Hollow Man (14 page)

Tristan was gone, too, or extremely quiet, but because I didn't know which, and I didn't like the idea of him popping out of his room again like a sneaky jack-in-the-box, I tapped on his door to make sure. No answer.

I made a cup of tea in my undershorts and drank it while watching the news. The information looked to be the same, but the TV crews were all over the mobile-home park, talking to residents and taking angled shots of the crime scene, which was back to being a dirty patch of ground. Every time the shot was right, my eyes were drawn to the line of trees, and I was pleased to see a distinct lack of activity in that direction.

I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was hunting for my flip-flops when the doorbell rang. Almost nine on a Sunday morning, when good people were in church or at Starbucks, and bad people were recovering from a night of sex and murder. Not expecting guests. I checked the peephole and saw a twitchy Gus trying to look in on me.

I opened the door, and he just stood there for a moment. Then he started to cry.

“Gus, for fuck's sake, come in. What are you doing here?”

He looked around as he walked into the apartment. “Is it safe to talk?”

“Yes, Tristan's not here and I don't think he bugged the place.”

He wiped his nose with his sleeve, back in control. “Dom, what the hell did you do last night?”

“No idea what you're talking about. Do I look rough or something?”

“I'm serious. I saw the news. That's the mobile-home park where—”

“Gus. Shut your mouth.” I said it firmly but put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed to show him I still loved him. “Not just now, but always and forever. When you leave a party, sometimes you miss out on the juicy details. And when those juicy details can get people in trouble, asking questions just isn't polite.”

“Polite? What the fuck are you talking about? Look, I'm potentially in a whole—”

“No, you're not,” I interrupted. “You left the party. You didn't even know the party was happening. So be quiet for a moment and think about those who might actually be in a whole world of whatever you think might happen to you. You understand?”

“I just want to know—”

“Do you understand?” I looked him in the eye. “Go home. Be normal. And don't ask anyone any questions about anything. OK?”

He sagged, but the message seemed to have gotten through. “Fine.” A concerned look fell over his face and he looked at me. “But you're not hurt, you're OK, right?”

I smiled. “Peachy. Never been better.”

“Were there others? Helping you?”

“There are no others. Just like there are no questions.”

“Right, right. Sorry. I've not done this…Anyway, I should go. I gotta get going.”

I walked him to the door and shook his hand without another word, then growled in frustration when another figure came down the hall toward us. Otto. They nodded at each other as Gus scurried away. I let Otto in.

“Short memory you've got,” I said.

“Huh?” He stood there, breathing hard and looking angry. I didn't care that he was mad, but the whistling coming from his nose irritated me.

“That whole discussion about not seeing each other for a couple of days. Ring any bells?”

“Who was that?”

“My friend Gus, remember that name? He popped by, we had a chat, he'll keep his mouth shut, just like I said.”

“You're still sure about that?”

“Actually, I'm double-crossing you, Otto. I've given him the coordinates so he can retrieve the hidden treasure and then we're eloping to the Bahamas together.”

“Why is everything a joke to you? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of shit we're in?”

“We're not in any shit, Otto. But if people keep coming to my door and acting mad, and sad, and pitching their hissy fits every fucking minute then, yes, I'm guessing someone will cotton that all isn't as it should be. So how about you go home, shut the fuck up, and I'll see you in two days? How about we do that?” This was my controlled anger, the one that tended to scare people the most. I could turn it on when I wanted to, but this had flared up all by itself. A genuine emotion from me, quite the rarity, but the strongest instinct in my body has always been the one for self-preservation, and I truly didn't like this procession of empaths bringing their insecurities and paranoias to my door.

“Who died and put you in charge?” He sounded hurt more than angry now, so I dialed it back a little.

“Two people, but I'm not in charge. Although, this was my plan and I seem to be the only one thinking straight, and calmly, right now, which means I might be the best placed to figure out what we should do next.”

“I don't like leaving the money out there.”

“Neither do I. But I didn't feel like it was safe to bring it here, not after everything went sideways. And it sure as hell isn't safe to go back out there for it right now.”

“What if someone takes it? Or reports it?”

“If they take it, then we're no poorer than we were this time yesterday. It's not our money, remember.”

“It fucking should be after what we did,” he said. “Did you wipe everything down? If someone finds those bags and reports them to the cops, they can collect DNA or prints or something.”

“Won't happen.”

“Why not?”

“Otto, come on. You saw that shit-hole of a place. Fine, tell me I'm racist and classist, but do you really think anyone, anyone at all, from that trailer park who finds tens of thousands of dollars in cash will say to themselves, ‘Gee, I should probably turn all this lovely money over to the authorities,' or do you think it's more likely they'll say, ‘Hallelujah, now I can get the fuck out of this dump and go rent an actual apartment'?”

He chewed his lower lip and eyed me. “Probably right about that.”

“We both know I'm right. Plus, I was wearing gloves and didn't take the time to run my tongue all over those bags. There's no DNA, no prints to be found. On that score, at least, we're in the clear.”

Otto nodded, then looked down the hallway toward Tristan's room. “Where's he?”

“No clue.”

“You don't think he went back there, do you?”

“He's not stupid, Otto. And there's no need for anyone to get impatient or greedy. We waited weeks to do this—we can sit tight for a couple more days.”

He sighed and his whole body seemed to relax. “I'm sorry,” he said. “For busting in here all antsy.”

“Forget it.”

“I'm sorry for shooting the guy, too.”

“Don't be, he drew first. No way of knowing what he was about to do.”

“No, I don't mean that. I mean…I'm sorry he's dead. I've never shot anyone and I don't feel good about it. At all.”

“Me too. I feel horrible that those men lost their lives. We didn't go there intending to do that, Otto. You can't beat yourself up like that.”

He cocked his head and looked at me. “I don't get you.”

“No harm in that.”

“No, I mean it. I couldn't sleep last night because I killed a man. Not a very nice man, sure, but I took his life. He's someone's son, maybe a husband and father, and they'll never see him again. And you know what else I thought? Maybe everyone in that trailer park will lose their homes because of this. Maybe, thanks to us shooting Silva and that guard, a whole bunch of families, kids, will be living on the streets.”

“I don't see how—”

“And you're not particularly bothered by any of it. Also, the guy I killed, he was one of us. Law enforcement.”

“Otto, a polyester suit and a plastic badge don't make you—”

“That's what I mean,” he interrupted. “It's all laughs and jokes to you. And you're a fucking suit-wearing lawyer; it's not like you're a combat veteran or some shit like that.”

“You're a shrink now?”

“No, man, it just creeps me out, the way nothing seems to bother you.”

“It's just how I deal with it all. A different way than you do, that's all.”

He unwrapped a stick of gum. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“And I should probably thank you for saving my life,” I said.

“Now you're working me.”

“No, I'm serious. The guy had a perfect right to shoot me, and as far as I'm concerned, he was just about to. In fact, you may not realize this but you actually have a decent defense if…you know.”

“How do you figure that?” He folded the gum into his mouth and chewed slowly.

“You can argue that you were out there working when you saw
this going down. You recognized me but had no clue why I was there, but you saw some guy with a gun about to shoot me. Your law-enforcement instincts kicked in and you shot him first.”

“And how do I explain disappearing from the scene? Not calling the cops or even giving a statement.”

I shrugged. “Easy. You realized what we were doing and how it looked. You panicked. Shit, Otto, it's a better defense than I've got, that's for damn sure.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is. Thanks for the idea.”

“Hey, like I said, you saved my life. The least I could do.”

He left five minutes later, mollified if not happy. I sat in the living room, perched on the arm of the sofa with my guitar. I wrapped my left hand around its neck and pressed my fingertips onto the strings, not seeking any chord in particular but just for the feel of it, that cold, familiar bite of thin metal, soft and serrated, still yet ready to hum like a human vein and give me that wonderful throb beneath my skin. With my right hand I caressed the guitar's body, enjoying its smooth curves and the hollow sound when my thumb tapped the wood. I closed my eyes and saw Ambrosio Silva's face, empty and cooling in the dust, his eyes half closed, just marbles. As I sat there and thought about what we'd done, I didn't feel the panic that had bitten Otto and Gus. And I didn't feel like hiding myself away, if that was what Tristan was doing.

No, all I felt was a sense of calm and a slight tingle of excitement at the thought of what might come next.

We didn't get back there until Friday night. The murders had caused more problems at the trailer park than we could have imagined, mostly stemming from a slow response from police. The same lethargy that helped us escape free and clear was stopping us from going back because the locals were furious. And when the
Austin Statesman
started interviewing people, the paper uncovered a pattern of slow responses. To make amends, APD and the Travis County Sheriff's Office kept a couple of men out there that week, which screwed with our plans because it meant the management company didn't need Otto. We took turns driving out to the park, but every night those police cars were sitting in the dirt near the woods or roaming the trailer park, looking for trouble. Nothing those cops would have loved more than to nab some suspicious characters to show they cared, after all.

I hadn't seen Otto all week, but I imagined him raving with impatience at his place, the same way Tristan was acting bipolar at ours. The cops had interviewed Otto, of course, but he'd played dumb, said he left the property at the end of his shift, like we'd discussed. He told me they believed him, and why wouldn't they?

When we weren't at work or driving past the mobile-home park, Tristan and I mostly kept to our rooms, neither of us wanting to say something we might regret as a result of this pressure. The good thing was, no cops came knocking that week. I kept reminding myself of that.

But by Friday we couldn't stand it. The previous night, only one cop had been at the trailer park and we figured the scale-back was permanent. We piled into Otto's piece-of-shit car and drove east, eyes peeled for a police presence that might undo us. As we pulled to a stop, we didn't see any cops at all. Maybe one was driving through the park, but there was no one right there, which meant we could park and head into the woods. I was glad we'd taken his car, of course, as it fit right in, with an almost zero percent chance of being stolen while we weren't looking. Even out there, where people were dirt poor, Otto's most expensive possession looked pathetic, the envy of no one.

We stood outside the car in that blind spot, three silent watchmen. We heard nothing, saw no one. The day's heat lingered, but a slight breeze ruffled the coarse grass at our feet. Otto was sweating already. On my signal, we crossed the open patch of ground in the pitch black, not wanting to draw attention by using lights. When we got to the tree line, I looked at my watch. Ten o'clock. We looked back toward the homes, rows of low boxes that were little more than black silhouettes. Each one had a little squares of light glowing in the dark, but I couldn't see inside any of them. A man's voice floated over to us and a dog started barking. We pulled out our flashlights, and Tristan led the procession into the woods. Just inside the tree line, he tripped on a fallen branch and cursed.

“You weren't in the military, were you?” Otto whispered from the back of the line.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Tristan replied.

“You're shining your flashlight too far ahead of you. In this terrain you need to point it just in front of your feet, so you can see the ground you're walking on.”

“Thanks, General Otto. Any other words of wisdom?”

Otto grunted a response and we moved on again, my flashlight flicking over the trees as I searched for my markers. I'd wondered whether the cops might find the tape, but once I saw the first
strip I stopped worrying. In the few days since I'd attached them, they'd been chewed up by the sun and the bugs, and now resembled peeling, off-white strips of bark. They were barely noticeable, and not even slightly suspicious.

Our lights flickered up and down as we walked, as concerned about prying eyes as hazards lying across the path. I tried to listen for outsiders, but our shuffling feet and the cacophony of insects made that impossible. I just hoped it also made it hard for people to hear us. About twenty yards in, we froze at the crack of wood to our right, all three beams of light snapping toward the sound. Two deer stood either side of a sapling, their eyes like reflective pennies in the darkness. Otto stooped and picked up a stick. He took aim and threw it toward the deer, who skittered backward, then disappeared from view.

“What was that about?” Tristan asked, sounding annoyed.

“Stupid deer. About gave me a heart attack.”

“More money for us, then,” I said, but no one laughed. I turned serious. “U-shaped tree, should be just up ahead.”

Tristan kept going and we followed close behind, and it seemed like the excitement in my chest powered up with every step we took. I was staring at Tristan's heels, trying not to step on them, when he stopped.

“That's it,” he said. “Right?”

“You sure?” Otto asked.

“Dude, look at it. See any other U-shaped trees out here?”

“No, dickhead, mostly because it's dark.”

“Chaps, please, can you keep it down? Better yet, zip it so we can concentrate on finding the bags and get out of here.” I moved forward past the tree, my flashlight sweeping the ground. I was looking for the edge of the ditch, and spotted it quickly. I trained the light where I thought I'd hid the bags.

“Fuck,” I said.

“What does that mean?” Otto growled.

“Looks like it's been disturbed.” I walked to where the ground dipped and stepped down beside the litter of branches and leaves. “Animals, let's hope.”

“Shit, I knew we should have come back yesterday,” Tristan said.

“Just shine your light over here, will you?” I put the handle of mine in my mouth and used both hands to start pushing aside the branches. Behind me, Otto and Tristan shifted on their feet and tried to ignore the sounds of the woods to keep my little patch of leaves and twigs lit.

“A bag,” Otto said, as I pulled one of the camouflage duffels out.

I shook the debris off it and let it dangle from my hand. “It's too light.”

“It looks full, though,” Tristan said.

“Just fucking open it,” Otto snapped.

I put it on the ground and knelt beside it. A leaf had stuck itself in the zipper and I cleared it out. We all held our breath as I drew the zipper down. I opened the bag and looked in, knowing Otto and Tristan couldn't see.

“Empty?” Tristan whispered.

“Full,” I said. “Of newspaper.”

Otto stepped forward. “Newspaper? What the…”

I let them lean in, their lights poking into the bag as they stared. Otto sank to his knees and started scooping, balls of newspaper flying over his left shoulder as he emptied the bag. To our left, Tristan kicked the leaves and broken branches, his flashlight dancing over the forest floor like a manic searchlight.

“Here's the other bag.” He sat on the edge of the ditch and put his flashlight in his mouth. With both hands, he pulled the second bag onto his lap, unzipped it, and opened it wide. The flashlight dropped. “Fuck. Fuck. Newspaper.”

“Jesus.
Both
of them,” Otto said.

“Is the camera in there?” I asked. “Our guns?”

Tristan turned the bag on its side and shook more crumpled
newspaper out. My eyes strained in the dark as they fell to the ground, some wadded up tight, others hardly scrunched at all. Like snowflakes, each one a different shape, all unique. And all utterly worthless.

Tristan let the bag fall to his side and looked at us. “No camera, no guns.”

“Oh, Dom, you fucked this up bad,” said Tristan. “I mean, two people are dead. We killed two people and not only is the money gone, but the guns are, too.”

“Shit,” I said. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry guys, I was thinking on my feet. If someone finds those guns…the serial numbers will show who they belong to.”

“Can you report them stolen?” Tristan asked.

“Not now,” I said. “It'd be too suspicious, especially if we both did it. No reason to draw attention to ourselves.”

“Then what the hell do we do?” Otto asked. His flashlight shone into my eyes and I blocked the beam with my arm.

“Get that off me.” Anger flashed through me, but I calmed myself as the light fell away. “We stay cool, we stay together, and we think about this. Grab those bags and let's get out of here.”

“Wait,” Otto said. “Let's just search the area, make sure.”

“No. There are cops out there,” I said.

They ignored me and started looking, so I joined in. We spent five minutes kicking through the dead leaves and twigs, flashing our lights at anything and everything that looked like money or a gun. Dust started to swirl around our ankles like smoke, each of us muttering with frustration and desperation as we widened the circle. Eventually the sound of a siren froze us in place, brought us back to the reality of our situation.

“Guys, we should go,” Otto said.

“That can't be for us,” Tristan whispered. “It can't be.”

“It's not,” I said. “But Otto's right. Everything's gone, and we'd have a hard time explaining why we're standing in the woods holding empty bags. Fifty yards from a double-murder scene.”

Tristan and Otto each carried a bag, clutching them close to their bodies as we exited the woods as if self-conscious, embarrassed by the duffels' drooping and useless emptiness. Climbing into the backseat, Tristan threw down his bag and slammed the door a little too hard.

“Take it fuckin' easy,” Otto snapped.

“Guys, let's stay calm.”

“Which is real easy to do,” Tristan said. “We killed two people for nothing and now someone has our money and the fucking guns that put you at the crime scene.”

“Us and not you,” Otto said, “so zip it.”

Tristan did. We all did. The only sound for several miles was Otto grinding through the gears as he took us out of the dark and into East Austin. The sense of unreality remained as the city sprang up around us, the part of town once known for hookers and blow now a hub for those who didn't loosen their ties until six, at the earliest. I looked out of the window at the brightly colored food trailers that sat cheerily on once-scrubby patches of land, at the new bars and restaurants that were too cool, and too busy, to take reservations. Two of them, I noticed, had white-shirted valets running back and forth from nearby lots, where shiny cars took refuge in the dust of the torn-down crack houses that had sat there only months before, firetraps targeted by cops and junkies to justify their existence, both replaced by valet parkers flitting about like moths in search of their flame.

As we got close to Otto's place, where we'd left my car, I spoke. “I do have one idea. It's a long shot, but since we're not overwhelmed with options, I say it's worth trying.”