Gregg Hurwitz - We Know

"What?" she asked sharply.

I just shook my head, not trusting my voice.

Steve trudged out of the kitchen and through the front door, returning a moment later with the rifle he'd dropped in the front yard. Without slowing he said, "I'm gonna shower off this fucking day." His footsteps thudded up the stairs. Callie and I looked at each other some more, and then at the walls, and then at each other again. A car drove by outside, the engine fading.

She said, "You want to be like Frank?"

I looked away. I couldn't meet her eyes. But I felt that stare coming on, still coming on. "I could never be like Frank."

"All these years the stars are still in your eyes, blinding you to what's right in front of your face. Frank wasn't Clint Hill. He never jumped on the trunk of a limo. Never held the president's head together. Never got a Purple Heart in Vietnam. You know what Frank was great at? The day-to-day. Showing up. Knowing when to give space. The quiet heroics. And you. You didn't show up for his funeral. You didn't show up for your own graduation. You didn't show up for college. You haven't shown up for a damn thing in seventeen years."

The edges of her words seemed to ring off the walls for a while, and then the silence of the house reasserted itself. The pipes feeding the shower upstairs hummed gently in the walls.

"Well," I said, "I'm showing up now."

She studied me a long time, but her face didn't soften. Not a bit. "Frank's box with the pictures is in the garage." Her voice quavered, but only once.

It took me a moment to get the feeling back in my body, to take that first step. She followed me, angrily, through the kitchen, to the door to the garage. By the trash can, I found the cardboard boxes. After a quick search of the others, which held nothing of relevance, I carried the photo box back out, through the entryway, Callie behind me. I stepped down onto the walk. My face was burning. My hands, poked through the handholds on the box, felt numb.

Her voice, behind me. "Wait… I-Just wait." She'd been drawn a few steps out onto the porch. "You should've come to me, Nicky. When they arrested you. I would have done anything for you. You were everything I had left. Why didn't you just talk to me?"

I readjusted my grip on the box. "They made clear they'd hurt you if I did."

Callie took a half step back. Then she leaned one hand against the pillar and sort of collapsed, her hair down over her face so I could see only her downturned mouth. Her sobs seemed to rise up from some cracked-open place inside her. I stood dumbstruck, holding the box, watching her, unsure what to do.

She kept crying, her hair tangled in her eyes, her tears, and then I was running, the box kicked aside on the concrete walk, but I wasn't running away, I was running to her. I stepped up onto the porch and bent to her, and she pulled at me, hard. My shoe slipped, but I held her weight, and she rose, and then she was gripping me, sobbing, the crown of her head pressed into my chest, and she was shaking and sobbing, and I was holding her.

His poufy hair reined in from the shower, a red amoeba swelling on his cheek, Steve shifted on the couch beside Callie. "Now that we're all pals again," he said, "why don't you tell us what the fuck is going on?"

So I did, from the flight to Alaska to the Voice in the Dark. It didn't come smoothly or easily, but it came. Callie interrupted frequently with exclamations and questions, but I didn't mind.

When I finished, Steve leaned back and crossed his arms. "I made some calls today, checked up on your story. About the two mystery agents who came to arrest you for Frank Durant's murder." He ignored Callie's look of surprised indignation. "There are no records of your arrest. Or your being booked. Or interrogated. There isn't even a record of out-of-district officers or agents going to MDC that night."

Callie's cheeks had gone red. "You heard Nick's story. That wasn't an official arrest. It was thugs threatening a teenage kid."

"Listen," I said, "whether you believe me or not, please don't tell any of this to anyone."

Steve said, "Like to The Enquirer?"

"Like to your SWAT buddies when you explain how you got the bruise."

Tilted back against the couch cushions, Callie blinked a few times, catching up to her thoughts. "So you came back to look for more pictures of Charlie?"

"Or anything else that might have had his name or given any clue as to who he was." I set down the box, discouraged. Most of the pictures were bent, a few wrinkled with moisture from the front walk. I'd checked them as I'd gathered them up, but there weren't any others of Charlie. "If he's from the army, it's not like you'd know him, and I'm having trouble getting to anyone else who could give me anything on him."

Callie grimaced. "Yeah, I didn't know any of Frank's friends from the war. You know how he was about that. Closed off like a fist."

I pulled the one picture of Charlie from my pocket and offered it to her anyway. She frowned down at it, holding it at arm's length, a new mannerism. Or at least new to me. "Wait," she said. "Oh, yeah, sure. He's a guy Frank knew from the service."

I leaned forward, excited. "So you did meet him?"

She looked at me funny. "Of course I met him."

"Why 'of course'? You just said you didn't know many of his friends from the war."

"Oh," Callie said. "Not that service. The Service."

Steve's head snapped around. It took a moment for me to find my voice. "Charlie was in the Secret Service?"

"Yes. Right. Charlie. We saw him at the occasional event. He may have come over once or twice. We even went to a barbecue at his house."

"What's his last name?"

"Jackson? Johnson? I can't remember."

"So he was a buddy of Frank's?"

"A colleague. I don't remember them being particularly close, but you know how agents are. The bond."

I recalled Charlie's desperate eyes, picking up the aqua glow of the spent-fuel pond. I trusted Frank. I trusted him with my life. Given the tattoo, I'd assumed the army, but there was also plenty of risk to go around in the Service. And evidently plenty of trouble to get into as well.

I asked, "And Frank never mentioned they were in the war together?"

"No, I don't think so. Or I didn't remember. But you know Frank. That doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean it was a secret."

"Isn't that a bit of a coincidence? Two guys from the same platoon wind up working together in the Service?"

Callie gave me the look she used to give Frank.

Steve said, "The Service recruited heavy after the war. And the CIA, the Marshals, the FBI. A lot of soldiers were steered the same directions by the same people, sent one another resumes. We tried to help each other out." He looked at his folded hands-he hadn't meant to let that "we" slip, not with me in the room.

"When did they work together?" I asked.

"Up until the end," Callie said.

We sat with that one, all three of us, and then I asked, "What did you know about Charlie?"

"Nothing, really."

"People always remember more than they think," Steve said. He looked interested despite himself. "Think about when you went to his house."

"Oh-he had a son," Callie said. "Troubled kid. I want to say drugs. A few years older than you, Nicky."

"Did they look alike? Same mouth?"

"I don't really remember. Just that he was so scowly. Charlie wasn't exactly all polka dots and moonbeams himself."

"Was he married?" Steve and I asked at the same time.

"Going through a divorce. A rough one, maybe. He had a few tense late-night talks with Frank just before Frank was killed."

"He came to the house?" I asked.

"Phone."

Steve's jaw firmed, and our eyes met. Tense late-night calls and then a bullet to Frank's gut. I took a while to work up the nerve. "Do you think there's any chance Frank got pulled into something dirty?"