Andrew Klavan - The Identity Man

"Where are we going, Mommy?" said the boy faintly in the back seat.

"Shh," she said. "Henry is taking us someplace safe."

"I want them to see a doctor," Applebee told Shannon.

Shannon nodded. He drove in silence.

He came onto a street of brooding darkness, old office buildings rising on either side. Most of their big, arched windows were dark, but here and there a light shone through thin curtains. Here and there, firelight flickered, too, as squatters on some abandoned floor huddled around a flame.

Shannon pulled the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Applebee glanced at him.

"I gotta go see someone," Shannon told him. "You all better come with me."

"Where are we, Mommy?" said the boy.

"Shh. I don't know."

Shannon got out and came around the rear of the car, scanning the street's shadows. The old man climbed out more slowly. Shannon opened the door for Teresa and held it as she slid out with the boy in her arms. When she set the child down on his own and straightened up, she faced Shannon and looked at him. It was not a hard look-or a soft look either. It was neither angry nor kind. She was just searching his face for an explanation.

He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell her it wasn't his fault. He wanted to tell her he was sorry because he felt like it was his fault even if it wasn't. There was no time to tell her everything he wanted to.

"My name is John Shannon," he said finally.

Teresa nodded, as if that were enough for now.

The lock on the building's front door was long broken. Inside, there were no lights working. It was nearly pitch black. Shannon had to feel his way to the stairs and whisper at the others to come to him. The little boy kept asking questions: "Where are we going, Mommy?" Teresa kept answering, "Shh. I don't know."

They climbed the stairs slowly in the dark, clinging to the rutted banister. It was eerily silent. When they reached the fourth-floor landing, they went down the hall, brushing their fingertips against the rough, pitted wall to feel their way. Shannon could see a dim light gleaming under the door at the end.

He reached the door. He remembered the coded knock and rapped it out with his knuckles. There was an instant response from the other side. A chair shifting. Quick, soft footsteps approaching. A whisper from within: "Who is it?"

"Shannon."

He heard the locks turn. Foster opened the door. He looked at Shannon. He looked at Teresa and her family.

He laughed and stood back to let them in.

At the far end of the stakeout loft, there was a small enclosure formed by plywood dividers. There was a card table in the enclosure and a couple of folding metal chairs. Shannon sat on one of the chairs and waited there alone, leaning forward, his hands clasped together between his knees. He could hear the voices on the other side of the dividers: Foster and one of his men-only the slick agent was in the loft tonight-talking to Teresa and to Applebee and the boy. After a while, he heard footsteps. He sat straight as Foster stepped into the opening between the dividers and came into the little room with him.

The small, narrow man was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened. His gun was in a shoulder holster. He was fidgeting, shifting his neck in his collar.

"We're going to take them to a doctor," he said. "We have a car coming to pick them up. They'll be safe."

Shannon nodded. "Thanks. I wasn't sure you'd still be here."

"We were going to close up shop first thing tomorrow."

"Well, happy days then. You're back in business."

Foster gave a series of quick, nervous expressions and gestures: smiles, shrugs, winces. Then he settled into the chair across from Shannon. After that, for once, he seemed to stop moving. He became unusually focused, his features unusually still.

"Okay," he said. "Let's hear it."

"I sent Ramsey a message," Shannon said. "I told him I'd deal."

Foster's eyes shifted once, away and back, as he took this in. Then he was still and attentive again. "Okay. You figure he'll get the message?"

"He'll get it."

"And then?"

"Then… I fi gure-you brief me on what it is I'm supposed to know. I go in wired, meet with the guy, deal with him, maybe draw him out. When you hear what you need to hear, you move in and bust him."

There was another moment of stillness between the two of them, Foster's eyes on Shannon, Shannon's on Foster, both men silent. Murmuring voices came from the other side of the dividers, the other end of the loft. Then Foster's face went bright with a grin. He shook his head. He laughed.

"What?" said Shannon.

"No, no, dog, nothing. It's a great plan. Great, really. Except if you go in wired, he'll find it in half a second."

Shannon thought about it. "Not wired then. We set it up somewhere you can mike."

"He won't come into anything like that. He won't come just anywhere."

"He'll come. He'll have to."

"No. He's not stupid. He'll have to feel safe."

Shannon thought some more but couldn't come up with anything.

Foster helped him out. "We have some tools available. If they work, we'll be able to listen in."

"There you go. Do that then. Use your tools."

"What we won't be able to do is stay close. If he's smart-and he is smart-we'll be too far away to get to you."

"Why do you have to get to me?"

"Stop him killing you. We won't be able to get to you in time to stop him killing you."

"If he kills me, then you've got him. Isn't that what you said?"

Foster shook his head. "That was before. Now you're a cop-killer."

"He still can't just kill me. Not if you're listening in."

"Maybe."

"All right then. It's a plan."

"He will kill you, Shannon. You know that, right? He may talk to you, he may not. He may just open fire."

"Then you've got him. That's what you wanted."

"I'd say probably. I'd say he'll probably just open fire."

"Well, then you've got him," Shannon said again.

"And if you do live… in the unlikely event… man, I'm telling you-I can't promise you anything. Not thing one. I'm not in that position."

"Doesn't sound like it's going to be an issue, does it?"

Foster laughed again. "No, it doesn't. No, it definitely does not." He lapsed into another silence-silence and stillness-studying Shannon.

"Is there a problem?" Shannon said.

"Maybe. I don't know. I'm not reading this. It makes me uncomfortable."

"I guess we all have to take our chances, don't we?"

"Maybe. I mean, give me a clue-what am I dealing with here? Is it silver bells, Christmas time in the city? You suddenly discover your inner good Samaritan…? Oh wait… The girl."

Shannon said nothing.

"You're kidding me," Foster said. "This is about the girl?"

"And the boy and the old man, too."

"Well, well, well."

"Whatever."

"What do you want exactly?"

"I want them out of here. They're not safe in this city. The cops are after them, the bangers are after them. The cops and the bangers are the same people here-what the hell? I want them safe. I want them out. New city, new job, new names if they need them."

"New life, like princess in fairy tale, huh."

Shannon's lip curled. The skeevy federal bastard had been listening to that, too. "That's right. Why not? They'll never be safe here now."

"No, they won't. You're right about that. They're dead if they stay."

"So what's the problem? Can't you do it? They're clean. They got no records. Nothing you got to clear or pull strings for. You got programs that handle stuff like this, don't you?"

"Oh yeah. We can do it. For them? It'd be easy."

"So there it is. That's the deal."

"You go in, Ramsey kills you, we get Ramsey, the girl and her people are safe. That's the deal?"

"Well-who knows? Maybe he won't kill me."