He hefted the package. “This is Bolt.”
Rojas didn’t say anything. He turned and walked back to the garage and after a moment Vance followed.
Rojas went to the back of the Jeep and swung out the rack for the spare tire and opened the door. Vance set the package in the rear and the suspension dropped with the weight. He crouched slightly to shunt the plastic shape forward and stepped back and slammed the door.
“Where you gonna take him?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere.” He swung the tire rack home.
Vance didn’t answer.
Rojas opened the driver’s door and pushed the button on the visor to raise the garage door. They waited without talking as it rumbled open. When the motor cut he said, “I’m taking your gun.”
“What, the Anaconda? You can’t.”
Rojas drew it from his belt and held it at his side, cocked it with a noise like breaking a wishbone. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after it.”
“You don’t have a shovel.”
Rojas didn’t answer. He got into the truck and let down the hammer on the pistol and set it on the seat beside him. The cabin smelled like money. He started the motor and flicked on the lights and backed out toward the road.
Marshall
Heading back north, he turned off Highway 84 at St. Michael’s Drive, three miles south of town, and pulled in at a motel on the left. It was a newish-looking place, two-story, tan plaster with a steep gable roof in orange tile. The sort of color scheme that reminded you this was Santa Fe.
There were a handful of cars in the lot, and he parked up beside another Silverado. The phone was in three pieces on the seat beside him: handset, battery, and SIM. An antitracking precaution, necessary now both sides of the law were after him, but he reassembled the device and turned it on. It was slow to wake up, almost a minute before it let him access the settings and disable the GPS. They could still triangulate him off cell tower pings, but it was far less accurate than going by the phone’s onboard chip, which he knew would broadcast his position every few seconds, good to within about ten feet.
Not that he had a penchant for mischief, but part of him almost hoped he was being tracked. Maybe they’d see a dot sitting there on the map and peg him as a motel guest. Or perhaps they’d see it all in context with the highway right beside him and figure he was a southbound runner. There’d be some arguing about what was planned, guys speculating about misdirection.
He left the phone balanced on his knee while it decided if he had messages. He counted off a minute. Nothing. He picked up the phone and dialed his voice mail service for the WITSEC address, the number Cohen normally got him on.
Three messages, standard where-are-you inquiries:
Bill Masters from sheriff’s CIB. Delete.
Someone Martinez from Albuquerque PD. Delete.
Lucas Cohen from the marshal’s service.
Marshall clicked off and started shutting down the phone, had second thoughts and took his finger off the button.
He clucked his tongue and sat a while, just weighing up what was sensible. Then he called the message service again and the machine recited Cohen’s number, halting and stilted. Marshall dialed. Cohen made him wait a while, but he got there.
Marshall said, “Did you find your Nazi golf caddy?”
“Yeah, we got our boy. Didn’t come as quietly this time. Found out I’m a Cohen, so he kicked up quite a fuss. Some kind of fascist thing.”
Marshall waited.
Cohen said, “I see you got yourself in some alarmin’-looking events tonight.”
“You could call it that, I guess.”
“I’m glad I didn’t find that tenant of yours all chock-f of bullets.”
“Felix is long gone.”
Cohen said, “I reckon it might be best if you come in. Have a talk about things.”
“You’re not tracking my phone, are you?”
“No, I most certainly am not. I don’t have those sorts of facilities in my kitchen.”
“Well that’s good.”
Cohen said, “You have any idea where Troy Rojas might be?”
“No.”
“What about Cyrus Bolt?”
“Same again.”
“You know if he’s still breathin’?”
“That’s a slightly different kettle of fish.”
Cohen said, “Right.” Drawing it out a bit, like he heard the unspoken bits, too. He said, “I think we at least need to sit down with one another. If you’re not going to come in.”
“You’ve got a trustworthy-looking face, you’re not going to set me up, are you?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that.”
Quiet for a spell. Marshall pictured him pacing slowly, watching his feet, figuring how to put things in the best light.
Cohen said, “I just think there’s elements to this that only you yourself are privy to, and I think it would be prudent to have someone of more official standing know what all the pieces are.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Cohen said, “Put it like this: I met you enough times I reckon your heart’s probably in the right place, so I got no issue with you. Even if your grasp of the law might be kinda tenuous.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Cohen gave it one more go: “Look. I’ve been hearing about all manner of craziness and I’d like to find the truth in it, if there is any. Needless to say I look kindly on the prospect of you not getting hurt, too. Other than that I don’t know what else to say.”
Marshall said, “Can I get you on this number?”
“You can. You going to meet me?”
“You going to tell anyone?”
“No, I won’t. Bring me a stack of Bibles, and I’ll swear to it.”
Marshall said, “Good to talk to you, Lucas. Keep your phone on.”
He clicked off.
* * *
He drove up Pacheco Street to his apartment. Peaceful in these early hours, lonely cars at crawl speed on distant cross streets.
He’d been using the Pacheco place eight months now. He always sublet for cash, rented out the WITSEC house at a steeper rate. It was good to turn a profit. He had a few addresses on rotation, dotted round Santa Fe. So far eight months was his longest tenure.
The building was a two-story, the requisite tan adobe, parking around back. He flicked his lights off as he turned in, and drove the Silverado behind the building. He eased into the narrow garage and set the brake and shut off the engine. In the dark with the exhaust ticking, out of sight from the world, it almost felt like safety.
He left the shotgun on the rear bench and got out with the Colt in his belt under his shirt and the phone in three pieces in his pocket. A hollow boom as he lowered the door, but there was no one in sight. He kept odd hours and never saw his neighbors. It made it feel like New York, feel more like home.
The apartment was warm with stale air. He set the locks on the front door and opened a street-facing window to the catch. The curtains stayed drawn, lights off. He took the gun from his belt and laid it on the table and sat down. A slight tremor in his fingertips, feather-light on the cool laminate, so weak maybe it was just the table. Like a far-off train approaching. Shivers in the earth as it neared, that shake along the rails.
He had very few possessions. The bed and the document safe and the items it protected. The square Formica table and two chairs. A couch and armchair in the living room. The shelves with his books: Franzen and Richard Ford, stories of a way of life he’d witnessed, but never lived. Above them his music collection: Wilco, Ryan Adams, Cat Power, Tracy Chapman, among others. Come evening he’d listen through headphones with one ear to the melody and the other to the dark. Sometimes things came back to him, but not always. On good nights there was nothing else on his mind.
So what are you going to do?
Cohen had asked about Rojas and Bolt.
Maybe Cohen could help him find Rojas. Or maybe he should have just killed him this evening.
The curve of the trigger on his finger. No slack. Rojas a half-squeeze from dead. Maybe in another universe he’d followed through.
He took the pieces of phone from his pocket and set them on the table, neatly spaced and square to one another. Ascending size order left to right.
Who else had the number?
He guessed just Cohen, and probably no one else.
Probably.
He could just put it all together quickly, check his messages, break it down again. Too fast to be tracked, surely.
He clicked the SIM home, working mainly by touch, some weak streetlight between the curtains. He attached the battery, a dull gleam on the terminal revealing the alignment. He powered the thing on and set it carefully faceup in front of him. He and the room tinged palely by the glow. Sitting slightly hunched with his arms resting either side of the phone, it looked like grace before a meal. A different kind of prayer, maybe.
Find me some bad, bad people.
The phone buzzed. One missed call, one message. He dialed voice mail. It had come in only thirty minutes ago. He listened to the menu options, and then Troy Rojas’s voice came on, two words only: “Call me.”
Marshall sat a moment, phone in hand, running through the risks. He looked at the screen. Rojas must have swapped phones: no more blocked number warning. Marshall dialed.
Four rings, and then Rojas said, “Bit rude, sent me straight to voice mail.”
Marshall said, “My phone was off. Got to leave a message, otherwise I’ll never know. Be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Marshall said, “I saw you this evening.”
He took his time answering. Heavy static in the lull, like maybe he was driving. Rojas said, “Yeah. I thought maybe you had.”
“How’s Mr. Bolt?”
“He’s with me right now, actually.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
“In a better place, I think.”
Marshall said, “I certainly hope not.”
“I’d be respectful of death, I were you.”
“It’s not respectful of living.”
Rojas didn’t answer.
Marshall said, “I’ve found you twice, now. I’d say I can go three without too much bother.”
Rojas laughed. “I was calling because I wanted to save you the trouble of looking. I’m headed out of town for a while. But I’ll see you again one day. I promise.”
Marshall said, “Will it be the something sharper, or are we back to coffee?”
“Oh. I think you’ll get the picture.”
“Sure. So what’s brought this on?”
“Better luck. Things have just suddenly turned my way, and I’ve taken them. Which, you know, is nice when it happens.”
Marshall said, “I’ll save you some luck as well, but I won’t tell you what it is till I see you. Maybe try and guess beforehand.”
“I think maybe I can. Look, I shouldn’t string you along, I’m planning on killing you, there’s no two ways about it. That lady cop, too.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
Rojas said, “Might take some time, but that’s how good things work. Just don’t forget me while I’m gone. You and the lady are at the top of my to-do list.”
Marshall didn’t answer. Sitting there quietly with the phone, and the only motion in the darkened room a tiny swaying of the curtain lit white along its edges.
Rojas said, “I’ll tell you about that girl though, just as you’re crossing over. Our little secret as you’re on the way out. Some comfort to line your grave.”
That girl.
Marshall heard the blood in his ears, counted to five to let it ease off, ensure things played out cool and measured. He said, “I was planning something along those lines, too. But I had you doing the dying.”
“You killed Bolt.”
“I’ll kill you as well. Just give it some time.”
Rojas said, “I’ll see you again, Marshall. One day. Don’t bother sleeping. Plenty coming your way.”
2010
Only a day since the Vicki B. fiasco and Asaro threw a party, celebration for a real estate deal closed earlier in the week. Marshall attended, ostensibly as security. He didn’t think he was needed. They were in the cocktail lounge of the Standard Hotel on Washington Street in the Meatpacking District. Eighteenth floor, full-height windows looking west across the Hudson and downtown to the Financial District. Marshall guessed it was a five-figure tab.
Asaro sleek in charcoal with a faint pinstripe, and the same shoes he’d worn when he stabbed Vicki B. Shirt cuff sitting just above a TAG Heuer watch Marshall hadn’t seen before. Had to hand it to the man, he had style: moving guest-to-guest with a measured clockwork, smiles and quiet laughter for his anecdotes.
Lloyd was there, dressed like the old man, and Asaro’s daughter, Chloe, whom Marshall had only met a couple times. The rest were earnest corporate types grouped in threes and fours, nodding and studying the floor as they listened.
Cool décor in Marshall’s opinion: gold carpet, honey-colored bar, tan leather and timber for the furniture. He ordered another drink, took a stool while he waited. Someone touched his elbow. He turned.
“Hey.”
Chloe said, “Hey. What are you having?”
“Dark and stormy.”
She signaled the barkeep, tilted her head at Marshall. “Same for me. Extra ginger.”
She took a stool next to him, side-on to the bar so she could look at him in profile. He thought she was twenty, twenty-one. Petite figure in a blue cocktail dress, long dark hair with just a hint of a wave. She was drawing some glances, more than a couple of stares.
She said, “Should’ve come earlier. Great sunset from up here.”
The barkeep slid a napkin in front of him, centered his drink on it. Marshall set the glass to one side and removed the straw and folded it loosely in the napkin. He said, “The night lights aren’t bad, either.”
Her own drink arrived. She mimicked his routine with the straw and took a sip. She said, “Is this what they call moonlighting?”
He laughed. “I’m just having a drink.”
“Yeah, but my father’s paying.”
He took a sip, held it, swallowed. It was his third cocktail: repartee took some thinking. “Nothing to say I can’t accept free drinks on my own time.”
She smiled. Red lipstick, a slim curve of white teeth. “I think it’s all the rest that goes with it that’s the issue.”
Marshall didn’t answer.
She said, “You’re NYPD, right?”