J. Gonzalez - They

“Yes,” she nodded, looking a little surprised. “My mother is. My dad’s from Monrovia.”

“If you’re in this, you’re in all the way. Do you understand?”

Tracy nodded. For the first time Mike detected a hint of nervousness in a face that, up till now, had been bold and defiant.

“Be honest with us and yourself if you want in,” Mike continued. “This isn’t some bullshit game. If I’d had any inclination that I was putting my family in danger six months ago, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. I wouldn’t have even gone through all the bullshit of setting up a false identity and investigating all this under a pseudonym. I erred on the notion that if I put that kind of distance between my real self and personal life and this other identity, that my family and I would be safe. I was wrong. If you want to get involved, there is the very strong possibility that you may be placing your family in danger. Do you understand?”

Tracy nodded, suddenly looking worried. She glanced at Vince, who put his arm around her shoulders in an encouraging hug. She turned back to Mike, straightening herself up. “Yes. I understand. And I want in.”

Mike nodded. “Okay.” He looked at Frank. “You got a tooth brush I can borrow? My mouth feels like a septic tank.”

“Go for it,” Frank said, motioning to the bathroom. “My stuff’s in there.”

“Thanks.” Mike stepped past them and paused briefly. “We’ll call you in a few hours and discuss what we’re going to do next. If you don’t hear from us by the end of the day, do what you can to drop out of sight completely. Disappear.”

Vince and Tracy nodded. They left the room as Mike brushed his teeth and freshened up quickly. Then he and Frank left the room for the Bank of America in Fountain Valley where he kept his safe deposit box.

THEY ONLY HAD to wait a few minutes for the bank official to wait on them. She was a small woman with porcelain features and waist length black hair. “Can I help you?”

Mike presented his pseudonymous identification. “I’ve got a safe deposit box I’d like access to.”

The woman smiled and typed into her computer. “Box number?”

“1356,” Mike replied.

The woman typed the number in the computer and waited. “Identification?”

Mike pushed his wallet across the desk. The woman looked at it, looked at Mike, then smiled. She reached into her desk for a set of keys. “Come with me, Mr. Costello.”

Mike motioned for Frank to stay seated and followed the clerk towards the vault.

The woman opened the vault with a key and escorted Mike in where the safe deposit boxes were. “Box 1356?”

“Yes,” Mike said. He reached into his pocket for his copy of the key, which he’d attached to his key ring. The woman took it, slid it into the lock, and opened it. She took out the box and handed it to Mike. The moment Mike took the box, he felt a sinking sense of despair. This should be heavier than it is , he thought.

“There’s a room around the corner.” The woman said. “Call me when you’re finished.”

“Thank you.” Mike followed the woman out of the vault and went to the room where he closed the door.

The box he’d gotten was the largest the bank had to offer. It was three feet long, four inches deep and seven inches wide. It was large enough to fit manila file folders and manuscripts in. Mike had stored two zip disks of information as well as three file folders of affidavits, notes, and photographs, among other things. His heart hammered in his chest as he opened the box.

For a minute it felt like his heart was going to stop. He stared into the box, not believing what he was seeing. He pulled the plastic top all the way off, running his hand inside. This can’t be , he thought. I was just here last fucking week!

The safe deposit box was empty.

Mike Peterson felt the room spinning. His stomach lurched, doing slow flops. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It felt like he was going to be sick. Good thing he hadn’t eaten yet; still, it was probably his empty stomach giving him the jitters. But no, the box was empty; that was a cold, hard fact. He opened his eyes again, hoping his vision had been deceiving him but it wasn’t.

“Miss.” His voice sounded shaky, trembling. He stepped outside the room and caught the teller’s eye. “Miss?”

“Yes, Mr. Costello?” The woman approached him, a smile on her face.

Mike stood aside, conflicting emotions of fear and surprise and anger battling for position. “My box is empty. Who emptied my box?”

The woman looked puzzled. “Excuse me, sir?”

“ I said my fucking box is empty !” Mike yelled. He suddenly had the irresistible urge to slap this woman, this bank drone, to take her by the shoulders and shake her, demand that she tell him who she’d let in here to take his stuff. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Calm down , he told himself. It’s not her fault, just calm down, calm down —

The woman was stunned. She opened her mouth, looked behind her towards the line of tellers, as if debating on whether she should sprint to safety then turned back to Mike. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid… um…”

“The last time I was here,” Mike said, forcing himself to be calm and not go ballistic, “I deposited two zip disks and a file containing important documents. I also had several other files containing other documents. That was last week.”

“Do you share this account with anybody else?” the bank clerk asked.

“No.”

“And this is your box?” The clerk looked at the box, probably to verify for herself that, yes, Mike did have the correct key.

“Yes, this is the right box.” It was taking all of Mike’s willpower to not go crazy.

“Wait here a moment please.” The clerk left, heading across the bank.

Mike could only look into the empty box, his mind swimming with a thousand questions. Carol wouldn’t have been able to have access to this box even if I gave her a key. She’s not a signatory. If something had happened to me, it would have taken weeks for Carol to gain access to this box. That means somebody knows, they’ve known who I am for months, maybe even years, and —f

“Mr. Costello?”

Mike looked up. An overweight balding man with glasses wearing a white shirt, black slacks, and a dark blue tie had approached him. The man bore the official look and demeanor of the branch manager. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes,” Mike said, holding the empty safe deposit box. “My box is empty and it wasn’t empty last week when I came in to deposit something inside it.”

“I see,” the bank manager said, taking a quick look at the box. “And you don’t have a co-owner or an executor to this—”

“No!” Mike said through gritted teeth.

The bank clerk returned with the sign-in card. The bank manager nodded at Mike. “The sign-in sheet should tell us something. Let’s see.” He ran his finger down a column. Mike placed the empty safe deposit box down on a shelf and joined them. “Ah, here we are. Three days ago.” Mike looked at where the bank manager’s pudgy finger was pointing and his heart leaped in his chest. This can’t be , he thought. This just can’t be .

“It appears you were in three days ago,” the bank manager said, his voice sounding far away. “There’s your signature.”

Mike stared at the sign-in sheet. Sure enough, the signature he used to sign his pseudonym, Matthew Costello, was identical to the one he had used all the other times. This signature was scrawled on a line halfway down the page, with a date of July 13, 1999, three days ago. Box number 1356.