Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

After looping around the block a few times to ensure he wasn’t being followed, Nate climbed the first flight of stairs, double-checked the address, and rang the bell. He had yet to land on a point of entry for the conversation to come, but having had plenty of practice knocking on doors and delivering bad news, he figured he’d wing it.

The guy who answered wore a porkpie hat, Bermuda shorts, and a V-necked undershirt. His facial hair was delicate and elaborate-soul patch, thin ridge lining either side of the jaw, strip along the upper lip that could have been stenciled on using eyeliner. His gold box-chain necklace looked like it had fallen out of a vending machine in 1983, all the more pronounced given that it was strung around a pillowy cervical brace holding his head regally erect. Though he was slight, his freckled shoulders bulged like softballs, masses of sinewy muscle. Two men on a couch were playing Xbox, working joysticks sophisticated enough to land a fighter jet.

“Luis Millan?”

The guy nodded. “That’s me.”

“Can we talk a minute? Alone?”

Luis’s hand rose to his brace, which, Nate realized, was upside down. “You from the insurance company?”

“No.”

“You look familiar. Did you go to North Hollywood High?”

“Nope.” Nate glanced at his watch. Three hours before he’d attempt to get Janie and Cielle on a plane to Manhattan, where they’d try to lose themselves among 9 million people. “Listen, I’m sorry to walk in on your Saturday, but I really need to talk to you.”

Luis stepped back, letting him in. “Go on, homeys. You heard the man.”

His friends grumbled and rose, administering elaborate handshakes and shuffling out. Luis grabbed a Pacifico from the fridge and leaned against a cabinet in the galley kitchen. “You sure you ain’t with the insurance company?”

“I’m sure.”

He ripped off his brace with a groan, tossing it aside and rubbing the red skin beneath. “Screwed up my neck. Whiplash. Had to do rehab, all that. But the bullshit insurance companies don’t believe you unless you look like Christopher Reeve, so my lawyer, he says I hafta wear the thing.”

He palmed a few aspirin and downed them, which reminded Nate he was late for his own morning dose. Removing the riluzole and antibiotics from his pocket, he popped them in his mouth, then looked around for a glass. Luis tilted the beer bottle at him, and Nate shrugged, grabbed it, and washed them down.

Luis took back his bottle. “What’s yours for? The meds?”

“Just some aches.”

“The worst, isn’t it? Not like when we was younger.” He paused, thoughtful. “I got off lucky, I guess. Coulda been worse.”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “It could.” He leaned against the fridge. “I have to ask you a bunch of weird questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Ever heard of somebody named Pavlo Shevchenko?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know a Patrice McKenna?”

“Uh-uh.”

“How about Wendy Moreno?”

“No, man. This one of those talk shows, you gonna tell me I got a daughter I don’t know about or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” Nate tried for another possible point of connection. “What do you do for work?”

“Auto-part sales.” He gestured at the pass-through counter, stacked high with tool catalogs and invoices pinned to clipboards.

“You work here?”

“Based in Torrance. But I travel a lot.”

Nate glanced around the small apartment. An antique L.A. Raiders poster sagged from tacks on the far wall. Pep Boys magnets pinned a variety of material to the fridge-Domino’s Pizza coupons, an airport-shuttle brochure, pictures of Luis on a boat with several bikini-clad women, a Pacifico, and a grin wide enough to show his molars. A heap of wrenches lay on the spent living-room carpet like a scattering of bones, something about them recalling Urban’s box of mail-ordered lock-blade hunting knives.

Nate decided to go at it directly. He took a breath. “Do you have any idea why someone would want you dead?”

The beer was almost to Luis’s lips, but he pulled it to one side, the skin of his forehead twisting. Then he laughed. “Ex-wife count?”

“I’m serious.”

“Why the hell would someone want to kill me?”

“I have no idea.”

“You talking ’bout this guy? Pablo Shovechinko? What the hell? How’s he know me?”

“I don’t know.”

With thumb and forefinger, Luis smoothed his pencil-thin mustache. “What’d you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

Luis nodded once, slowly. He knocked back a last gulp and lowered the empty bottle to his side, his fist tightening around the long neck. “I think maybe you should go, homey.”

“Okay. But you should know: Your name was on a list. Some people are looking to hurt you. I don’t know why. I’m trying to find out. But if you can get out of town, take one of those business trips, now might be a good time.”

Luis’s eyes turned to slits. “Wait a minute. I recognize your ass. You’re the guy from that bank shooting, lost his shit during the press conference.”

“Nah,” Nate said. “Wasn’t me.”

They stared at each other, blinking, both of them unsure of the next move. Nate trapped in the narrow kitchen. A standoff.

Finally Luis shifted to the side, opening up a slender gap for Nate to exit. Nate slid past him, smelling the beer on his breath. Luis kept a tight grip on the bottle but never raised it.

As Nate stepped outside, Luis lifted a black boot and kicked the front door shut behind him.

They huddled together at the boarding gate, trying to blend in with the businessmen and students, the families laden with diaper bags and cameras. Janie had bought Nate a ticket for American Flight 4 as well so he could accompany her and Cielle right up until they crossed the threshold to the Jetway. He had been in a continuous state of alarm, scrutinizing every face, peering at every cluster of travelers, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. There’d been the predictable LAX tangle slowing them down at security, and groups three through six were already boarding. As he watched the throng leak slowly through the checkpoint and onto the plane, it struck Nate that these could well be the final minutes he’d have with his wife and daughter.

For most of the morning, Cielle had remained leaden and, aside from numerous whispered calls to Jason, silent. While Nate had paid the visit to Luis Millan, Janie had busied herself withdrawing wads of cash from the bank and making sure she’d have full remote access to her funds, dwindling though they might be. It wasn’t exactly a long-term plan, and Nate well knew that if he found himself ensconced in another ice block come Sunday night, there would be no end of troubles accelerating to meet Janie head-on. Now she checked and rechecked her purse, her phone, her carry-on luggage, a nonstop cycle of small distractions that no doubt kept her from confronting the terrifying big picture.

The check-in agent called for group two, Janie and Cielle’s departure now one announcement away. Time was scarce in another regard: Nate had to get to that next name on Urban’s hit list, Wendy Moreno of Westchester, and hope he nailed down a connection to Shevchenko firm enough to bring to the FBI. The geography was convenient, Moreno’s place just a few miles north of the airport.

Nate took a deep breath and stepped over to Cielle to say good-bye. She looked up into his face, her expression blurred with concern. He felt a faint elation that, at long last, she was going to say something warm and daughterly, but she wiped her nose and asked, “When can Jay come?”

The sensation was a bit like having a battering ram swung into his gut, but he covered as best he could with a lame parental standby: “Why don’t you talk to your mother about that?”