embarrassing. But it’s not like I’m not justified. And at least it worked out well for one of us. You got the front page of Metro. That’ll make it harder for them to fire you before you hit your thirty.”

“No. It won’t. Where the hell are you, anyway?”

“I better not say, but look, I need to tell you something, then ask you something.” Alex told Lance about the last two calls he had received from the source. “It’s weird, right? I mean, if you’re gonna use a voice scrambler and hide yourself, why not just tell me what happened so I can write it?”

Alex heard the click of a lighter and a loud puff. “Look,” Lance said, “I don’t know what you’re into, but I don’t want any part of it.”

“Can you just tell me why the hell a source might do that? I mean, I would just ignore him if he didn’t keep being right.”

“Didn’t you read
All the President’s Men
in J-School?”

“I saw the movie. But so what?”

“Sources can be paranoid bastards.”

When he hung up, Alex started making calls from the top of the list while Camila ate her milkshake with a spoon.

First, he called Betty Ableton, a records clerk, and pretended to be a pollster taking a survey of New York City residents. He asked her a series of questions about the Santiago trial and finished with, “Do you believe that Eric Santiago is guilty?” He thought that if he’d found his source, there would at least be a pause, a catch in her voice. Something. She said “Yes” without hesitation.

Next, he tried Timothy Alston, a detective, and got the same answer. The next name was Byron Deerborn, an officer in the evidence unit. The call went to voice mail and Alex hung up. After a dozen calls, he leaned back in the booth and looked at Camila. “This is pointless. Even if I happen to reach the right person, what good will it do?”

“It’ll be better when we get to Hawaii. Sonia Hollinger will know something.”

ALEX RUBBED
HIS PALMS
over his eyes, then stared out the window as the flight to Kona took off. The sun was beginning to set over the brown hills of San Francisco, bathing the dry grass in a soft, warm light. He turned to Camila. “We haven’t slept yet.”

“I was just thinking the same thing. We must be approaching zombiehood.”

Alex looked at the man next to him, hoping he had shrunk during the layover. His headphones were on and he was looking out the window.

“You ever read the bible?” Alex asked.

“I was raised Catholic for a few years. Then I studied it on my own when I grew up.”

“‘He who hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’ It’s John 12:25. Any idea what it means?”

“You left off the first part.”

“I know. It’s ‘He who loveth his life shall lose it; and he who hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’ What’s it mean?”

“Why?”

“Well, the source who keeps calling me quoted the second half of that passage the first time he called.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Camila said, sitting up in her seat.

“Didn’t seem important.”

“I’m no biblical scholar, but I think it means that, in Christianity, you are supposed to love Christ more than you love yourself, more than you love your own life. You’re supposed to see beyond this life in order to gain eternal life in heaven.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I read online.”

“‘In the world but not of it.’ Ever heard that phrase? It’s Sufi.”

“What’s Sufi?” Alex asked.

“It’s the mystical, contemplative branch of Islam. Kinda like Kabbalah is to Judaism. ‘In the world but not of it’ means kinda the same thing. Participating in this world, in this life, without being limited by it. It means seeing beyond the self-imposed mental limitations that we project onto the world. Recognizing that there is another world—a
realer
world—beyond the everyday life of this one.”

“Self-imposed? I thought it was all the fault of ‘The Media.’”

“Screw you, I never said that. But seriously, did you see
The Matrix
? ‘There is no spoon.’ It’s like that.”

“But what’s wrong with everyday life?”

“It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with everyday life. It’s about seeing through the false.” She paused. “Anyway, I could be way off. It could also be about suicide. If you ‘hateth life,’ you might kill yourself and be doomed to live that life for eternity in hell. It could also mean that.”

Alex shrugged. “Yeah, I read that, too. I had just asked him why he was telling me about Santiago being innocent when he said it. Or she said it. That help at all?”

“Seems to me this person wants to do the right thing because he or she has an eye on the eternal.”

Alex shook his head and looked out the window. “So we’re looking for someone who believes in heaven and doesn’t think he’s getting in.”

“Or she’s getting in.”

* * *

When the plane leveled off at 33,000 feet, Alex closed his eyes. His legs and feet were folded into a Z-shape and wedged under his seat. His head rested uncomfortably on top of the cushion and sleep came in fifteen-minute fragments. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or thinking. First he saw Downton walking from room to room in his mother’s apartment, talking about basketball. Next he saw him lying on the floor of his Brooklyn apartment, the man from the sketch standing over him. The plane hit a patch of turbulence. Alex’s head dropped forward and bounced off the seat in front of him. He opened his eyes and felt a tenderness in his chest. He closed them again and saw Downton with his grandson, Tyree. Then he saw a grainy image of Santiago standing in the park, the dark trees waving behind him. His pockmarked face, smiling into the night, became disconnected from his body and hung in Alex’s head. In the minutes before he awoke, his mind jumped back and forth between Santiago and Tyree, accompanied by a vague feeling of shame. He needed to do something.

When he opened his eyes, he turned to find Camila staring at him as she popped peanuts into her mouth. “What were you dreaming about?” she asked.

“Santiago. Downton. Tyree.” He was groggy. Her eyes were tender and he thought she had probably been watching him for a while. He sat up a little. “Why did Santiago just stand there, for two and a half minutes, watching him die? And then it looked like he smiled. Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared back at her and the image of Santiago left him. His head felt relaxed, soft, and the softness expanded down his neck and met the tenderness in his chest. He thought that he would relax away into nothing. He tensed his shoulders and sat up straight. “When did your parents move to the States?” he asked.

“I just realized, you don’t know what it’s like being a foreigner, do you?”

“I don’t know. What’s that supposed to mean?”

She crunched a peanut. “You feel safe all the time and you make people comfortable. You’re so sure of yourself that people can make you into whatever they need you to be.”

He frowned until he realized she wasn’t mocking him. “Well, in college I traveled all over and felt at home everywhere I went.”

“You’re like America.”

“I get that,” he said. “That’s funny.”

“You didn’t laugh. Where are your parents from, anyway?”

“Upstate New York. They met in high school. Dad lived in New York his whole life before the move. Mom went to college somewhere else, but they never really talked about it. I think they wanted me to believe in the whole high-school-sweethearts thing.”

“Or maybe
they
wanted to believe in the whole high-school-sweethearts thing.”

“Maybe.”

“In Iowa, we were considered foreign even though we were whitish. We looked different enough for people to ask where we were from, and most people thought Argentina was part of Mexico.”

Alex laughed and rubbed his eyes. “But you weren’t really raised Catholic?”

“It’s basically a Catholic country, but we weren’t raised anything. My parents gave up religion soon after I was born.”

“So why do you meditate?” Alex asked.

“It’s a concentration practice.”

“But why?”

“So I can pay closer attention to what’s going on inside me.”

“But there’s a lot more going on outside you. Why not pay attention to that?”

“It depends on what kind of action you’re looking for. There’s a lot going on inside, too. We just don’t pay much attention to it.”

“Some people have good reasons not to.”

“That’s true, but it’s funny to hear you say that because, of all people, you seem to have the least amount of pain to avoid.”

Alex looked down at his lap. “You mean besides my parents dying?”

“Yes, besides that. Sorry.”

The elbow of the man next to him was digging into Alex’s side so he scooted toward Camila. He looked back up and she smiled, then fished around in the bag for the last of the peanuts. As he watched her chew, he felt drawn in, and he wondered whether he was falling in love with her. Then, in an instant, he felt the floor drop out from beneath him and thought he would fall forever. He remembered the call he received when his parents died, and how he’d felt when he’d received it. Blank. Out of control. Terrified.

He felt the man’s head drop onto his shoulder and he pushed it away, still staring at Camila. “Can I tell you something—I mean, ask you something?”

She threw a peanut at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t need the preliminaries and throat clearing with me. Just ask.”

“It’s just . . . well . . . I mean . . . ” He swallowed hard. “In the taxi yesterday you said you felt like you were standing on water but not sinking. I’m not sure how to ask this, but . . . what’s going on with you?”

The flight attendant came by to collect trash and Camila asked for another bag of peanuts. When the flight attendant left, Camila said, “I’ve dated mostly older men. John wasn’t the first. Men who are not only not
of
the world, but not really
in
it, either. I have the same tendency. My whole life, I’ve only barely been here. My mind is here, sure, but the rest of me? Not so much.”

The flight attendant came back with two bags of peanuts. “Plain
and
honey roasted,” she said. She handed them to Camila and turned abruptly.

“Was she mocking me?” Camila asked.

“Well, your peanut consumption may put the whole airline in the red this quarter. But seriously, I get the thing about older men, but what’s going on with you
now
?”

Camila passed the bags of nuts between her hands. They crinkled rhythmically and the man next to Alex squirmed. Alex put his hand over hers to stop the noise.

She looked up at him. “Have you ever felt bad in a way that‘s beyond everyday guilt, beyond moral judgment, beyond the little voice in your head that tells you what to do? Like something is wrong that can never be fixed?”

He wished he had, so he could feel what she felt, but his guilt was simpler than that. “I haven’t.”

She traced the words on the peanut package with her pinky finger. “Well, it’s like that,” she said. “And all I can do is feel it.”

“But why? I mean, what do you feel bad about?”

“It started after John died. I dumped him and three weeks later he was dead. And it’s my dad, too. He’s dying, and I think I’m heartbroken, but all I can think about are the times he hit me. When he hit me, I walled off parts of myself for safekeeping. Other parts of me went dormant. Since John died, it’s like everything I buried is slowly resurfacing. At the core, I don’t feel bad
about
anything. I think sometimes the ‘abouts’ are just stories we tell ourselves to avoid feelings that are fundamentally unbearable.”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes I think I’m holding all the suffering of my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. Like the accumulated sadness of our whole family lineage—the hard times, the abuse, even the everyday disappointments—are appearing in me, and I have to process what they couldn’t. To feel what they couldn’t feel. ”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure there’s a why.”

They sat in silence.

Alex ran his hands through his hair. Finally, he said, “You know how you say everything is easy for me? Well, you’re kinda right about that. But sometimes, as a teenager, I would wish something terrible would happen. Like my plane would crash, or my parents would die. I didn’t really want to die, or want them to die, but I wished for some tragedy, some huge event. Like I wanted to be shaken awake or something. Then my parents did die and that didn’t do it. It did the opposite.”

“Will you tell me how they died? It might help.”

“Car crash. They visited New York for my NYU graduation and died on their way home from the airport. They hadn’t been back to the city since I was six months old. They took one trip—to see
me
—and they died.”

Camila nodded but said nothing.

“I was sad. I mean, I’m still sad. I feel bad that I even had that thought about them dying. And on 9/11, I remember thinking, ‘Maybe this is it. Maybe this will be the thing.’ It wasn’t. 9/11 was a lot of things, but it didn’t wake me from the fog either. I remember having drinks in the Village with some friends a couple weeks later. I was looking around the bar, thinking, ‘Everything is the same.’ There we were, a mile from Ground Zero, and everything was the
fucking
same. And not just with me, but with everyone. We were the same bunch of assholes we were before the attacks.”

Camila opened the bag of honey-roasted peanuts and put one in his mouth. He chewed as she took his hand. “Maybe
this
is it,” she said. “Maybe this will be the thing.”

He squeezed her hand and, a few minutes later, fell into a deep sleep.