The Naked Edge (44 page)

I'd never survive the meeting
, Carl thought. “Well, at the moment, that's a little difficult. The authorities are hunting me. I'm trying to get out of New Orleans.”

“I don't mean today. That's impossible. I'm flying to the Philippines.”

“And you feel comfortable talking about this on a plane?”

“A private jet. I arrive in an hour. When you reach a secure location, contact me again. I'll tell you where to meet me.”

Carl felt a weightless sensation, as if a trap door opened beneath him.
As soon as I arrange an electronic transfer of the money, he'll invite me to a meeting and have me killed. Perhaps he'll do it himself.

“On a plane? Are you passing the time, trying to figure out how to open the secret knife I gave you?”

“That's another way you disappoint me. Your ridiculous knife doesn't work. I tried every possible combination.”

“Sure, it works. Have you got it with you?”

“In my pocket.”

“On the top combination, turn the man in the moon to two o'clock. On the bottom combination, turn the arrow to Roman numeral X.”

“I already tried that! Nothing happened!”

“Try it again.”

Impatient, the voice said, “The same result! Nothing!”

“Did you release the catch?”

“
What catch?
”

“Recessed into the bottom of the handle. See the little hook?”

“You didn't say anything about that. It's barely visible!” the voice complained.

“Pull it.”

“This had better—”

The transmission ended.

6

Near the Philippines, the newly married couple strolled the deck of the cruise ship. Holding hands, they admired the glorious radiance of the stars.

“You can't see this in Philadelphia,” the man said. “All the light pollution in the city interferes with—”

The woman pointed. “What's
that
?”

“Oh, my God,” the man said.

One of the stars exploded. It blossomed like a rocket on the Fourth of July. Flaming debris plummeted toward the water.

Seconds later, the rumble of the blast echoed over them.

7

“Don't call a knife I made ‘ridiculous’,” Carl said.

He shut off the phone, worked to calm his heartbeat, then directed a melancholy look at the children playing on the swings in the park. Detonating the explosive in the knife hadn't solved anything. There would be others to take the swarthy man's place, and those others, too, would demand the return of their money. He couldn't possibly come up with millions of dollars. When the electronic transfer did not occur, they would insist on meeting with him, something to be avoided with every effort. From now on, his life would be a matter of running and hiding.

No, blowing up the plane definitely didn't solve anything
, Carl thought,
but it certainly gave me a world of satisfaction.
Maybe Aaron's right. Maybe I do need a few more lessons about keeping control.

The children. He couldn't take his sad gaze from the children.
Hey, Aaron, wouldn't it be great if we could go back to being kids? If only life could be simple again.

The game. All that mattered now was the game. He picked up the newspaper he'd set next to him. After reading about Aaron and his wife one more time, he turned to the classified ads. The area's airports, train stations, bus depots, and car-rental agencies were being watched. But there were other ways to get out of town.

8

“Sounds a little rough,” Carl said.

“Hey, I'm not pretending she don't need a tune-up. I figured that into the price.”

“What about oil changes, regular maintenance, stuff like that?”

“Four months ago. Then the twins got born. I'm so tired working two jobs to pay the bills, I ain't driven her since. Truth is, I didn't take her out much
before
the twins got born. Guess I'm getting too old for kid stuff.”

“Naw, you're never too old to act like a kid.”

“Tell that to my old lady.”

“Well, if you're sure you want to sell . . .”

“Need to. Don't have two jobs anymore. That's how you caught me at home. The factory where I worked my day job got shut down and moved to Mexico. I really need the money. But like I told you on the phone, I won't take a check.”

“Don't blame you. Can't be too careful. Here's the three thousand in cash. Now all you need to do is sign the ownership papers, and I'll make sure the title's transferred to me.”

“Hate to part with her.”

“Well, you can count on me taking care of her for you.”

“Thanks, mister.”

“I don't suppose you've got a helmet.”

“In the garage some place. My wife got it for me, but I never bothered. Always made me feel trapped.”

“Bad for your health. Gotta stay safe you know.”

“You're a decent enough guy. Tell you what, I'll throw in the helmet and my goggles.”

“Naw, that wouldn't be right. Sounds like the twins are waking up. As you say, you can use the cash. I wouldn't want to take advantage. Here's another fifty bucks.”

“Much obliged, mister.”

A minute later, his helmet and goggles adjusted, Carl fired up the old Yamaha and drove from the modest neighborhood.

By then, it was twelve fifteen. The sun was pleasantly warm. The breeze created by the motorcycle soothed him. It had been years since he'd driven a bike, and now he wondered why he had ever stopped: the mobility, the freedom, the independence. Plus, unless you wore leathers and a Hells Angels’ scowl, people tended not to pay attention to you, as the number of accidents in which cars ran into motorcycles confirmed.

Enjoying the vibration of the engine between his legs, Carl passed a police cruiser. Looking straight ahead, he concentrated on traffic and obeyed the speed limit, confident that the cops in the cruiser wouldn't pay attention to him. The goggles and helmet indicated how safety-conscious and law-abiding he was.

He found his way to Interstate 10 and headed west, skirting Lake Pontchartrain. Impressed by the expanse of the water, he reached Interstate 55 and proceeded north, soon passing Lake Maurepas: the fishing boats, the waves, the evocative smell of the water, the feeling of freedom. Blending with the flow of cars, he luxuriated in each moment and discovered that eighty miles went by like they were nothing. Before he realized, he was in the small Louisiana city of Hammond, which for his purposes had one major asset: an Amtrak station. He knew this because familiarity with the train routes out of New Orleans was part of his contingency plan, just as he'd known the bus routes.

But after getting directions to the train station, he decided that if the station in New Orleans would be under surveillance, didn't it make sense that the nearest Amtrak station in another city would be under surveillance also? Hell, eighty miles was nothing. He stopped for a burger, fries, and a Coke at a drive-in restaurant. They tasted as delicious as when he'd been a kid. Then he returned to Interstate 55 and headed farther north.

In an hour, he crossed into Mississippi, and now he felt less threatened, although he didn't delude himself that the hunt for him would not continue to be urgent and widespread. The next Amtrak station was twenty miles farther in another small city, McComb. But again, his instincts warned him away. Too small a station. Too easy to be spotted. By then, it was four in the afternoon. Fatigue insisted, but he couldn't rest until he was confident that he'd found sanctuary. And food. He couldn't seem to get enough to eat. But there wasn't time.

He drove another ninety minutes to the large Amtrak station in Jackson, Mississippi. Making sure that his fingerprints were wiped clean, he left the motorcycle on a side street a few blocks from the station. By midnight, the bike would be gone, no way to trace it to him.

Trying not to attract attention by hurrying, he went to a convenience store. He kept his back to the security camera while he bought shampoo, toothpaste, a toothbrush, shaving soap, a razor, and a packet of Kleenex. Subduing his urgency, he shaved in a men's room in the train station, making himself as presentable as possible. He went into a toilet stall, locked it, then stuffed Kleenex under his lips and into his cheeks, changing the profile of his face, making it look puffy rather than gaunt-cheeked, as the newspaper described him.

He leaned forward at the ticket counter, reducing his height.

“Chicago,” he said. “This evening.”

“You just made it. Arrives at nine tomorrow morning.”

“Got anything in the sleeping car?”

“Let's see. Yep. One compartment left.”

“Must be my lucky day.”

9

“Your honor, my clients request that the conditions of their release be relaxed sufficiently to allow them to leave Louisiana and fly to New York City. Their corporation, Global Protective Services, requires their immediate presence to oversee urgent financial matters relative to the continuing existence of their company. If my clients are unable to perform their corporate functions, the result will be calamitous, destroying their livelihood and that of hundreds of employees. The charges notwithstanding, Mr. Stoddard has an exemplary record as a protective agent credited with saving the lives of numerous international figures who function at the highest levels of finance, government, and entertainment. Prior to that, he defended the United States as a member of the elite military unit: Delta Force. You have heard the respect that Mr. Yamato and other members of the World Trade Organization have for him and his wife, so much in fact that they guarantee bail. My clients offer to surrender their passports.”

10

The rhythm of the wheels on the railroad tracks gradually soothed him. Clickety. Clickety. For a half hour, Carl sat next to the small table in his compartment. His hand on his pistol, he expected that at any moment, the door would burst open and men would throw flash-bangs at him. He kept the window shade drawn, but then he worried about what he wasn't able to see. Raising the shade, he saw only passing countryside and gathering shadows. After his heartbeat calmed, he went to the compartment's sink, removed the wads of Kleenex from his mouth, and brushed his teeth (no matter how filthy he was on a mission, he always felt clean if he had a chance to brush his teeth). Then he washed his hair in the sink and used a wet towel to swab the dirt and river smell from him, all the while keeping his pistol close and his gaze on the locked door.

Hunger demanded to be satisfied. At the convenience store, he'd bought a Coke, two ham sandwiches, and a bag of potato chips. He'd wanted much more, but he'd been afraid of being remembered if he bought too much food in addition to his other purchases. Clickety. Clickety.

The sandwiches were stale and tasteless. He washed them down with the now-warm Coke, seasoning them with the equally stale potato chips. Clickety. Clickety.

Outside the window, the countryside rolled by, vague trees and hills in the darkness, glowing windows in farmhouses, then the glare of towns. He shut off the light, eased onto his bunk, set his knife and pistol next to him, and stared at the ceiling. The passing shadows rippled over it. Mercifully, he slept.

But then the clickety, clickety slowed. The change of rhythm woke him. Hearing the squeal of breaks, he grabbed his pistol and peered out the window, only to see a small train station, a passenger departing into the gloom. No one else was in view. Nothing to be alarmed about.

He started to lay back but then noticed a sign on the station's wall: NEWBERN-DYERSBURG, TENNESSEE. A hand seemed to reach inside his barely full stomach and twist at his guts. The northward Amtrak line passed through the extreme western edge of Tennessee, he knew. A hundred miles to the east was Nashville, where Carl's father had taken the family after his drunkenness caused him to lose his stockbroker's job in Iowa City.

In Nashville, the arguments and beatings had worsened. One night, Carl found his father unconscious at the kitchen table at three in the morning. The lights were on. A half-empty bottle of peppermint brandy sat next to him. The peppermint soothed the stomach inflammation that years of too much alcohol caused.

Carl had laid out bread, mustard, mayonnaise, lettuce, dill pickles, and a chunk of ham, as if his father had decided to make a sandwich. His father was so stupefied that the muted sounds didn't wake him. Carl applied mustard and mayonnaise to one slice of bread. He took a sharp knife and cut into the ham. He used a dishtowel to wipe his fingerprints from everything. He used the same towel while he held his father's hands and applied fingerprints to bottles, plates, and the bread wrapper.

“Uh,” his father said.

“Ssshh,” Carl said.

He raised his father from the table, then hefted him to the counter and the half-prepared sandwich. He put the sharp knife in his father's right hand and knocked his father's legs from under him, making sure that the knife plowed into his father's stomach when he hit the floor. His father tried to moan, but Carl pressed his hands over his father's mouth. As a pool of blood spread, his father trembled, then lay still. Avoiding the blood on the floor, taking care that none was on him, Carl went back to bed. He enjoyed the most satisfying sleep of his life.

Now Carl wished that the same peaceful sleep would come to him. Watching the ripple of shadows across the train compartment's ceiling, he tried to think back to when, if ever, his life had been the way he wanted. There had been a time, he decided.

11

Daylight. The Illinois train stations went by. Champaign-Urbana. Kankakee. Homewood. That name filled him with bitterness. Next stop: Chicago.

He used his cell phone.

A woman's pleasant voice said, “Grand Cayman bank.”

“I need to wire-transfer nine thousand dollars to my bank account in Chicago.” That account, under an assumed identity, had been carefully established two years earlier. The nine thousand dollars was less than the ten-thousand-dollar transaction amount that banks were required to report to the federal government.

“Certainly, sir. May I have your account number and your password?”