The Last Goodbye (39 page)

“And?”

Nightmare held out a printed page. “Dude works for Horizn. His name isn't Ron Evans, either. It's Raymond Chudzinski.”

“Nightmare, you're a genius. What time is it?”

“I know I am. Maybe, like, six-thirty or something.”

“Has Robinson seen this?”

“Not yet. He's in his office.”

“Let's go get him.” I took two steps toward Robinson and pulled up short. I felt ice in my blood. “Michael, I never mentioned Ron Evans's name to you.”

“Huh? Yeah, you told me.”

“I didn't, Michael.”

“Well, I guess Robinson did.”

“I didn't tell him the name, either.” I put my hand around Nightmare's throat and pushed him up against the wall. Nightmare squirmed under my grip like a spider, all arms and legs. “You sold us out, you piece of shit. There's only one way in hell for you to know who Ron Evans is, and that is for you to have helped Ralston get Doug's body.” Disgusted, I released him. He fell back against the wall, limp. “I've already talked to Doug's cousin. She faxed paperwork to an Atlanta number. That number turned out to be a movie theater in Fulton County.”

“What about it?”

“You're a phone phreak, Michael. You reroute phones. That's your deal. You
told
me.”

Nightmare started trembling. He backed away, trying to put some distance between us. “That's bullshit,” he said, and it was so obvious he was lying that he dropped it. He looked up at me with a terrified grimace. “They came to my apartment. They were serious, okay? Like guns kind of serious.”

“Who did? Tell me, you piece of shit.”

“We didn't exactly trade business cards,” Nightmare said, bitterly. “They said they tracked me when we were on Grayton. But they let me on, to find out who I was.”

I described the men who had bound me into a closet, and Nightmare confirmed they were the same. “Look,” he said, “these guys have their thing wired, you know? I'm talking serious technology. They tracked me on
Grayton
, dude. We never stood a chance.”

“They paid you, you little vermin. That was what mattered.”

Nightmare looked at me, his bravado broken down. “Okay, I'm not a superhero like you. Yeah, I took the money. But it wasn't about that.” He looked up, his eyes watering. “I was scared, okay? I never wanted to get into a thing like this. This Nightmare stuff is all bullshit, you know? Mess with people's heads a little. Free long-distance. Break into a site and post some stuff, talk shit in some chat rooms. And I meet you, and all of a sudden I'm doing industrial espionage and eight people are dead and
shit
, man. Those guys were going to break my neck. They looked like they'd had a lot of practice.” And then, to my absolute horror, he actually did start to cry. Having played the role of Nightmare for God knows how long, he revealed himself to be nothing more than Michael Harrod, scared kid. I knew from personal experience the men he had met were no picnic. For somebody like Michael, they would be terrifying, an irresistible force. I reached down and grabbed his shoulder, but he shook off my hand, burning with humiliation and guilt.

“So why do this?” I asked, holding out the paper. “They're not going to be happy if they find out you helped us.”

“All you guys think you know me,” Nightmare said, sniffling. “Ralston or whoever those freaks were, even you, with your father-figure speeches. But I got principles of my own.” He pointed to the picture. “I did that for Killah,” he said, anger creeping into his voice. “He was one of the community. A little messed up, that's all.”

“They didn't need you to pull this off, Michael. They can handle this level of technology themselves.”

“Yeah.”

“They wanted to get you involved, because they knew you were working with me.” I stared. “They paid you to keep an eye on us, didn't they? So that you would keep us from finding out any more.”

Nightmare looked down. “Yeah.”

“So does this mean you sold us out or not? Do they know we were inside their site?”

Nightmare wiped away his tears. “Everybody's always pushed me around, you know? Everybody in school, whatever. As long as I went, anyway. So I went underground. Nobody pushes me around in that world. And I got to thinking about Killah, and how these guys wasted him. Killah was just like me, you know? He didn't fit into polite society. So I thought maybe instead of being a jerk, I could get these guys for him. That would be something, you know? To actually get these guys.”

I watched him teeter between his brilliant, alienated adolescence and something like adulthood. It was like seeing a foal try to stand on its spindly legs. But if he was telling the truth—a serious question, but that was all I had—he had finally done something decent in his life. It was a start. “Let's go,” I said.

Nightmare wiped his red eyes. “Where to?”

“To get Robinson.”

“So what are you gonna do to me?”

“You were in over your head. I know the guys you're talking about, and they were too much for you. And since I can't wait any longer to find out if you're a liar or not, I'm choosing to believe you. So move it.”

Nightmare stood, trying to compose himself. He limped behind me, still blinking back tears. We walked into Robinson's office, who took a look at Michael and stood up, concerned. “What happened?”

I held out the picture. “Michael came through,” I said. “We've got the guy. Raymond Chudzinski. We find him, and we find the body.”

A voice behind me muttered something unintelligible. “What's that?” I said, spinning around.

“I know where they took Killah,” Nightmare said quietly.

I stared. “Where?”

“Funeral home in Walnut Grove. He's being cremated under a different name. Something like Harrison, I think.”

“You knew? Damn it, Michael, why didn't you tell us?”

“I might have been scared, but I didn't turn into an idiot. I was waiting to see if I could pull off the hack. If they're going down, I'm a free man.”

I looked at my watch. It was 6:45. “They'll be closed. But it's a bad idea to wait. For all we know, they actually dispose of the bodies after hours. I say we drive.”

“Are you guys nuts?” Nightmare asked. “The guy's been dead for days. He'd be decomposed.”

“He could have been dead a year and it wouldn't change his DNA,” Robinson said. “But pulling genetic information out of necrotic flesh is no picnic. If we can get blood it'll go faster.”

Nightmare winced. “Shit, dude.”

“Shut up, Michael,” I said.

“If Townsend was kept refrigerated, I don't care how long it's been,” Robinson said. “Anyway, I only need a minute quantity.”

“And if he hasn't been refrigerated?” I asked.

Robinson paused. “We'd have about twelve hours, I'd say. Not that the DNA would degrade. It's just that the blood would become so coagulated it would be almost impossible to get out.”

“There's nothing we can do now,” I said. “We know the body was refrigerated until it was picked up. If the body hasn't been cremated, we can get what we need. If it has”—I turned to Robinson—“they walk, right?”

“This is our last chance, Jack. If there's no body, they walk.”

“It'll take nearly an hour to get out there. Let's roll.”

THE FUNERAL HOME
was located several miles east of town, deep in the exurbs that flow outward from Atlanta like a many-armed Shiva. Nightmare rode in back, Robinson shotgun. We rolled out I-20 to highway 138, turned northeast and began the trek to highway 81. The rising moon was a thin sliver, and in its dim, silver light we watched deeply wooded hills begin to flatten out, and the terrain turn more rural. About ten miles past the county line, I saw the place. It was twenty minutes past eight.

I pulled into the lot, which had only one car, a black, older model Mercedes sedan. “Stay here, Michael,” I said. “This shouldn't take too long.” I turned to Robinson. “You ready?”

Robinson fingered a syringe kit, then slid it into his breast pocket. “Yeah.”

We left the car and walked to the front door of the funeral home. There were no lights on, and it looked deserted. I tried the door, and it was locked. I tried the buzzer; nothing. I tried again. After a while, there was a rustle, and the door opened. A small man of Mediterranean extraction appeared, dressed in street clothes. “We're closed,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“I'm hoping we're not too late,” I said.

“Too late?”

“This is . . .”
Here goes nothing.
“Mr. Harrison,” I finished, mumbling the name a little. “He was held up in Charlotte. He insisted I drive him out here for a moment with his dear brother.”

“Mr. Harrison,” the man repeated, looking confused.

“Brought in yesterday,” I said. “For cremation.”

“Harriman,” the man said, brightening. “For a moment, I thought you said Harrison. My hearing's not the best.”

“That's right,” I said. “Mr. Harriman.”

“Well, like I say, we're not open. But you've driven all the way out here. I'm not going to send you away, under the circumstances. Come on in.”

The man stood away from the door; Robinson and I entered the funeral home. We walked down a long, dingy hallway decorated in cheap, generic melancholy. The lighting was subdued, the carpet worn, and the walls covered in a crimson wallpaper. “Gene D'Anofrio,” the man said, shaking hands. He gave Robinson a sympathetic look. “So sorry about your brother. I didn't receive any details.”

Robinson was smart enough to nod somberly and keep his mouth shut. “Mr. Harriman's just hoping to have a moment alone to pay his respects,” I said. “They were very close.”

“Of course.”

We turned a corner, and D'Anofrio led us toward a large double door. “I was worried we might have been too late,” I said.

“No, your brother is right here,” D'Anofrio answered. “Plenty of time.”

D'Anofrio opened the door, and we followed him into a small, paneled room. There were a handful of plush, upright chairs upholstered in dark red. “Well, if you two gentlemen will hold on a moment, I'll bring Mr. Harriman on in.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We appreciate it.” D'Anofrio disappeared through a side door. Once we were alone, I said, “Is he just going to wheel him in here on a gurney?”

“I don't care if he carries him on his back, I just need two minutes alone with him. Can you keep D'Anofrio busy?”

“No problem.” We sat silently for several minutes, until the quiet was broken by a recording of organ music coming through mounted speakers. “God,” Robinson said, “he's pouring it on.”

“He's just being decent,” I said. “And in a couple of minutes, you're going to redeem all this madness with a few cc's of Townsend's blood.”

Robinson nodded. We stayed still until the door opened again. There was no gurney. There was no body. D'Anofrio entered carrying a small, bronze-colored urn, which he placed on a felt-covered stand. He nodded somberly, backed out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

Robinson and I sat alone, staring at what contained the charred, microbiotically clean dust that had been Doug Townsend. His priceless DNA, once hidden in the proteins of his cell structure, was now obliterated. “Fuck,” Robinson said. “With no disrespect to the dead, but fuck.” He stood, repeated his sentiments, and walked out of the room.

With Robinson gone, I sat alone in a dimly lit room with Doug Townsend, college friend with the big heart and the out-of-bounds love for an opera singer. I had not protected him in life, and I had not avenged his death. And I had to answer for my own weakness toward Michele, the middle spoke of the entire wheel. She had opened me up in a way that I had feared would never happen again. And then used me for her own tortured purposes.

I walked to the bronze urn, put my hands on it, and bowed my head. “God, in Whom I do not believe, I present exhibit A, proof that there is no clarity in this world. There is only mess, and more mess. The evil flourish. The good—who, I freely admit, are pretty screwed up themselves—die young. You do not intervene in these atrocities, and therefore, You are null and void. Wherever You are and whatever You are doing, it would not appear to be anywhere near the city of Atlanta, Georgia.”

I turned and walked out the door. Robinson and Nightmare were waiting. It was going to be a long drive home.

No one spoke for at least twenty minutes. The miles slipped past silently, a dead pall on the three of us. Around ten we hit the city's unremitting traffic—ever churning, no matter the hour—turning the trip into fits and starts of progress. “God, I hate this town,” Robinson said, breaking the silence. “I'm thinking I'll move. Maybe out west.”

Nobody answered, which seemed about right. Fifteen minutes later, I looked over at Robinson. Something had happened; he was sweating like a dog. “You okay?” I asked. Robinson glanced over at me, then back at the road. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. “Seriously,” I said, “you don't look too good. You want me to pull over or something?”

“We didn't get them,” he said. “They got away.”

“It's all right,” I said. “They have no reason to bother any of us, now.”

“We have to get them, Jack.”

“We can't. You got to let it go, now. They played better than we did, and it's over.”

Robinson nodded an assent, but he continued to unravel right before my eyes. Disturbingly, he started the same grating conversation with himself he had when I'd been telling him about my meeting with Ralston. Nightmare leaned forward from the backseat and got a look at Robinson. “What's up with him?” he asked. “He's going bat-shit.”