Tell No Lies (42 page)

He breathed in the moist reek.

He thought about Dooley and SWAT, across town in Sunnydale. Theresa had probably dispatched patrolmen to this location, but they’d have to find the basement apartment, the hole in the shower, the tunnels beneath. There wouldn’t be time for that.

He concentrated, the fallen ceiling joist above his head coming into focus. If only he could grip it and lift himself free. He tried to raise his left arm, but the pain shut down the muscle, left it dead, a raw slab of meat. His right hand shook as he forced it up. His fingertips barely brushed the wood. No way.

His arm fell away.

He lay defeated.

Cris’s whimpers reached him again, and his right hand moved before he ordered it to. Working the buckle of his belt, then yanking the leather strip. He did his best to keep the rest of his torso frozen as he hoisted his hips and tugged the belt free, but the sensation was blinding.

Sweating, grunting, sobbing, he flipped the buckle over the angled joist above him, gripping both ends of the looped belt in the fist of his right hand. Before he could give it any thought, he yanked, hoisting his torso up off the ground. Every muscle, straining, ignited. A roar scoured the inside of his throat. The white static returned, blotting out all sight, all sound, all sensation.

When it cleared, he was sitting up, blood draining down his side and back, matting his T-shirt. He rolled to his knees, then rose.

Picking up the box cutter where it had fallen, he stepped up into the tunnel and headed for his wife.

Chapter 71

There was no time for surprise or strategy. Daniel staggered around the bend in the tunnel and saw Angelberto up ahead in another cleared roomlike hollow, this one more intact. Knife in hand, he was crouched over Cristina. His broad, hunched back blocked her head and torso from view, but her white legs, bound at the ankles, bucked and bucked against the recently poured concrete floor. To the side he’d arranged a cluster of mine-shaft lights and a digital camera, which looked tiny perched atop a heavy-duty tripod, the setup present no doubt to record proof of death for the payment he still believed would come. The knife moved down and out of sight toward Cris’s head.

“No!”
Daniel said.

Angelberto rose and spun. Cristina’s face flashed into sight behind his boots. A slit beneath one eye drained blood, mixing with her tears, but her face looked otherwise unmarred. She stared at Daniel, sobbing, unable to speak.

Wielding the box cutter, Daniel lumbered toward Angelberto, who stared back, expressionless. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. As Daniel neared, the janitor squared to face him. His gloved hand snapped once, repositioning his grip on the knife, the blade angled down, parallel with his forearm, razor edge out.

Firming his grip on the box cutter, Daniel stepped into the cleared space, the concrete suddenly firm underfoot. His shoulder throbbed, fire running down the nerve lines, rendering his left arm useless. Burgundy drops pattered onto the floor, the tops of his shoes. A dizzy spell washed over him; he had only a few minutes before the blood loss would leave him powerless.

Last time he’d made the mistake of watching the weapon, so now he watched Angelberto’s eyes, his body.

The men circled each other warily.

Shuffle step. Feint. Shuffle step. Feint.

As in a wrestling ring.

Daniel kept his focus on the larger man’s legs, reading the pattern of movement. Left knee bent in a partial crouch. Quick push off the foot, weight shifting to the right leg, body rising slightly, then coiling to the point of decision.

Daniel remembered from his countless hours on the mat that the knee broadcast intent. When that right knee started to rise again, it signaled another shuffle. If it stayed bent and started forward, it signaled an attack.

He ignored the knife, watched the knee.

Shuffle step. Feint.

Cris corkscrewed to watch even as wisps of hair fell across her eyes and stuck to her cheek. Her sobs had turned hoarse.

“Don’t worry,” Daniel told her. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Shuffle step. Feint.

Angelberto said, “How do you know?”

Shuffle step.

The right knee paused, coiled. Made the faintest swivel toward Daniel, preparing to drive. Then Daniel did something counterintuitive. He stepped into the charge.

The movement caught Angelberto off guard even as he lunged. Keeping his weight low, Daniel sprang back, pivoting on his left foot, a bullfighter fanning his cape. His momentum carrying him forward, Angelberto swung forcefully, the knife arcing past Daniel’s cheek, inches from flesh. Driving off his rear foot, Daniel flicked the box cutter at Angelberto’s throat, the big man twisting to dodge the blade.

They stood facing each other again, the same distance apart as they’d begun.

“Because,” Daniel said, “you’re already dead.”

Angelberto’s head bobbed, and a fine crimson spray misted from his throat. He gasped, his hand rising to clamp over the slit in his windpipe. The lock-blade knife fell, clanging against the concrete. Choking, he dropped to his knees. Then collapsed on his side.

Light-headed, Daniel stepped forward. With the tip of his shoe, he nudged Angelberto’s hand away from his throat. A sheet of blood spilled from the exposed box-cutter slash. Growing weaker, Angelberto reached again to cover the cut, and Daniel toed his hand away again, then stepped on his palm. Angelberto stared up at him, beads of perspiration sparkling in his pencil-thin mustache and beard. His other hand flopped over and cupped the top of Daniel’s shoe.

And then slid off.

Daniel staggered to Cris and fell onto his hip beside her. He didn’t have the strength to cut her wrists and ankles free, but he pulled her head into his lap and she curled into him, fetal and sobbing. Tears of blood dripped from the slit beneath her eye. He tried to cover it with his thumb to stem the bleeding, the crying, but then he realized: He couldn’t.

He fought unconsciousness, holding her as best he could.

It seemed a very long time until they heard shouts approaching up the tunnel.

Chapter 72

Daniel waited nervously in the exam-room chair. He turned his head too quickly, and a dagger stabbed up the nerve line toward his ear, finding the back of his jaw. It had been almost two months since the tunnels, and there was less pain every day, but that still left a good amount to go around, especially in the mornings when he woke up stiff. Though the rebar had sheared through nerve and muscle, the long-term prognosis was good. The front and back wounds were impressive, jagged keloid scars, each the size of a silver dollar. Beneath the shiny purple skin, the flesh was still boggy and gave off a deep ache that kept him up some nights, but it had healed over well enough, and now his body just had to do its job.

So much had happened in the time since he and Cris had emerged from the earth beneath Chinatown, though nothing could compare to the weight of those preceding eleven days. The story had exploded pyrotechnically, the afterglow lasting through several news cycles. Each revelation seemed to find its way above the fold or onto a Web site’s home page. Two days too late, CSI Media Forensics had released a security still shot from the Fairmont elevator showing Angelberto riding up to Arthur Carroll’s coin-cleaning closet, his shoulders bulging under the weight of the bags of change. The Tearmaker, unmasked. The mastermind, meanwhile, awaited trial. According to the
Chronicle,
Martin remained on suicide watch in the jail behind 850 Bryant. The article mentioned that the guards had restricted his right to send letters.

Dooley had protected Daniel as best she could, minimizing mention of his name in news conferences, but a few dogged reporters had sounded out the magnitude of his involvement. He had his fifteen minutes of fame before being gladly demoted to “husband of potential victim.”

Theresa had come by the house to check on them, wearing her uniform to show off the new hash marks—the youngest lieutenant in the history of the department, according to the press release. They’d sat at the kitchen counter sipping coffee, but the spaces between words seemed to stretch out. Afterward at the front door, they’d talked about getting together again, but they all knew it was a social pretense to ease the sharpness of the good-bye. Pausing at the threshold, Dooley said, “Forget it. It’s Chinatown,” and they’d laughed a little. “Anything you need,” she added, and he said, “You, too, Theresa.” After they shook hands, he stood on the porch and watched her drive away.

To commemorate the New Year, he’d paid a visit to his future office, bringing a few boxes of books, a lamp, and an overpriced desk set, but he hadn’t felt ready yet to inhabit the space. As he continued to put days between himself and the events of late November, he figured he’d make the transition in earnest.

This morning Kendra Richardson had called. Hearing his former director’s voice caught him off guard. The near-violent end to the last session had accelerated his departure; he’d not once been back to Metro South. After the pleasantries, Kendra had been sure to remind him that several group members were graduating tonight should he want to stop by. She’d reminded him, too, that he still owed her the damn termination paperwork.

Now he sat nervously here in the heart of the UCSF Medical Center, the hospital smells bringing him back to visits past, the torturous hours he’d spent on the stiff waiting chairs of the radiation suite waiting for Cris to emerge.

But it was all different today.

On the exam table, Cris rustled up onto her elbows and shot him a wink. The scar beneath her eye remained, a thin stroke of purple, but she claimed that she’d grown to appreciate it.
An accent mark for the radiation tattoos,
she’d said.
What good is a body if it doesn’t look lived in?

She glanced from him to the monitor. “You
sure
you want to know,
mi vida
? We can always go lavender for the walls.”

The ultrasound technician repositioned the wand on Cris’s baby bump and paused to await Daniel’s response.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to know.”

The tech looked at Cris, who nodded.

“You’re having a baby girl.”

Cris gave an exultant little cry, and then she was wiping her face. “God, I’m so hormonal,” she said. “It’s not like there was a
bad
option. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but you’re having a
calf.
’”

“A lot of people get emotional when they hear,” the tech said, cleaning the gel off Cris’s stomach.

Cris lay back on the table and cried a little more.

Softly, Daniel said, “What?”

“I never thought I’d get to do this,” she said.

He reached across, took her hand. The tech put away the cart and departed. The door swung shut, leaving them with the sudden quiet. Cris stared up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. He marveled at her profile. Her hair was rich and shiny, her skin smooth. She’d never looked more alive.

“What do you want to name her?” he asked.

Cris chewed her lip. “Francisca.”

“Like the girl,” he said. “Like your nana.”

Cris smiled.

“Like the city,” she said.

*   *   *

Driving away from the hospital into the bitter January gray, Daniel got a call from the high-strung manager of Evelyn’s new building, his words a continuous flow, his manner toggling between anxious and indignant. After attempting to shoehorn in a few responses, Daniel said, loudly, “Okay, I’ll be right there,” and hung up.

He glanced across at Cris, who’d observed, amused.

“Something about requiring a building permit for construction,” Daniel said. “He and Evelyn are at loggerheads.”

“Shocking.”

“Can we go?”

“Do we really need to?” Cris asked.

“She’s my mom,” he said. “And she’s scared.”

Cris looked out the window. “I’ll wait outside.”

They drove across to Nob Hill, Evelyn’s second-favorite neighborhood and the highest summit in the city. Here on the “Hill of Palaces,” she’d found an old brownstone that some enterprising soul had carved into little condos. Her non-corner apartment on the second floor had a partial view of Grace Cathedral.

As they pulled up, Cris took note of the building. “A significant downgrade,” she said. “But hardly the Bowery.”

He double-parked, and they climbed out. Through the lobby door, he could see Evelyn inside, animated, her finger pointing at the sour face of the manager.

Cris leaned against the outside wall to the side of the awning. “I’ll be right here.”

He went in, Evelyn’s shoulders sagging with relief at the sight of him. “I don’t understand why I need
another
permit to change the crown moldings in my own—”

The manager shook a clipboard emphatically. “The board has been very consistent on the requirements for—”

Daniel held up his hands. “Is this really what this is over? A one-page form?”

Both aggrieved parties said, “
Yes
.” The manager added, “And the board vote, which will happen during Monday’s meeting.”

Daniel took the clipboard. “I’ll fill it out.”

“I needed a permit to replace the kitchen counter,” Evelyn said. “A permit to add soundproof glass. And now this? A permit for
crown molding
? I just don’t see why this little power play is necessary.”

“Because, Mom. You don’t own the building. So you have to abide by the rules, no matter how annoying they might be.”

“Are they
designed
to be annoying?”

“In part,” Daniel said. That didn’t win him a warm parting glance from the manager, but it drew a faint smile from Evelyn.

She waited until the office door banged shut behind the manager, then said, “I miss James.”

“I know you do.”

“Thank you for handling the form,” she said. “And that bitter queen.”

“Last time I was here, I met his wife and sons.”

“Oh, like that means
anything.
” She checked her watch. “I have to be at the club for lunch.”

“I see you’re really adjusting to your lifestyle as a pauper.”