Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

“What are those?”

“I’m not positive yet. I mean, I know some, but... let me think.”

“You have to tell me what to ask!”

Abby squinted into the cold wind and watched the ferry churn toward the island, its wake foaming white against the gray sea, and then she said, “Ask her if he took a picture of her. I definitely need to know that. And if he did, then ask if she gave him another name.”

“Another name? What do you mean, another name?”

“I’m not sure. If she called herself Tara or Miss Beckley or whatever. Ask what he knew her by. That’s really important. What would he have called her?”

“She would have been just Tara. That’s it,” Shannon said, her voice rising, but then she lowered it abruptly, as if she’d realized she might be overheard, and said, “Why does this matter? What do you know?”

“People are killing each other to get to a phone that was in her car,” Abby said. “I have it now. It was in the box I brought down to you. I don’t know what in the hell is on it, but it looks like he took her picture. It’s on the lock screen now, and it wants her name. But her name doesn’t—”

The phone beeped in her ear then, and her first thought was the battery was low, but when she glanced at the display, she saw an incoming call, the number blocked.

The wind off the water died down, but the chill within her spread.

“Hang on,” she told Shannon Beckley, and then she ignored her objection and switched over to answer the incoming call. “Hello?”

“Hello, Abby.”

It was the kid.

Abby didn’t speak.

She stood with the phone to her ear and her head bowed, eyes focused on the single red leaf fluttering against her dirt-streaked jeans.

The kid seemed amused when he said, “You do recognize my voice, right? I’m usually memorable. Apologies for the arrogance of that statement.”

Abby reached down and flicked the leaf free from her jeans and watched it ride away on the wind. Finally, she found her voice.

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

“Kill who?”

“Fuck you.”

“Exactly. This is how we can go for as long as you’d like, or you can make progress. The way I understand it, you’re in a bit of a bind.”

He talks like an imitation of a human, Abby thought. Like he’s not entirely sure how to walk among us, but he’s studied it enough to fake his way. He’s got the exterior down just enough to pass. What evil is on the inside, though?

“I’ll be needing that phone, Abby,” the kid said, and right then someone down on the pier shook the remains from a bag of fast food into the water, and a handful of seagulls rose in wing and full-throated voice. They danced and dived and fought for French fries and the kid said, “On the coast, are we?”

Abby paced away from the water, a pointless effort given the piercing chorus of gulls, and wished death upon the indifferent diner who’d scattered his French fries to the wind.

“Yeah,” she said. “Miami. Come south.”

The kid’s laugh was the only genuine thing about him.

“I like you, Abby,” he said. “I mean that. But we really should get down to business.”

Abby looked at the phone display. Twenty seconds and running. Shannon Beckley still on the other line. But the kid wasn’t wrong. Abby had to get down to business or get to a police station, one or the other, and in a hurry.

“You want the phone, and I want you in jail,” she said.

“There’s not much to entice me in that scenario.”

“I want you in jail,” Abby repeated, “but I know I might not get that.”

“Wise. So what do you need instead?”

“To keep myself alive and out of jail.”

“Typical millennial. One thing is never enough. You want free shipping too?”

“The phone keeps me alive,” Abby said. “The police will too. The right ones, at least.”

“Be very cautious about that. Finding the right ones isn’t impossible, but it won’t be easy. Not for you. That’s not a bluff. That’s a promise.”

He said it with calm, earned confidence. If Abby weren’t already scared of his reach, she’d be with the police now, and they both knew that.

“Give me a number where I can call you back,” Abby said.

“Call the German. He’ll get me.”

The German? The guy who’d answered Oltamu’s phone had sounded anything but German. A trace of Boston accent, maybe, or a hint of Irish, but not German.

“You don’t know him,” the kid said. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Interesting. Let me ask you something, Abby — do you need me to go to jail or do you just need somebody other than you to go?”

“I need the right person to go.”

“Then you don’t need me. Not if you care about the food chain.”

“You killed him.”

“Think I won’t be replaced, Abby? You’re smarter than that. I know you are.”

Abby hesitated. “Hold the line a minute.”

“What?”

Abby switched calls and spoke without preamble to Shannon Beckley. “I’m going to be in touch from a different number. Keep people away from Tara. If you see a kid, somebody who looks like he walked out of the high-school yearbook, call the police.”

“What are you—”

“I won’t blame you if you don’t trust me. But you need to.” She switched calls again. “Still there?”

“Yes,” the kid said. “You have a recorder going now or a helpful witness listening, maybe?”

“No. I’m going to tell you where to find me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Listen real close so you don’t miss it.”

Abby left the call connected when she tossed the phone into the sea.

Before it reached the bottom of the harbor, she was running for her car, keys in hand. Even if she’d stayed on the phone long enough for them to trace it already, she’d be gone when they got here. It was time to get moving. Instinct told her to go farther north, to seek ever-smaller towns and more isolation, but she wanted to see Shannon Beckley. There was risk in that, of course, but maybe less than she thought. And Boston was a city filled with strangers. It would be easier to blend in there. They also had an FBI headquarters, probably even CIA. She could pick her police agency instead of relying on the locals. That’s what she would do. Get to Boston, get to Shannon Beckley, and then get to the FBI. When she called Oltamu’s phone again, she would be with the professionals. A day ago, she’d had nothing to tell them but the wild story about Hank’s house, but now she had the phone that wasn’t a phone, evidence of what all this killing was about, and that changed everything. They would believe her now.

She unlocked the Tahoe, slid behind the wheel, and cranked the engine to life. Her hand was on the gearshift when she felt the cold muzzle of a revolver press the base of her neck.

She moved her eyes to the mirror, and from the backseat, the kid in the black baseball cap smiled congenially.

“Found you,” he said.

Abby waited on the kill shot. There was no reason for the kid to hold off on it now. Unless he had a sadistic streak, which Abby thought he probably did.

He didn’t take the shot. Instead, he said, “Go ahead and put it in drive.”

Abby didn’t move. Why make it easy on him? If she was going to die either way, she’d make the little prick take the shot in a crowded spot, where people would hear it and respond to the sound, where maybe surveillance cameras would give the police a lead.

“Abby?”

“Do it here,” Abby said. She could feel the weight of the SIG Sauer in her jacket pocket, where she’d jammed it awkwardly, more concerned about concealment than access when she’d walked into the library. An amateur playing a pro’s game.