The Disposable Man (25 page)

Despite the smile my greeting evoked, his first words dispelled all hope. “From what I hear, better than you, Joe. What’re you up to?”

He glanced at Rarig, now standing by the other side of the car, but switched to me as we shook hands.

It was all the time Rarig needed.

“Don’t move.”

His tone froze us both in place, still in mid-handshake. He was holding a semi-automatic on Jimmy, all nervousness gone.

Jimmy freed his fingers from mine, his eyes narrow with anger. “What the hell?”

“Put the gun down,” I said sharply to Rarig, beginning to turn.

“Don’t,” he ordered. “Both of you—start walking toward the apartment.”

“What the hell is this?” Jimmy half-whispered to me.

“Quiet,” came from behind.

We disappeared behind the garage, out of sight of the road. I couldn’t believe what had happened. Was Rarig in fact a Russian agent? Had he killed Lew Corbin-Teich for some reason I didn’t know? Was he connected to the shooting of the professor outside the Geonomics Center? What little sense I’d thought I’d made of all this had become like water in my hand.

Once behind the garage, Rarig ordered us to put our palms against the wall and spread our legs. He then removed our guns, used our own handcuffs on our wrists, and took us upstairs to the apartment. There, he had us sit in separate chairs, to which he tied us with extension cords he salvaged from around the apartment.

“You two sit tight,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Neither Jimmy nor I said a word. After the door shut behind him, though, Jimmy asked nervously, “Talk to me, Joe. What’s happening here?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Be quiet for a second.”

We were both still. I couldn’t hear anything. Not the sound of Rarig’s footsteps going downstairs, not any traffic from the street. The apartment had all the acoustics of a bank vault. “The place is soundproofed,” I said. Jimmy Zarrillo stared at me, half-angry, half-scared. “His name’s John Rarig. He’s a retired CIA officer—at least I think he is. We’re up here to try to save the guy who was supposed to have been shot this morning.”

Jimmy looked incredulous. “What?”

“The guy who was killed was apparently the wrong target. They were looking for Lew Corbin-Teich. He’s a teacher at the college and an old Soviet defector. Rarig was his case officer. But Rarig doesn’t know who’s behind the hit, and he thinks it might be CIA, so he couldn’t go to his old buddies for help.”

Jimmy was shaking his head. “Jesus, Joe. Do you know what all this sounds like? ‘Supposed’ this, ‘we think’ that, ‘apparently’ the other. It’s like a goddamn fairy tale. Why’d he pull a gun on you, if you’re working together?”

“Hold it,” I cautioned.

Beneath us, we could feel a slight vibration.

“It’s the garage door,” I guessed. “He’s hiding your car.”

“He going to kill us?” Jimmy asked, his voice a note higher.

“I don’t think so. Believe it or not, I think he’s just trying to stabilize what you interrupted.”

“
Me
?” Zarrillo burst out. “I just happened to see you. You know there’s a warrant out for you.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s a total crock. Rarig thinks the same people who framed me are behind all this.” I paused after saying those words, wondering if in fact Rarig had ever uttered them, or if I had just been allowed to fill in the blanks to keep me happy.

The door opened without warning and Rarig stepped back into the room. This time, he sat down, extracting the gun again, but letting it hang loosely in his hand.

“Okay,” he said, addressing us both. “I am sorry about this—call it universal damage control. I didn’t want a long conversation out in the front yard. I take it Joe’s filled you in?”

Jimmy glared at him contemptuously. “He gave me some bullshit about you being a CIA agent.”

“Case officer,” Rarig corrected. “Retired.” A look of irritation crossed his face. “Look, you’re in no danger. This apartment is a halfway house for an old friend of mine—”

“I told him,” I said.

“You mention his name?”

“Sure I did. What do you think?”

He dismissed that. “Doesn’t matter. All that’ll change anyhow, assuming he’s still alive.” He addressed Jimmy again. “What I need is some time to save this man’s life. You’re just a victim of bad luck. Once Joe and I are done locating Lew—one way or the other—I’ll tell your colleagues where you are and how to get you out, and that’ll be that.”

Jimmy looked around, made noticeably less anxious by Rarig’s sincere tone of voice. “How long’s that likely to be? I could starve to death in here.”

“A day or two at most. I’m not saying it won’t be uncomfortable, but I can’t risk letting you go. And in case we’re both killed, I’ll make sure they have a way of finding out where you are. I’m sorry about the lack of food, but I didn’t plan on this.”

“Great,” Jimmy muttered.

Rarig switched over to me and held up the handcuff key. “Can I let you go?”

“Not unless you want me to turn you in.”

“I thought you’d say that. Nothing’s changed, you know. We’re still on the same mission.”

“Sounds like Flash Gordon,” I said, “which is what I should’ve realized from the start. I don’t even know for sure you ever worked for the CIA.”

His eyes widened. “
You
came up with it, and you hit the nail on the head, about the real Rarig being killed, and how the trail was erased. I didn’t come knocking on your door.”

I shook my head. “John—or whatever your name is—I let myself be conned this far because I was desperate to get out of my own mess. You told me you had the evidence to clear my name, and only after I was a wanted man did you admit it was bullshit. Now you’ve kidnapped a police officer and you’re holding him against his will, and it’s all on the strength of some spy story from the past that nobody can prove. I went with you this far—I admit that—but I can’t go any further. I’m in too deep, I got nothing to gain, and I think it’s time to face what I got to face.”

Rarig rubbed his forehead with frustration. “Somebody tried to kill you, right?” He didn’t continue, so after a pause, I filled in the obvious.

“Right.”

“And somebody framed you for the jewelry theft.”

“Okay.”

“
Well, it wasn’t me
,” he said, almost shouting, suddenly standing up and pacing the room. “I’m the sorry bastard who found a body on his front lawn. Don’t you get it yet? We’re both being jerked around. Somebody’s after something, and we’re just part of the plan. I was used to get the ball rolling, and you were framed to get you out of their hair.”

He stopped in front of me and looked me straight in the eyes. “I could go home right now and let Lew be killed, if he hasn’t been already. And you could turn yourself in and have your life as you know it come to an end—all because some sons of bitches figured things should turn out that way. Or you can fight back. Regain your life. Show them you’re tougher than they think you are.”

He brought his face closer. “These guys—CIA, KGB, Mafia, whatever they are—spend their entire careers manipulating people—the people they’re against and the people who work for them. You and I are totally disposable. We mean nothing, and sometimes we’re thrown away for no reason at all—to give someone a minute advantage, to make someone else feel a little better about himself, to allow some politician half a world away to say something without being a bald-faced liar.”

He stepped back and looked at me sorrowfully. “You can let that happen if you want, but I’m goddamned if I will.”

He turned back to Jimmy. “I am truly sorry you got mixed up in this, but that’s the way things are, and if he wants to be your roommate for a couple of days, so be it. I’m not quitting.”

The room’s utter silence descended like a brick following his outburst. Jimmy looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Why not go for it?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “I’m screwed either way. With you out there, I’ve got twice the chance of being found. I’ve known you for years. Him I just met. Do me the favor.”

I sighed, tired of what seemed to have become an endless string of moral decisions, all stemming from a situation I didn’t understand. I twisted around in my chair, offering my handcuffed wrists to Rarig. “All right. Let’s get it done.”

· · ·

Rarig and I sat uneasily in the car, different allies than we’d been before, bound less by the lies and dubious perceptions that had guided us thus far, and more by an odd sense of survival. Wrapped in a moral white-out, I knew my only chance of staying alive now was to simply keep moving and hope I was headed in the right direction.

“You should’ve told me you had a gun,” I said.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” This time, Rarig was behind the wheel, his earlier anxiety replaced by the tactical calm of a veteran. This was certainly more his type of battleground than mine. Still, as he backed the car out into the street, he showed a lack of self-assurance. “What do we do now?”

“Go to Corbin-Teich’s apartment,” I answered without thinking.

“He’s not going to be there.”

“It’s where he left his life behind. There’ll be traces of where he went.”

Rarig looked at me strangely and began driving back toward campus, eventually entering a short, tree-shaded residential street. He pointed out an elaborate Victorian building with a fancy balcony clinging to the second floor.

“That’s it,” he said. “Upstairs.”

“You got a key?”

Rarig patted his pocket and parked the car by the curb. We both got out, looking around cautiously. “What happens when the locals find out their detective’s missing?” he asked, casually walking toward the building’s broad front steps.

“Given the way he approached us, I doubt he called it in,” I answered. “Could be hours. ’Course, if he was due back at the station, they’ll be looking for him soon—or if he’s late for his next appointment.”

Rarig looked surprised, hesitating on the top step. “I thought you were supposed to call in every time you left the vehicle.”

“Patrol officers are. This was more of a thing between friends. The warrant on me isn’t for anything violent, and my bet is there isn’t a cop in the state who doesn’t think Fred Coffin’s full of crap. Jimmy just wanted to find out what was going on.”

Rarig crossed the porch to a side entrance, pulling out his key ring. “Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

He unlocked the door, which opened directly onto a staircase leading up, and proceeded ahead.

“He live here long?” I asked from behind.

“All the years he’s been in Middlebury.”

At the top, there was another door, unlocked, which let us into a large, pleasant, plant- and book-filled living room with broad windows, thick carpets, and comfortable furniture. It smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, old leather, and slightly dusty wool.

Rarig moved immediately to the phone and dialed a number. A moment later, he began speaking, his monotone making it clear he was addressing an answering machine. “This is John Rarig. If you hear this message and are looking for Middlebury police officer Jimmy Zarrillo, he is being confined at the address at the end of this message. It is an upstairs apartment, above a garage, fitted with a special security door, the keys for which have been left on a small ledge underneath the first step of the stairs outside. The magnetic key fits into a knothole near the top hinge, and the door pushes inward. The knob is a decoy.” He then gave the address and hung up, looking over at me. “Satisfied?”

“If you weren’t talking into a dead phone, sure.”

He smiled, but without humor. “I called my private line at the inn. Before too long, I’ll be reported missing and someone else’ll connect the same dots we did. That message guarantees Zarrillo’s survival and it buys us a little time.” He then waved his arm at the apartment around us. “Okay—be my guest. He won’t have left any tracks you wouldn’t normally expect, though. Too many years living in the shadows—the trick to this business is to be who you seem to be.”

“So no records of mortgages, phone bills, rental agreements, or anything connecting him to somewhere else?”

“Right.” Rarig seemed almost pleased by this fact, as if—just temporarily—he was enjoying the pure tradecraft of it all.

But I wasn’t put off. “Good—makes things easier.”

He looked at me quizzically, but made no comment.

I began by making a general survey of the place, slowly walking through the kitchen, bedroom, bath, spare room, and office. I tried to pick up on the patterns of the man—what toothpaste he used, if he flossed or not, did his shampoo reflect a dandruff problem or not, did he like one- or two-ply. I counted mirrors, I looked at clothing, I noticed the degree of shine on his shoes, the type of literature he favored, the food and drink he liked, the artwork he found pleasing. I studied his choices in music and found several similar symphonies done by different orchestras and conductors. I discovered a love of plays—reading, attending, and directing them—from several signed production photos, a thick pile of annotated playbooks, and assorted memorabilia.

After almost two hours of this, Rarig finally showed his impatience. “Haven’t found him yet? I saw you looking at the toilet paper.”

“It’s a character insight,” I said. “I’ll check yours out when we get back to the inn.”

Rarig shifted his attention to the view outside the window. His earlier agitated gloominess had returned. “This is such a waste of time. He’s probably dead by now anyhow.”

“You two keep in touch over the years?”

“Pretty much. We had to be careful. Leave no traces.”

“I bet he was good at that. Careful. Neat. A good planner.”

Rarig glanced at me. “Yeah.”

“A good actor, too,” I added. “Conscious of how he projected himself. Always aware of how the audience was reacting.”

Rarig allowed a half smile. “True.”

“And for all that, a little insecure. Not only a man of habits, but fond of routine and happy to be placed in positions of imposed authority, where his title alone demanded automatic courtesy.”

Rarig laughed softly. “Very good. A regular Sherlock Holmes.”