44
Billy jerked awake, sat up in bed. He blinked at the darkness. “Hello, Frank.”
“Hey, Billy.”
Billy wore silk pajamas, red or black—Thorpe couldn’t tell which— and he thought of Missy Riddenhauer in her silk robe the morning after the party, making snake sounds as she moved.
“You don’t snore, Billy, not a bit, but you were talking to somebody in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?”
Billy forced himself to breathe.
“The things you were saying, the sound of your voice . . . was somebody chasing you?”
Billy’s face was illuminated by the numerals of the digital clock beside his bed: 4:41. The bedroom was on the thirty-eighth floor, the penthouse. Billy had chosen the site for its isolation from the world below, but now it made him feel vulnerable. He smoothed the covers around his hips. “I don’t know how you found me, but I’m glad to see you.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d believe you.”
“Be nice. I’ve sent you several e-mails. What’s it been . . . a couple weeks since the Engineer and his bodyguard were pulled out of the water? I looked at Warren when the news came on, told him that no matter what the police determined, it was no accident. Congratulations, Frank. You must feel very gratified.”
“I know it was you, Billy.”
Billy traced the embroidered monogram on the pocket of his pajama top, reading it like braille in the darkness. The room smelled faintly of his cologne, some exotic blend he had personally prepared for him in Paris. “It all comes down to body chemistry, Frank,” he had said when Thorpe had asked about it the first time.
“A couple days ago, I had lunch with Nell Cooper, Meachum’s former assistant at the gallery,” said Thorpe. “She
is
working at the Guggenheim, just like she wanted . . . but it’s in the gift shop. She says it’s just temporary, and I believe her.”
“I’ve never met the woman, but I trust your judgment.”
“Nell didn’t feed the information about the fake Mayan art to Betty B.
You
did that, Billy.”
“I saw an opportunity.” Billy yawned. “I’d used Betty B in the past to float stories. The old shrew was very reliable. I had no idea she was going to get herself killed.”
“No, I think you knew just what you were doing. I didn’t know who Clark and Missy were when I flashed my fake ID, but you did. I have to give you credit: You did your research. It was just a wake-up, Billy. You made it something bigger. Something worse.”
Billy hesitated, put off by the self-control in Thorpe’s voice. He functioned best when the other party was off balance, angry or upset, but a soft voice was reason to worry. “Your wake-up was small and petty, no challenge at all for a man of your gifts.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t your wake-up. It was mine.”
“Well, Frank, you could hardly expect me to put you back to work without first finding out if you were ready for the task. I had to put you through your paces. After what happened at the safe house . . . well, better men than you have lost their edge. I had to be certain.”
“I was never going to work for you. I told you that at the bowling alley.”
“People like us, Frank . . . we can’t change who we are. We couldn’t stop even if we wanted to.”
“You should have believed me.”
Billy reached toward the lamp on his nightstand.
“Leave the light off. I can see you just fine.”
Billy complied, pulled the covers up, fuming.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Warren stood in the doorway. Thorpe had heard him approaching down the hallway, trying to be quiet. “The hallway light’s not working.”
“Go away, Warren,” said Billy. “We’re quite all right.”
“I heard voices. . . . I got worried about you.”
“Warren . . . thank you for your concern, but I’m in no danger.”
“That’s not your decision,” said Thorpe. “You
should
go back to bed, Warren.”
“Frank? Is that you?” Warren peered into the darkness. “What are you doing here?” He took a step into the bedroom, stepped back out. “How did you get in? I got a gun.”
“Go back to your room, Warren,” said Thorpe. “Go back to your room, close the door, and put the gun back in the Tibetan nightstand.”
“Say thank you to the nice man and leave, Warren,” said Billy.
“Now.”
Warren hovered in the doorway, then gave up and walked quickly away.
“Are you
enjoying
yourself, Frank?”
“Not yet,” said Thorpe.
“You should
thank
me for slipping Betty B the information.” Billy was uneasy now, his pajamas rustling. “This pathetic crusade of yours, just to gain an apology to an injured child . . . it was beneath you. I upped the stakes. You should be grateful. I
saved
you.”
“You didn’t save Betty B. You didn’t save Ray Bishop. They’re dead.” Thorpe still hadn’t raised his voice.
“I don’t even know who Ray Bishop is.”
“Your loss, Billy.”
A car horn blared in the distance, the sound mournful, echoing off the other buildings around them. Billy stirred in his bed. Thorpe seemed closer now. “Don’t expect me to feel guilty. Some people pull the strings; the rest of the world have their strings pulled. You and I, Frank, we’re the lucky ones. It didn’t used to bother you.”
“It bothers me now.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“We’re not saving the world anymore,” Thorpe said gently. “We’re not keeping nukes from terrorists, or separating racists from their bank accounts. We’re just showing off.”
Billy shivered, and he thought for a moment that Thorpe had opened a window, which was impossible, because the windows in the bedroom were sealed. “This is all quite irrelevant. You’re
back;
that’s all that matters. I rescued you from your doldrums and self-doubts. Perhaps it’s asking too much for you to be grateful, but—”
“I can always tell when you’re scared, Billy—you use the word
quite,
trying to maintain your reserve. You told Warren we were ‘quite all right.’ Now you tell me it’s ‘all quite irrelevant.’ ”
“Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I’ll have to watch that in the future.”
“Did you tell the Engineer where I lived?”
“Why would I help the Engineer? Granted, I was curious to see how the contest between the two of you played out, but if he needed my help to find you . . . well, what
value
would he be then?” Billy flinched. It felt like Thorpe was right beside him, sitting on the bed. “Sink or swim, that’s the only choice any of us have.”
“Oh, it’s a little more complicated than that.” Thorpe’s voice seemed to come from a distant point in the room.
“What made you go looking for Nell Cooper? What made you suspect she wasn’t the one who called Betty B?”
“Afraid you might have slipped up, Billy? Worried about any other of your loose ends?”
“My interest is purely academic. So . . . what was it?”
“You changed your brand of toothpaste. A special toothpaste for sensitive teeth. Your gums are receding and you
never
told me.”
Billy glanced toward his bathroom before he could stop himself.
“Nearly a full tube. I hope you don’t feel like you have to throw it away now.”
Billy didn’t move a muscle. “No need for that.”
“I’ll see you around.”
“What does that mean? Frank?” Billy flipped on the light beside his bed, but he was alone. Quite alone.
EPILOGUE
Claire spotted him sitting in the back of the amphitheater about ten minutes before the end of her Intro to Psychology class and temporarily lost her place. She had been teaching this course for three years, could probably recite the syllabus from memory, but she stumbled over a description of Jung’s collective unconscious. Maybe there was hope for Thorpe.
The last ten minutes, Claire was on autopilot, looking over, around, and through him. Then she passed out a study guide and dismissed the class. She rearranged her papers on the lectern as the hundred or so students closed their notebooks, chairs scraping as they filed out.
Thorpe got up, started toward her in the now-empty auditorium, nervous. He had rehearsed this moment for the last month, knowing that he was going to see her again, certain of it, but now he was standing there before her, and he didn’t know what to say. “Claire . . . I know what you must be thinking—”
She slapped him across the face. “What was I thinking?”
He could feel her fingerprints on his cheek.
“You could have said good-bye,” said Claire, still fuming. “I didn’t even know you had moved out until a Salvation Army van started loading up your furniture.”
“I didn’t want to say good-bye. I just wanted to get away.”
Her eyes were hot. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I was wrong. I’ve been wrong about almost everything lately. . . .”
“But showing up today is right? Now you’ve come to your senses?”
Thorpe nodded.
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
Thorpe started to smile, but her expression changed his mind. “I just want you to give me a chance. Give
us
a chance.”
“Now there’s an us?”
Thorpe took her hand, but she pulled away. “I’m sorry.”
“Great, that changes everything.”
“At least let me thank you,” said Thorpe. “You ran into a man the day I disappeared. He showed you a photo of me, and you pretended not to know who I was. That was a brave thing to do.”
“It wasn’t brave. I
don’t
know who you are.”
“Don’t play games.”
“Me?”
Thorpe heard Claire’s laugh and realized how much he had missed the clean sound of it, the way it drew him in. He laughed along with her, laughed at himself and all the rules he set for himself, all the things he felt compelled to keep track of, and none of them were working anymore.
“Who are you, Frank? This is your big chance to tell me. I know you’re not an insurance salesman. I know you’re generous with your booze and miserly with the truth. I know you like rescuing damsels in distress—”
“I’m a guy who wants to stop what he’s been doing. A guy who wants to change and doesn’t know if he can.” Thorpe took her hand again, and this time she let him. “I missed you. There hasn’t been a day since I left . . .” He shook his head. “That night we sat on the steps, you told me that we couldn’t wait for the perfect moment. That sometimes we just have to reach out for what’s in front of us. I’m here, Claire. I’m
here.
”
Claire watched him, still on guard. He didn’t blame her. “What happened to that horrible man who was looking for you? He acted like a bumbling accountant, but he had the eyes of a rapist. I called you as soon as I drove off. I remember being almost embarrassed that he had scared me, but I called you anyway.”
“I never got the message. I had switched phones.”
“What
happened
to him, Frank?”
Thorpe shook his head. “Don’t worry, he won’t be back.”
Claire’s eyes were large and fearless. “You took care of him, did you? That’s the kind of person you are?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
“It wasn’t that easy, Claire.”
“No . . . I don’t imagine it was. It’s over now, though?”
“It’s over.”
“Good. I don’t know what he did, but I’m glad he won’t be back.”
Thorpe put his arms around her, kissed her, and their bodies fit together easily, his hands resting against the small of her back as he buried his face in her hair. They stood there in the empty classroom, slow-dancing in the silence.
She turned her head. “What’s your name?” she said softly. “Your
real
name.”
He hesitated.
She waited, her face sad now. He wished she were angry; he could deal with that. She pushed him away, shoved papers into her briefcase, and headed up the steps, her pale green skirt swirling around her knees like a rising tide.
He watched her leave, and it was as if he was underwater again, back in the front seat of the Buick, the Engineer adrift beside him, dead fingers waving. Thorpe could see the lights on the dock shimmering above him as he tore at the headrest, the lights getting dimmer as he ran out of air, then dimmer still, his chest feeling like it was about to burst. “Thorpe,” he croaked out as Claire reached the door. “My real name is Frank Thorpe.”
She turned, looked back at him. “That’s a good name.”
He took the steps two at a time.
Robert Ferrigno
THE WAKE–UP
Robert Ferrigno is the author of seven previous novels, including
Scavenger Hunt
,
Flinch
, and the bestselling
The Horse Latitudes
. He lives with his family in the Pacific Northwest. His Web site is
www.robertferrigno.com
.
ALSO BY ROBERT FERRIGNO
The Horse Latitudes
The Cheshire Moon
Dead Man’s Dance
Dead Silent
Heartbreaker
Flinch
Scavenger Hunt
FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, AUGUST 2005
Copyright © 2004 by Robert Ferrigno
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Pantheon edition as follows:
Ferrigno, Robert.
The wake-up / Robert Ferrigno
p. cm.
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 2. Forgery of antiquities—Fiction. 3. Los Angeles
(Calif.)—Fiction. 4. Drug traffic—Fiction. 5. Revenge—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3556.E7259W’.54—dc22 2003070765
eISBN: 978-0-307-42955-1
v3.0