Gregg Hurwitz - You're Next

‘I am a criminal. But you don’t want to wake up tomorrow morning to find out that they’ve killed her.’

She kept the phone pressed to her ear. ‘Even if I could have men and women cohabiting in the same room, a few stitches don’t buy you the surgical ICU. They buy you ten minutes with a first-year intern in the ER.’

The faint voice on the other end came clearly audible off the hard surfaces. ‘ Security. Security . Do you have a problem? ’

Shep raised the glittering shard to his face. ‘Then what do I have to cut?’

Driving inland. A Honda Civic, his eight-year-old daughter, an unmarked revolver, and a rucksack stuffed with just shy of a quarter mil. The purple sky, half lit by the descended sun, had a portentous cast. An electronic billboard flashed a child-abduction alert, but they were past before Mike registered that it referred to Kat. He’d switched the license plates, keeping the ones he’d taken from Jimmy’s girlfriend’s Mazda, so the stolen car shouldn’t raise any red flags. Freeway signs blinked overhead, waystations on a road to nowhere. He blazed past artichoke fields, a biblical swarm of grasshoppers unfurling from the crops and splattering against the windshield, Kat noting each plop with sickened delight.

Mike had explained to her, as best he could, what they were up against, but she mostly wanted to chatter about his boosting the vehicle.

‘And then you were, like, crack! with the hammer, and the car just started up . And then switching the plates like a bank robber. That was so cool.’

Her manic engagement with selective aspects of their ordeal, he figured, was self-protective, so he let her go, a windup toy that wouldn’t unwind. She slapped at the old-fashioned radio. A scroll through static, voices burping from the speakers as the dial flew. Amy Winehouse wouldn’t go to rehab, saying no no no , and Kat was digging through the glove box, captivated by the lipstick, the breath mints, a half-smoked pack of menthols. She posed, cigarette in mouth, to see if he’d comment, but he barely noticed her until she started in with the fake puffing. She was spoiling for a fight, wanting him to give her an excuse to let go and cry. But he didn’t have it in him right now, so he let her air-smoke until she grew bored with it.

At the next rest stop, he climbed out, grabbed the rucksack, and headed for a pay phone. ‘Stay close.’

Carrying Snowball II with her, Kat sat at a rickety picnic table nearby. Mike used the calling card to reach Hank on his cell.

‘Hank-’

But Hank cut Mike off before he could get out another word. ‘I’m camped out near a pay phone. Call me back at this number.’ He repeated it twice.

Mike dialed the new number, and when Hank snatched up the phone, his voice was trembling. ‘You’re okay. You got out.’

‘Barely. You’re being monitored?’

‘Dunno. But I’m a paranoid cop at heart. With the resources against you…’

Mike said, ‘Who the hell is this guy Rick Graham?’

‘A director at the State Terrorism Threat Assessment Center.’

‘So I’m a terrorist now?’ Mike said. ‘This just keeps getting better.’

Over on the park bench, Kat glanced up at him.

‘ That’s why I couldn’t get a handle on that alert they put out on you,’ Hank said. ‘The routing request was so convoluted – it’s all classified, higher-up shit. I finally reached a former partner’s kid, a DA, who broke the code for me.’

‘What’s this center? Why have I never heard of it?’

‘It’s one of these multiagency deals. Graham’s out of the main joint in Sacramento. They call it a “fusion center” to make it sound imposing.’

‘It does sound imposing.’

‘They pull the best and brightest from CHP, California DOJ, the governor’s office – got the whole goddamned state under their thumb. The sheriff’s an agent of the state, so that explains why his boys were first to the dance.’

An unhealthy wheeze punctuated each of Hank’s inhalations. The scale of what Mike was confronting left him breathless, too. Graham had personally come down to L.A. to take him into custody.

A bitter laugh escaped Mike’s lips. ‘Green houses.’ He punched the wall in slowmotion, pressing his knuckles to the splintering wood. ‘When this started, I thought it was about phony green houses.’

Across the parking area, a family unloaded from a station wagon, stretching their legs and bucket-lining empty cups and wadded wrappers from the recesses of the car to a trash can. A golden bounded from his crate and peed, with evident relief, on the circle of designated grass. The teenage daughter emerged from an iPod trance to slap her little brother away. Mundane as the scene was, Mike felt like he was peering through the looking glass into a dream world.

Hank was talking again: ‘Graham’s out of Sacramento, and Burrell’s last-known had him in Redding. Those cities are, what – two hours apart? That region of Northern California’s looking interesting, but to be honest, I don’t know what to do about it.’

Mike reined in his thoughts. ‘So if it’s a state agency, can I appeal to the feds for help?’

‘No way,’ Hank said. ‘These guys coordinate heavily with the Feebs, and Homeland Security, too. They’re probably the only state agency with this kind of federal pull.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ Mike made an effort to lower his voice. ‘Graham can’t believe I’m a fucking terrorist.’

A door slam alerted him to the fact that Kat had gotten back into the car. She was sitting in the driver’s seat, upset, hands on the wheel as if she were going to drive off.

‘No,’ Hank said. ‘But labeling you a terrorist means he can pursue you like one. Your double background plays into it, makes you fit the mold. And now throw a few bodies into the mix – not exactly hard to build a case around you. Or an accident.’

‘So he’s looking for a fall guy for something?’

‘Maybe. But given your family history, my gut says he’s cleaning up a mess.’

‘What mess? It’s not like my father could’ve been an enemy of the state. We didn’t even have terrorists back then. And even if he was, I was four when we parted ways. What could I have possibly known?’

‘Seeing as how Graham’s having Roger Drake and the Burrell boys carry out his dirty work, clearly this isn’t official state business. Playing the terrorist card is just the most effective way to run you down.’

‘So he’s in someone’s pocket,’ Mike said.

‘Given his stature in the law-enforcement community, it’s a big pocket.’

‘But he’s got no real evidence on me. How’s he getting everyone to fall into line? I mean, Elzey and Markovic? They were up my ass, now they’re all over the hospital. Are they dirty, too? Did he bribe them?’

‘You don’t get it, Mike. Once you’re fingered, you’re fingered. The Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station covers, what? A hundred eighty square miles? They’ve got rich assholes in Calabasas, Hidden Hills, Malibu, Westlake, and po’ white trash, crackheads, and cowboys in Chatsworth. Now they get a notice from a state agency that you’re on a terrorist watch list, you think they’re gonna… what? Try ’n’ prove you’re a nice guy? No. They want to pick you up, kick the case to the state, and get back to the mound of complaints from the constituents whose vote the sheriff needs come election time. They’re not gonna participate in patently illegal shit, but they will suspect who they’re supposed to suspect and alert who they’re supposed to alert. It’s not a conspiracy – it’s delegation and resource management.’