Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

Thomas said, "Goddamnit, I know I had it. I got one more here. Open it."

The third angle was the widest. Dana was on her toes, with her arms around Reinnike's neck. The dented left rear wheel well and the missing hubcap were obvious. Thomas hadn't remembered the car from a fast glance; he had studied the pictures to choose the best shots for Stephen. The entire license plate was visible, but blurry and unreadable, like a face in the fog.

Thomas leaned closer.

"Shit. I can't read it."

It appeared to be a California plate, but I couldn't be sure.

"Can you bring this into focus?"

"Dude, that's science. I found the pictures. We got the deal, or what? You said we had a deal."

I concentrated on the blurred license plate. It did not clear. A computer-graphics technician might be able to tighten the image. They can work miracles with this stuff. But not always. I closed the file. George Reinnike vanished.

I tucked the laptop under my arm, then nodded at Pike. He went to the door and waited. I turned back to Thomas.

"I'll set it up with Pardy. You'll have to testify against Stephen, but I'll make sure they cut you a deal. If you try to weasel or get funny, our deal is off and I'll let them have you. We clear on that?"

"We're clear."

"They get your testimony about the prostitution, the blackmail, all of it. We clear?"

Dana said, "Yes."

They looked like rabbits caught in the headlights when Pike and I left.

We walked back to Pike's Jeep, both of us silent until we reached the street.

He said, "Close."

"I'll find someone to sharpen the image. There has to be a way to do that. Maybe Chen."

I left Pike at his Jeep and continued toward my car, thinking about it. Close, but still out of reach, like an imagined image of my father.

When I got home that night, I put Stephen's laptop in my front closet, covered it with a raincoat, then drank a glass of milk. I ate a banana, took a shower, then tried to go to sleep, but I kept seeing the long line of names on the list. I was worried that Pardy wouldn't go along and I wouldn't be able to leverage the deal for Thomas and Dana even though I had given my word. I was worried that I would not be able to read Reinnike's license plate and would never know the truth. I stared into the darkness gathered at my ceiling thinking these things until I grew angry with myself, and got out of bed.

I turned on all the lights in my house, then brought Stephen's laptop to my dining room table. The cat came in as I worked, and sat silently, watching me.

I opened the files one by one as Thomas had done, until I found the long list of JPEGs. I scrolled down to the three pictures that were named VICTORIA, whose real name was Margaret Keyes. I deleted them.

I still had Margaret's cell phone number. I called her, even though it was two in the morning. I did not expect her to answer, but she answered on the fifth ring. From the background, she was at a club or restaurant with other people. Or maybe it was just the TV.

"Hello?"

"This is Elvis Cole. You don't have to say anything. Just listen."

She hesitated, and I wondered if she, too, was awake at this hour because of the anger and pictures in her head. She answered guardedly. Because of the other voices.

"Yes. Oh, sure. I understand."

She tried to make her voice light and conversational, as if she had gotten a call from a friend.

"You told me Stephen had something on you. Were you talking about the pictures?"

She didn't answer.

"Yes or no, Margaret. You don't have to say anything more than that."

"That's right."

"He had pictures of you having sex that he used in a blackmail scam, and he threatened to implicate you unless you continued to work for him. Yes or no."

"Yes."

"Those pictures no longer exist. You're free."

I hung up without waiting for her to respond. I put down the phone, then went back upstairs to bed.

After a while, the darkness was not so foreboding. I slept.

Starkey

Starkey suffered a miserable night after she woke from the dream; she sucked down a cigarette, then tried to go back to sleep, but every time the shadows took shape, she startled awake. Once, she glimpsed Sugar; another time, Jack Pell; but mostly it was Cole, the same terrible dream again and again. When Pell came to her, he smiled with bright bulging eyes and pointed at something behind her, but Starkey didn't turn fast enough and woke in the darkness before she could see. Finally, Starkey told herself to stop being stupid. She got out of bed.

Starkey glugged down a hit of antacid that tasted like mint-flavored snot, then made a cup of hot chocolate. She hadn't been able to drink coffee since the bomb. She missed it, but coffee fired the scars in her stomach like alcohol poured on a fresh cut. Her stomach was a mess.

Starkey sat at her kitchen table, smoking as she thought about Cole, up there right now with Little Miss Honey-dipped Southern Comfort. Starkey was in love with the goofy doofus, that's all there was to it, and hadn't been able to shake it off. It was so bad she thought up reasons to call him, cruised his house in the middle of the night, and even called Pike, thinking maybe she could get to Cole through Man's Best Friend. The whole damn mess left her feeling like a degenerate.

Starkey made up her mind. She had to sit down with Cole, and lay it out: Look, Cole, I'm in love with you, okay? I want to be with you. What do you think?

Starkey saw the scene in her head, playing it through, then jabbed her cigarette into the chocolate. She didn't have the guts. Here she was, the same woman who used to de-arm bombs, and she knew she wouldn't have the courage to risk his answer. What a frigging mess.

Starkey lit a fresh smoke, pulled the heat deep, and coughed. Thank God she had cigarettes.

Carol Starkey sat at the table, smoking, and did not sleep again that night. Here she was, scared to death by a dream.

The Fencing Master

In Starkey's dream, she hides in darkness beneath the stairs in a great stone tower that belongs to a beautiful princess. Starkey has never described the dream to her shrink because the players are embarrassingly obvious. The first time she woke from the dream, she thought, jesus, you don't have to be Sigmund to understand that. Starkey is ashamed by what she believes the dream reveals.

In her dream, he is the fencing master. He never arrives nor leaves nor has a story to tell, but is forever trapped in the moment of her dream. She has never seen his face, but he has the build and grace of a dancer, clad in leather tunic and tights. He carries himself with the pride of his past as he was once the King's Hero, known for his bravery and valor. Now, he visits the tower each day to teach the fencer's art to a beautiful princess. The princess deserves no less than the King's Hero. He deserves no less than a princess.

Starkey hates this fucking princess.

The princess, too, has no face, but Starkey - glumly - knows the fucking bitch is hot. Honey-colored hair cascades over flawless golden shoulders, and a rich velvet gown drapes a body that is strong, athletic, and perfect.

Starkey, meanwhile, wears burlap rags, has dirty feet, and has smudges on her checks. She has somehow made her way into the tower, somehow hidden herself beneath the stair, somehow watched their endless lessons from her secret place, and through it all has fallen hopelessly in love with him.

Every time, the dream begins the same:

Starkey, hidden, watches as:

Great stone walls rise high around them, lit by the copper flickers of torches and candles. Tapestries hang on the walls; a fine rug muffles the stone floor. To one side, a heavy oaken door leads to the princess's chambers; to the other, a similar door leads to the outside. The room is empty, like a ballroom; its details missing, like a dream. The fencing master and the princess thrust and parry in perfect unison, back and forth, eyes locked in total concentration on the other. Their foils gleam with bursts of light, the steel tinkling like chimes. He thrusts, she parries, she counters, he denies, back and forth until sweat runs from their brows and their breath is quick -