Gregg Hurwitz - You're Next

‘The Mustang’s registered to a Shepherd White. He was in a foster home in the San Fernando Valley from late 1981 to 1993. Another boy lived there during that time, named Mike Doe. Doe popped up in the system as a four-year-old with little memory and no records, abandoned by his father. Guess when?’

William said, ‘October 1980.’

‘He’s our missing person.’

In the excited silence, William could sense, after all these years, what this meant to Boss Man. The Job.

But it didn’t take him long to get down to business. ‘Hanley goes point on this. The family knows your face and Dodge’s. You two can play janitor afterward.’ He hung up.

William shut the phone, set it on the edge of the tub, and settled back into the warmth, inhaling the saline vapor from the epsom bath. His muscles felt relaxed, limber, ready.

Hanley was leaning forward, eyes bulging with excitement. ‘Well?’

William said, ‘We’re green-lit.’

‘Dana Riverton’s a fake name all right,’ Hank said, his old-man voice sounding scratchier over the phone. ‘The lease agreement on the apartment was signed by a Kiki Dupleshney.’

‘That’s her real name?’ The sharpness in Mike’s voice caused Sheila to glance up from her desk across the office.

‘Implausibly, yes. She’s got your typical con-artist rap sheet – pigeon drops, mail-order nudie stuff, a phony city-inspector routine targeting nest-eggers for home repairs. She doesn’t run a regular team, looks to be a gun for hire.’

‘Let’s go talk to her about her recent employer.’

‘She cleared out last night. Manager said she was on a week-to-week. Waiting to time a meeting with you, I’m thinking.’

Ten minutes prior Shep had texted Mike from downtown saying that his contact couldn’t get anywhere tracking Annabel’s stolen cell phone. William and Dodge either had dumped it or were keeping it mostly turned off, so there was nothing anyone could do. Mike’s frustration had hit a high-water mark, but now it looked like it had plenty more room to rise.

‘So she’s gone?’ Mike asked.

‘Into the ether. We’ll have to wait for her to rear her head. Good news is, we know she uses her real name now and again.’

Mike glanced down at the fat telephone directory spread on his desk. For the hell of it, he’d flipped through the white pages and circled a few names. Thirty-seven Gages, four Trenleys, none with first initial J or D .

‘How about Gage?’ he asked. ‘A Gage family lived next door when I was a kid. I know she didn’t make that up.’

‘Yeah, but we need a first name, and I’m guessing she invented the Dana. I checked anyway, and I’m getting no Dana Gages who fit our demographics. And when we start looking at Gages, no first name, without specifying region… well, you can imagine what those numbers look like.’

As bad as John and Momma.

Mike asked, ‘You get anything on John and Danielle Trenley?’

‘Nothing helpful,’ Hank said. ‘There are a handful of John Trenleys, but race and age rule them out. The only Danielle Trenley the database turned up is a teenager in South Carolina.’

Mike thumped a fist down on the phone book, the sound echoing through the office, causing heads to swivel. Mike did everything he could to keep his voice low. ‘How about the law-enforcement alert?’

‘I’m making some headway – emphasis on “some”. I got to a desk officer at Sheriff’s Headquarters Bureau. I guess because they oversee Lost Hills, your hometown, the stations were put on alert. Thus the warm reception you got from Elzey and Markovic. There’s a standing request for any deputy who comes into contact with you to obtain biographical details from your childhood.’

Mike realized he’d stopped breathing. So William and Dodge had baited him into going to the sheriff’s station, where Elzey and Markovic had been instructed to hammer him on his past. But were the four of them working in concert? It seemed a stretch that a law-enforcement agency would use muscle like William and Dodge to intimidate a family.

‘And report back where?’ Mike asked. ‘Who put the alert out on me? Which agency?’

‘I still don’t have an answer. It seems there’s a weird routing request-’

‘What does that mean, “routing request”?’

‘What it sounds like, son. Take a breath. We’re working around some clearance issues here, and a misstep could draw the wrong attention and shut us down. Catch more bees with honey and all that. Plus, I’m trying to see if LAPD or anyone else is looped in on it, too. These things take time.’

Mike signed off, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and ground at them.

His nerves were frayed – another restless night, another 5:00 A.M. wake-up augmented the whole day long with coffee. He’d been running on caffeine and adrenaline for too long now, and he felt his mood getting wobbly.

Sensing his workers’ eyes on him, he rose and headed out to the weed-scraggly front lot. He climbed into his truck, turned on the radio, scrolled through a few commercials and shitty songs, and smacked it off angrily. He gripped the wheel hard and took a few deep breaths.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He hoped it was Shep with an update on something .

The words blinking on the screen of his cell sent a wash of coldness over him.

A’S CELL.

He clicked ACCEPT .

The screen pulsed, then went live with a video feed. Through his shock it took a moment for Mike to recognize the cracked asphalt, the laughing children, the wooden benches.

The playground at Lost Hills Elementary.

His heart felt like a pulsing fist in the base of his throat.

The image tilted jerkily up. There Kat was, jumping rope.

Mike’s mouth was moving, sounds coming out.

A hulking figure stepped out from the cover of a jungle gym behind her, his features lost in the glare of the midday sun. The man moved closer.

Dodge.

Mike’s foot dropped like a weight onto the accelerator, his tires spinning in the dirt before finding purchase.

Dodge headed for Kat briskly. She continued to play, oblivious.

Mike was shouting at the phone, crushing it in his hand, juggling it against the wheel so he could steer and watch at the same time.

Dodge was five feet away and closing fast from behind. Kat was giggling, counting as she skipped, the rope tracing a rainbow arc overhead.

Mike screeched out of the lot, swiping the gate, throwing up rooster tails of dirt and rock.

Dodge came up on top of her, barely brushing her with a hip, knocking her to the ground.

Mike bellowed.

The screen went black.

He remembered calling 911 and shouting for the cops to get to Lost Hills Elementary, though his office was seven blocks away and he knew he’d get there first. He remembered reaching the school’s answering machine two, three times and bellowing at the electronic voice reciting endless options. He remembered calling Annabel’s cell phone, instinctively. When the voice mail kicked on – ‘ Hi, it’s Annabel. I’m probably digging around for ’ – he recalled that they had just contacted him from the very phone he was calling and, cursing his stupidity and horn-blaring through a red light, he dialed home. Voice mail there, too. Annabel wasn’t back from practicum? At the beep he heard himself saying, ‘-they got her at her school I called 911 I’m three blocks away now two goddamn it I knew we should’ve kept her out of school-’ He was furious with himself for letting Kat out of his sight, for listening to Annabel, all that blind fear and rage seeking an outlet to blast out of him.