Blackbird (11 page)

From where you’re parked you can just see the Mercedes up ahead. The men don’t notice you. They’re too busy pulling Ivan from the backseat. They start toward the entrance.

You cut through the neighbors’ front yards as they disappear inside. Part of the house is covered with a tarp. You climb the chain-link fence, circling around to the cement backyard.

As you move along the back of the house, only one window is lit. It’s so dirty you have to wipe away a patch of dust and grime just to see. Ivan is there with the two men. The house is mostly empty, the foyer filled with construction supplies—ladders and tarps bearing a logo for Parillo Construction. The dining room is outfitted with several tables. Papers cover every surface. Cardboard file boxes are stacked by the door. A map of Los Angeles is spread out on one wall, red pins dotted across it. Another wall is covered with a dozen photos. From your angle you can only see three or so—a falcon, a cobra, a shark. They’re each labeled with cities—New York, Los Angeles, Miami. You try to get a better view but the only other window is on the second floor, too high to reach.

The man in the black hat leans on one of the tables, his eyes fixed on Ivan. “So I hear you’ve had an eventful few days.”

Ivan nods, his expression uncertain. He picks at the rope around his wrists, his fingers worrying the cord. “I’ve told you everything I know about the murder. I saw the girl shoot her, then she ran off. I got rid of the body. That’s it.”

“What I can’t figure out is why you were there when it happened,” the man goes on. “It’s just funny timing that you happened to be checking the tracking device when she was killed. Lucky for us, I guess.”

Ivan just stands there, nodding, knowing it’s not yet his turn to speak. His skin is already slick with sweat, his face still splotchy and stained from the mace. There are wet circles under his arms. The man shoots a sideway glance at his friend, as if to gauge Ivan’s reaction.

“And now this. You give us her location, then you turn up there, then we get a call from the girl on your phone. What are we supposed to make of this? I mean, less than a month working for us and you’re already fucking up.”

“‘Fucking up’ is an understatement,” the other man says.

There’s a long pause. Finally Ivan speaks. “It wasn’t my fault. She set a trap. She knew I would come so she left the device there for a few days and waited for me. She wanted to know about the office building, and what happened there. She asked me about the woman who chased her. But I didn’t tell her anything, I didn’t. I swear.” His voice is strained, his words rushed. As he looks back up at the men, a thin trickle of sweat cuts down the side of his face.

The man in the black baseball hat nods, listening. Then he steps forward. He leans down so his face is level with Ivan’s. He’s just six inches away, so close that it feels like a threat. “Tell us exactly what you told her, Ivan. I want every word of it.”

“I didn’t tell her anything. . . .” Ivan scans the room as he says it, looking to the other men, his voice rising in panic. “She knew it all already—about the tracking device, about the setup. She knew it all.”

“Did she know about the island?” he asks.

“What island?” Ivan says, confused.

The man asks so matter-of-factly you wonder if you heard it right. There’s no way to know if the forest from the dreams was on an island, but thinking back to it, it could have been. The lush, tropical trees. The vines and undergrowth. How the air was heavy and wet. How long were you on the island? Is the boy from the dream real? If he is, is he still there somewhere?

“One last chance, Ivan. You don’t have anything else to say about what happened to the client?” the man asks. “Nothing to confess? Some of our other clients are asking questions. We told them the girl did it, that it was all an unfortunate accident, one we hope to avoid in the future. But she’s never killed before. They might not know that, but we do.”

Standing crouched by the window, you try to make sense of it—how they tracked you only at specific times, how they wanted you dead. Who are their clients? Was the woman who chased you one of them? And what does he mean, you’ve never killed before? How do they know?

“I’m telling you the truth,” Ivan pleads. “I swear I didn’t tell her—”

The first blow comes from the other man. He was so silent you hardly noticed him, but he plows into Ivan, striking him in the side of his face, just below his eye. Ivan doubles over, his hands raised to cover his cheek, but the man moves in, punching him again.

There’s blood all over the man’s fist. You wince as you look at Ivan, how small he seems on the floor, curling in on himself. The man kicks him in the ribs. Then he grabs the rope that binds Ivan’s hands, pulling him to stand.

Ivan’s nose is bleeding, his cheek swollen, a gash just below his right eye. The man with the hat moves in again, leaning down to speak. “Where did she go when she left the park? Is she still there?”

“She went south,” Ivan says miserably. The last time you saw him you were heading north, up the trail, there was no mistaking it. He is lying for you. He’s trying to help you get away. “She was going toward Hollywood, I think, maybe back to the bus station. I don’t know. She just dropped the phone and ran.”

“We only have two locations for her—the station and park. Where was she the last few days? Just tell us and we’ll stop.”

Your whole body is rigid, afraid of what Ivan will say. Was he checking the tracking device when you were at Ben’s? You imagine Ben there, alone, when the car pulls up
outside. You imagine him seeing the two men on his front porch. Your chest tightens. It was stupid to think that you could somehow protect him from them. You don’t even know who they are. You hold the keys tightly in your hand. You could get to the car in less than a minute. You could be at Ben’s house in less than twenty. You could try to get there first.

But Ivan just repeats his story, his voice low and even. “I don’t know. I didn’t write down every location. I told you—I was nearby when I saw on the device that she was at the freeway, and went to check on her. I saw her shoot the woman and I called it in and cleaned it up, like you told me to. Then she went to the park and she’s been there since. The tracking device didn’t move for days. That’s the only reason I went to check on her, I swear. I’m not helping her,” he finishes.

The next few blows are louder. The man lets go of Ivan’s hand and hits him several times, in quick succession. Ivan tries to protect his face, but already there is blood seeping through his fingers. It continues until the man in the black hat holds up a hand as if to say
enough
.

“I can’t trust you,” the man in the hat says. “And if I can’t trust you, I can’t use you.”

The other man grabs Ivan’s hands, dragging him to the front of the house. The man with the baseball hat follows behind. You press against the side of the building, lowering yourself down, out of sight. Ivan had access to the tracking device the entire time. He must’ve known you were at Ben’s. He had all the information—the motel you stayed at, the diner, the beach. He chose to protect you. And now what was going to happen to him?

You listen to the door open and close, to their steps as they circle the front of the house. They climb into the car. The engine starts. You don’t know where they’re taking him, but you can’t let them hurt him—not after what he’s done for you.

The car sets off. You count down from thirty, waiting to move until you know they’ve cleared the end of the street. Then you hop the fence, sprinting through the neighboring yards, not stopping until you’re in Ivan’s car. You pull out to follow the Mercedes. You pass the first corner, then the next, scanning the side streets for any sign of them. But there’s only a lone taxicab and the neon signs of the passing strip malls.

You have lost them.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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YOU HIKE UP
the trail, scanning the darkened slope for your pack. It was a risk to come back to Griffith Park, but without the knapsack you have nothing. You checked and doubled-checked your route, taking one of the upper paths, below the Hollywood sign, to make sure you weren’t followed. You parked several blocks below the entrance. Now you snake down to the spot behind the bushes and quickly dig the pack free. The mace is empty, and the knife fell somewhere in the ravine as you ran away, but you can’t find it in the dark. After a few minutes of searching you give up and return to the car.

You climb in, listening to the sound of your breaths. The clock reads 9:38
P.M.
You pull the notebook from your back pocket and write:

       
- The woman who tried to kill me was a client of some sort of organization

       
- Ivan met these people through a man he was doing work for in Altadena

       
- The men involved:

            
- thin man with black baseball cap, stubble, 6'3"-6'5"

            
- stocky man, shorter (5'9"?)

            
- The house they used as a headquarters was off Hollywood Blvd

       
- Map and three photos on the wall: a falcon, a cobra, a shark (Code names? Related to my tattoo?)

       
- The men referenced an island

When you close your eyes you can’t see the man in the black hat, can’t make out his features. The other man is even hazier. Maybe he wore a blue shirt, maybe it was black.
You left so fast you didn’t get the exact street name. You didn’t look at the house number and the Mercedes didn’t have plates. But what they said . . . those words are still clear.
Did she know about the island?

As you put the notebook away you notice a small square of paper in the center console, right under the emergency brake. You hold it up. It’s a photo of Ivan and his daughter, no more than fourteen. They have the same blue eyes, the same square jaw and long, angular nose. Ivan’s arm is around her shoulder. Smiling, he seems like a different person. Just looking at it your body is cold, and there’s a heavy tensing around your heart. Where did they take him? What is happening to him now?

You start the engine and begin to drive, considering your next move. You’ll need to dump the car somewhere, but then what? It’s too risky to go back to the headquarters. You don’t know if it’s safe to go to Ben’s—the men seemed to have very limited information on your whereabouts, and Ivan didn’t tell them anything, but you’re still not sure. You listen to the dull rush of air through the vents, thinking of Ivan’s words. Why did they put a tracking device on you and then only ask for your location twice?

You drive for fifteen minutes. The traffic on Venice Boulevard drags on, cars inching forward, slowing up, then speeding down. Suddenly a flash of headlights blinds you in the rearview mirror. A black car is directly behind you. You turn. It follows. Again you turn and it follows you.

You watch the odometer change, ticking out the miles. The black car is still visible in your rearview mirror, even though you’ve switched lanes several times, even though you changed your route, trying to lose it. Has it been there since Griffith Park?

It’s probably nothing, probably someone anxious to get home at 10 o’clock at night, but you’d rather be sure. Up ahead is a gas station with a fast-food restaurant attached. You park at the edge of the lot and wait a minute before getting out of the car, heading toward the fast-food restaurant. You grab your pack and slip the photo into your pocket.

Inside, it smells of fried chicken. A few people wait in line for fountain sodas. Others are huddled over their trays, wolfing down the last of French fries and onion rings. There are security cameras by the front entrance. You turn away from them, keeping your eyes down, heading toward the bathroom.

There are four stalls and you move past each one, pushing in the door, making sure no one’s behind it. You turn the water on, letting it run until it’s nice and cold. The water feels good on your face, a stinging flush that wakes you. Staring in the mirror you start to feel normal again. Whatever you thought you saw you imagined.

You push into the farthest stall, pulling your T-shirt off and turning it inside out so the logo is gone. You braid your hair to the side, making sure it covers your scar. The cameras have already seen you once. This time you’ll walk out in the other direction,
cutting through the side exit so there isn’t a clear record of you leaving.

You’re about to go when the bathroom door opens. Through the crack in the stall you see a man in a hat and sunglasses. He turns the lock behind him, trapping you inside. He’s holding a gun.

You immediately bring your feet up, one on either side of the toilet lid, trying to stay hidden as best you can.

Everything in you goes cold.

He pauses, looking down the row of stalls. He has a gray T-shirt on and it strikes you how ordinary it is, how normal. You still your breaths. You reach for the knife at your waist, forgetting it’s gone.

He moves down the row slowly, methodically. His palm rests flat on the first door, then he pushes it open. He goes to the next and does the same. With only one more left you know he’ll be here soon, in front of you.

“Why’s this locked? Who’s in there?” a voice calls. Someone pounds on the door, the lock rattling.

The man spins around, staring at the bathroom door to see if it will open. The door is shaking. You can see the lock turning, about to come free. The man turns, lunging for the last stall. He is almost to you when the bathroom door springs open.

A man in a gray jumpsuit pushes in, two older women behind him. “What the hell is going on in here?” he asks, looking at the man in the hat. His gun has disappeared behind his back.

It’s your chance. You slide open the lock and push out of the stall. “He followed me in here,” you say, pretending to wipe away tears. “He locked it and he wouldn’t let me out.”

You don’t wait to hear the janitor’s response. You don’t even turn to look into the man’s face. You just run.