Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

In the shadows of the Ferry Building, he watched the woman sitting on the waterfront bench not far away. They had the Embarcadero mostly to themselves. She wasn’t aware of him, although he’d been following her for half an hour. She had coffee, as he did, from the same place; he’d been four customers behind her in line. He thought it was interesting that she went there, bypassing other coffee shops on the route that led from her apartment to the water.

He walked along the sidewalk, approaching her. She was too caught up in her thoughts to notice him. She was on the bayside bench, and he sat down on the city-facing bench directly behind her. All the other benches around them were empty. He could feel her stiffen with annoyance that she was sharing her morning with a stranger.

“Hello, Eden,” he said.

His voice was like the touch of a live wire, jolting her to her feet. She spun around, and he heard some of her coffee splatter on the sidewalk. He stared at the palm trees of the Embarcadero without looking back at her.

“What are you doing here, Rudy?” she demanded.

“I miss our chats.”

“Get the hell away from me!”

“That’s no way to talk to an old friend,” he replied smoothly. “You’re the one who wanted the voice inside, remember? How can you get that if we don’t talk?”

“How did you find me?”

“I do my research, just like you. I like your new place, by the way. High-floor condo. Security building. No one’s likely to wander in off the street and surprise you, are they?”

He didn’t think she would run away. Not from him. He saw her studying the street in both directions to confirm that they were alone. She came around to the other side of the bench and sat down next to him. Her face was drawn and tired, without makeup.

“Not sleeping well?” he asked. “Still having nightmares?”

“I don’t need your concern.”

“Well, I know how it is. You close your eyes, and you’re right back in the past. That’s how trauma works. I’d like to tell you it gets better, but it doesn’t. It’s with you until you die.”

“Shut up, Rudy.”

He watched her touch the scar that adorned her skin like a necklace. He’d seen her do that many times. It was a habit, like a way to remind herself who she was. She was layer upon layer of toughness. That was how she’d survived. If it came to a battle between the two of them, he didn’t know who would win.

“Have you seen the news?” he asked.

Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup. “Yes. You killed Jess Salceda. Why? She was never part of your plan.”

He didn’t say anything. Even around Eden, he was cautious.

“Do you think I’m recording you?” she asked.

“No, but you have new friends. Your book has a new hero.”

“I hope you don’t think you were ever the hero in my book.”

“Maybe not, but your loyalties are divided now. That worries me. We had an agreement, Eden. If you break the rules, don’t be surprised if your opponent does the same. Jess learned that the hard way.”

“Don’t threaten me, Rudy. It’s not smart.”

“I could say the same thing,” he replied.

Eden shrugged. Her face was a shell that didn’t crack. “If you stay here, if you keep doing this, they’re going to catch you. Or kill you.”

“Well, that should make for an exciting end to your book.”

“You’re right. It will.”

“How’s the book coming, by the way? Are you almost done?”

“You tell me,” she said.

He couldn’t suppress the barest smile at that remark.

“Do you already have a deal with a publisher?” he asked. “I imagine this project will make you a lot of money. Big advance. Book tour. Maybe another movie. I wonder who they’ll get to play me.”

“It’s not about the money,” Eden said.

“Right, it’s about proving yourself as a writer. It’s about getting inside my head. Or is it about getting inside your head, Eden? Honestly, I’ve always wondered about that. Is the book really about me, or are you trying to understand who you are? After all this time, you still can’t come to grips with what happened to you in that basement.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Rudy. Experts have tried and failed.” She crushed her empty coffee cup in her hand. “Enough with the games. Why are you here? Why did you find me?”

“I need your help.”

“Forget it,” Eden snapped. “I’m done with that. It’s over.”

“That’s not how it works. You know that.”

Eden jumped to her feet. “No? I’m leaving, and you’re going to stay away from me. Got it? The next thing I do is buy a gun, and if you come near me again, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. Do you think anyone would care if I killed you? Do you think they’d put me on trial? I think they’d give me a medal. Now that would be quite the ending for my book, Rudy.”

“Fine. Walk away. I won’t stop you.”

She stared at him, breathing fast. Her eyes were fierce. The seconds ticked by, and the day got brighter. A trolley train passed them on its way to the Wharf, its bells chiming.

“And yet here you are, Eden,” Rudy went on. “We both know you’re not going anywhere. Face it, you need me to keep your secret.”

Eden said nothing. He watched her stand there, frozen, as if her feet were glued to the pavement. When she spoke, she practically spat her words back at him. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”

Rudy calmly sipped his coffee. He was in no hurry.

“I want you to tell me everything you know about Frost Easton.”

Frost had spent all night wanting to get home, but when he got there, the silence of the house felt oppressive. He was too tired to sleep, and when he closed his eyes, the memory of Jess haunted him. He found himself wandering up and down the stairs, through the house’s dusty rooms, with Shack keeping pace beside him. He wasn’t looking for anything; he was just restless and hurting.

Downstairs, at the mirrored bar, he found the bottle of Trago Reposado he kept for Jess. Only a third of the tequila was gone, but she wouldn’t be having any more shots. He unscrewed the bottle and inhaled its aroma, which he remembered on her breath. Then he overturned it in the sink and watched the alcohol splash and swirl as it disappeared down the drain.

He couldn’t stay here.

“Road trip?” he said to Shack.

The cat propped his front paws on Frost’s leg to be picked up, and Frost scooped him up and deposited him on his shoulder. Shack hung on with his claws. The two of them left the house and headed for Frost’s Suburban.

Like most San Franciscans, Frost avoided the tourist-infested area of Fisherman’s Wharf whenever he could, but in the early morning hours, he could usually get in and out ahead of the crowds. He parked at the red curb near Alioto’s on the bay and got out. Shack, who knew exactly what it meant to be down here, patrolled the dashboard impatiently. Frost greeted his old friends behind the counter at the seafood stand and ordered a Dungeness crab cocktail. They all knew him here. The cop with the cat. If there was one thing Shack loved, it was crab.

He got back in the Suburban, and Shack was all over him. It made it hard to drive, keeping one hand on the wheel and one hand on Shack’s nose to prevent him from eating all the crab before he got where he was going. In the end, he gave up and started feeding Shack pieces of crab to eat on the front seat, and in between, he took some for himself, too.

He drove out of the Wharf area into the Marina District. Duane owned a tiny one-bedroom condominium a block from the yacht harbor. For the price, it was a ridiculous indulgence, because Duane was hardly ever there. But his brother had wanted a waterside apartment his whole life, and when he sold his first restaurant to an investment group, he channeled some of the profit into his Marina dream.