We Know (26 page)

I let out my breath in a hiss.

He dipped into the trash can by the door, found wrapped taco remains to his liking. "You really

think if they're watching, you tiptoeing in like Sylvester J. Pussycat's gonna keep you under the radar?" He moved on to the supply table, stuffing priority-mail envelopes inside his jacket, either for insulation or just because he could.

I headed back into the banks of P.O. boxes. Crouched in the weak glow of the energy-saving fluorescents, I held the two pieces of the key in my hand and stared at the stamped numbers: 228.

I'd assumed that the P.O. box was at the same location as the last one. The sequential numbers seemed to suggest that, but if the last four days had taught me anything, it was not to expect the obvious. I'd have only one play at this, and it would be hard enough without worrying about failing because I'd taken my shot at the wrong post office.

I sat on the floor, pinching the broken tip of the key between my thumb and forefinger. A skinny run of brass, all teeth, ending on a slant at the fracture. I nosed the end into the slot and guided it in a few ticks, but didn't let go, just as Raz had counseled. I held my breath. Readying the second piece in my other hand, I brought the broken edges together until they aligned. Then I firmed my grip on the fat head of the key, counted to three, and shoved. The key purred into the lock. I held it there a moment, gripping hard, praying it had aligned properly in the channel. Then, slowly, I twisted. Miraculously, the lock turned. Keeping the pressure steady, I tugged gently. The rectangular door opened an inch. I poked a finger through the gap and pulled it open, the top piece of the key falling from the lock, clattering on the tile.

The box appeared to be empty. I reached inside, found the manila envelope taped to the roof. Mack had given up a lot before he was killed, but not this. The envelope tore free. I ripped open one end, and a stiff sheet slid out into my hand.

An ultrasound.

I stared down at the flashlight-cone illumination, the messy grays and blacks, the alien blob of a fetus head. White letters stood out from the black top margin: J. Everett 10:07:28 a.m. December 12, 1990.

To the side, beneath some technical jargon and medical measurements, a note read, 18 wks, female. No hospital, no medical group, no Social Security number.

I dug in the rucksack and removed the torn page of numerals I'd pulled from the neighboring P.O. box two nights ago. Still I could make no sense of the digits. I peered inside the manila envelope I'd just retrieved, and, sure enough, it held a strip of paper. I tugged it out, and it aligned perfectly with the torn top edge of the larger sheet.

A lab report. At the top the mother's name was listed as Jane Everett, the father, Unidentified Male. And to the right, Baby Everett. Below the names were column headings for the grid of numerals--paternity indexes and specimen numbers and probe/locus figures. Bold print announced Mother's Alleles, Childs Alleles, Alleged Father s Alleles, and, finally, Percent Probability of Paternity. My eyes tracked down beneath that final heading to the one anomalous number: 99.999.

An arm around a campaign worker. A pregnancy. And an illegitimate child, fathered by Andrew Bilton, Mr. Family Values himself Was that really enough to lead to all that had been done? In an election year, with the presidency of the world's most powerful nation at stake? Certainly.

I fought the Polaroid of Bilton with the young woman out of my pocket. Hello, Jane Everett.

The baby would have been born just before Frank's murder. She'd be a high-school senior now. Seventeen years old, the same age I was then. And the same number of years I'd lived with the aftermath. We'd been in this together, somehow, from the beginning. Like me, she carried with her a burden. Even if she didn't know the fine points of her inheritance, she contained the concealed history in her DNA, held the weight of it in her bones.

I felt how Frank must have felt, as if a live grenade had been dumped in my lap. But burning beneath the surface of my thoughts was a new consideration. Baby Everett. I'd been old enough in 1991 to make my own choices, to walk out of that house and into the jaws of the consequences. She'd been a newborn. More than anything, I wanted her

to have a shot at a life different from the one I'd been dealt.

Bilton would be safer with her in the ground. And he'd have no shortage of friends willing to put her there.

Was she in hiding? Had Charlie been telling me, in his own cryptic way, that I had to save her? Was that the grave responsibility he'd entrusted me with?

I sat on the floor, gazing down at the ultrasound, waiting for the buzz in my head to subside. I thought of the buses pulling into that stop a half block away and all the places they could take me. I put the documents and the picture into the rucksack, stood, and walked past Homer. He paused, holding a wadded priority envelope in either hand, and watched me pass.

I walked out into the biting night breeze. To the right I could make out the bus-stop shelter, glass walls and soothing blue bench. I gazed at it for a moment, then turned left and found the pay phone. My hands were surprisingly steady as I dialed.

When Induma picked up, I told her what I'd found. She was silent for a long time, then asked, "What are you gonna do?"

"If they're coming after me this hard, you can bet they're trying to erase all evidence. I have to find that girl. Baby Everett. Before they do."

"Baby Everett," she repeated, as if trying out the

name.

"She may not even know she's in danger."

"How do you find someone if you don't know her name?"

"Start with her mom," I said. "Are you still willing to help me?"

"Of course," she said, "but we have minimal search criteria. I'm sure there are a lot of Jane Everetts out there in the right age range, and we don't even have it narrowed down to a city. With Charlie at least I knew we were looking at law enforcement in California."

"So what do I need?"

"Someone with powerful correlation and analytics software, a shit-ton of bandwidth, a data
-
mining engine, and warrant power over classified hospital records."

"Hospital records for the birth."

"Right. The birth and the maternity stay. You need someone with official clearances and serious hardware for that kind of rundown."

"You can't call in another favor at LAPD?"

"They froze me out. I guess the inquiries the assistant chief made on my behalf touched a nerve. He sealed me off--no threat there--but there's not going to be any more prying in the department. At least not on my behalf. And given your relationships with law enforcement, that doesn't leave you a lot of options. At least not a lot of options you'd want to risk."

The wind whipped my face. I said, "This isn't just about Frank anymore."

"No," she said, "I guess not."

When I went back inside, Homer was lying across the counter, trying to sleep. I didn't mind the quiet. For a half hour or so, I sat and breathed the silence. Finally headlights swept through the window. The Range Rover. It kept going.

Homer woke up and watched me with sleek, dark eyes. He followed me obediently outside, and we walked up several blocks, through a park, climbed over a fence. Induma was pulled over, waiting. The Range Rover's window whirred down, and Induma glanced over at me.

"This is Homer," I said.

"Hi, Homer."

Homer twirled one hand, queen mother style, and gave a half bow.

I said, "We're gonna need him."

Chapter
32

Induma dropped me two blocks away and waited with Homer in the Range Rover. Wearing the rucksack, I scaled the back fence of Callie's house and

crossed the patio.

I rapped on the rear door, and a moment later Steve tugged it open. The sight of him made my stomach clutch. The left side of his face was ballooned from where I'd hit him, a shiny saddle of red riding the yellow-black swell beneath.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Oh, great. Get your ass inside."

From the other room, Callie called out, "Is it him?"

Steve yanked me inside. He said, "Not a word in front of Em." He waited to walk behind me so he could keep me in sight. Callie and Emily were sitting at the table in front of their plates. My mom's had been polished with bread--an old Callie habit--but Emily's looked barely picked at. A tray of torn-up lasagna sat on a pig-shaped trivet I'd made my mom in high-school shop class.

Callie stood up, excited or agitated or probably both. "Nicky."

Emily said, "Great. Now can I be excused?"

Steve said, "Fine."

She slouched over to the refrigerator, cracked open a Pepsi, then glared at me. "What? You want one?"

"Sure, thanks."

She carried a can over and thumped it against my shoulder.

Steve said, "I've lived with you how many years? You've never once gotten me a soda."

Emily said, "You're not as helpless," and walked upstairs.

Callie said, "I told you she likes you. Sit down. Have you eaten?"

"Sure," Steve said. "Make yourself at home. We have a guest room upstairs, too, you want to move in for a few months."

Callie looked at him sharply, but I said, "No, he's right. I' ve brought you guys nothing but trouble."

"We're finally in agreement," Steve said.

Emily's door closed upstairs, hard. Callie's voice dropped. "You need to see something. It might be bad."

Steve: "Might be?"

They led me into the living room. The curtains were drawn. Steve fussed over four remote controls until Callie went and clicked two buttons. The TV blinked to life, and then, thanks to Tivo, she was fast-forwarding through commercials. She glanced toward the kitchen and frowned. "Em!"

A clunky black boot with an embossed skull protruded slightly from the doorjamb. And then, five or so feet above it, a scowling face. "Be grateful I'm too stupid to pick up on the fact that anything weird's going on."

"Upstairs, now" Steve said. "Go listen to Fall Down Boy or whatever."

"God, you are epically clueless."

The goth boots put out some worthy stomping on the stairwell. Callie said, "Three . . . two . . . one . . . ," and cringed. A moment later a door slammed so hard the floor vibrated. Then Callie thumbed the remote.

A local newscaster pointed his craggy face at us. "In West L.A. today, federal agents staged a raid on an apartment, identified as operating headquarters for the group responsible for the failed attack

on the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. One suspect was killed. A second escaped."

I took a halting step back and sat, hard, on the couch.

The TV now showed firefighters getting the apartment blaze under control. "The escaped suspect detonated stockpiled explosives before fleeing the raid. In a bizarre twist, preliminary forensics suggest that the terrorist whose body was recovered had been killed prior to the blast, and police are looking into the possibility that he was tortured and executed by his confederate." Back to the solemn newscaster. "Much of the evidence authorities were seeking was destroyed."

Callie turned off the TV. "No photo has been released. Of the escaped suspect."

Steve said, "Yet."

My hands had made fists in the fabric of my shirt. "There's more." I almost didn't recognize my voice.

"I'm sure," Steve said. He walked back toward the kitchen, and we followed. Callie eased down into her chair as if it were just another family dinner, but Steve and I stayed on our feet.

"Please. Hear me out. I need your help."

Steve let out a guffaw. "My help?"

"Just listen to me. And if you don't believe what I have to say, I'll leave and you'll never have to see me again." At this, Callie stiffened. "But if you do believe me, I sure as hell could use your help. Someone else could be at risk."

Steve stared at me until I got uncomfortable. I counted twenty ticks of the kitchen clock behind me, which is a long time to be stared at. Finally he glanced at Callie. She'd been watching us silently, not saying anything, which was so out of character that that was probably what got him. He pulled the chair partway out, sat with his arm resting on the table, and angled his head at the opposing chair. I sat.

I told them the story top to bottom, filling in details I'd skipped last time, giving them my version of the confrontation at Mack's apartment. I showed them the ultrasound and the lab report and the Polaroid of Bilton and the woman. When I finished, I said, "I need to locate the mother who had the DNA analysis done. Or at least find out anything I can about her. And her daughter. And I don't have anyone else who can do that for me."

Steve said, "You have to turn yourself in, Nick. It's the only way--"

"No," Callie said.

We both looked at her, surprised.

"If he goes in and this thing is real, this'll be the last time anyone sees him," Callie said. "Help him,

Steve. Please."

"And what if he did kill that guy? Plus the money--who knows where he got that? Sure, he's your son, but let's be honest: You haven't known