Total Immunity (4 page)

Tommy waited until the three Feds had stopped laughing at him, then sprang his surprise.

“You boys are a little behind the curve. This humble servant of the people is now working for the new superstar agency, the Department of Homeland Security.”

“Jumped ship, huh, Tommy?” Hughes said.

Wilson laughed and looked at Jack.

“Just went where my services are needed by my country. And the way I hear it, we might roll
you
guys up into
our
agency, given all the tragic mistakes you've made of late.”

Hughes started to get off the bar stool, but Blakely held him back.

“Not funny, Tommy.”

“Then why am I laughing so hard?” Wilson smiled wickedly at the three FBI agents and walked around to the other side of the bar, where three other agents greeted him.

“I oughta kick that arrogant dickhead's ass,” Hughes said.

“Aw, fuck him,” Blakely said. “They're still the new kids on the block.”

Hughes shook his head, said, “I just hope Congress doesn't give them the
whole
block.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “They grabbed off eight of our agents in the last six months. Man, it's getting thin out there.”

“Fuck 'em and the horse they rode in on,” Blakely said.

“Eloquently put, Zac,” Jack said. “You are a master of the English language.”

“Fuckin' A, I am,” a somewhat renewed Blakely said. “I am the king of wit and hyperbole. And I taught you all you know, young Jackie.”

“That you did,” Jack said. “The man was my first partner, Charlie.”

“Really?” Charlie said. “And you didn't shoot him for insubordination?”

“Tried to several times,” Blakely said. “But he moved too fast. He doesn't need my help anymore. He's his own man out there. That was good work today, Jackie. I never knew you could run like that.”

“Always been fast,” Jack said. “Speed of foot makes up for my slow mental capacities.”

“I'll drink to that,” Hughes said.

Hughes and Blakely clicked glasses, said their good-byes, and headed for the door.

“Keep what I told you in mind,” Blakely said. “Slick Billy would like to bring us all down.”

“Got it,” Jack said.

“Drive safe,” Charlie said. “They got traffic cops out there.” The two Feds waved as they headed out the door. Jack looked

out at the Pacific, saw the moon gleaming off the waves. Seeing and hearing the roar of the surf settled him, made his blood pressure drop, and took away the violent images and feelings that warred inside of him.

He thought of the bearded man, wondered if he was a spy and, if so, was he working for Forrester or Karl Steinbach? Or if he was just some poor beach bum who they'd only imagined was part of their little paranoid party?

Jack sighed, tried to clear his mind. He looked at Charlie, his gray swept-back hair, his broad football player's chest . . . There was something solid about Charlie, he thought, something stable, unlike himself. He was mercurial, always had been. Which was why he was attracted to undercover work. There were times when he came down off being one of the bad guys when he didn't know who he was anymore. There would be a two- or three-day period when he would look at his son, Kevin, or his girlfriend, Julie, and feel emotionally dead to them. It was like they were strangers, yet worse than that, because with a stranger he might want to make an effort to impress or at least be civil. With his own friends and family, even Kevin, he would feel as though he had blown down to zero, maybe beyond. What was real and what was false had become so twisted in his mind that his ordinary human affections seemed to go into hiding. And he secretly feared that one day they might not return.

“Hey,” Charlie said, “how about one for the road?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why not?”

Charlie motioned to Sam, the Italian barmaid, and she picked up the shot glass and filled it with Jack Daniel's.

“You and Julie doing good, Jackie?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Pretty good, anyway.”

“Wedding bells?”

“Nah, not yet, Charlie. You know how it is. I'm already zero for one on that score. 'Sides, I haven't known her long enough.”

“She living with you now?”

“Part-time,” Jack said. “She's keeping her own apartment until . . . you know, we're sure.”

“Know what you mean,” Charlie said. “Hey, you gonna bring your son up to the Brentwood League this year?”

“I don't know,” Jack said. “He's got so many things going already. Plays guitar in his rock group, and he's taking AP classes.”

What he didn't say was that Kevin had been rebellious lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, he'd lied about going to the library, and stayed out late, behavior which sent Julie into a panic. Jack had done much the same kinds of things as a kid, so he wasn't that worried. Not yet, anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” Charlie said. “But you gotta get the kid outdoors a little. We're talking baseball, the greatest sport of all time.”

“I'm a little busy right now, Charlie. I don't know if I can coach.”

“Who says you gotta? I'm up there. Kev can play on my team. The mighty Brentwood Dodgers.”

Charlie assumed a catcher's pose, and Jack laughed and punched him in the arm.

“All right. Maybe. When's sign-up?”

“Saturday at eleven,” Charlie said. “Bring him up. I remember he can really pound the ball.”

“Yeah, no doubt about it. He's got a good eye and real good bat speed. I'll talk to him about it.”

Charlie smiled happily and nodded his head.

“Man,” Jack said. “The way you are . . . you shoulda had kids, Charlie.”

Charlie sighed and shook his head.

“Tried, man. Wasn't in the cards. Tried the normal way, and then we did the in vitro thing. Now lemme tell you, Jackie, that's a lot of fun. You go into some little room and they got porno DVDs in there and some lesbian mags, and you jerk off into a cup, and have to come out into the hallway afterward carrying the fucking thing and you run into all these other cats who are also carrying their cups around. Oh, man, it's Loser Land.”

Charlie limped around with an imaginary cup in his hand as Jack smiled sympathetically.

“And after all that, and the ten grand it costs you, the shit doesn't even work. It's 12 percent or something. We did it three times, too . . . and that was enough 'cause not only did I not have the kid, but I lost my wife. You try fucking on schedule for two and a half years . . . giving her injections at night, waking up at three A.M. to crying jags. No, man, that was the end for me. But it's okay. This way I get to coach the kids when they're sweet and young. Later, when they become car thieves and teenage crackheads, I don't have to be involved.”

“I'm sorry, Charlie. That must have been rough.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “It sucked. But that's long ago and far away, my friend. Look at that ocean, listen to that surf. That's what we're living for nowadays. Let the past go, Jackie. That's what you gotta learn.”

Jack looked at him and smiled.

“Get out there with your kid,” Charlie said. “'Cause in a few years he'll have a girlfriend, and then it'll be bye-bye, Daddy.”

“I hear you, Charlie,” Jack said. “Thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow, coach.”

Charlie smiled and hugged Jack and Jack felt a bolt of affection for him. Something surprising and tender that he had rarely felt for his own dad.

He was glad he could feel something for his friend, glad he wasn't just a shadow self, faking it here, faking it there, as he lured scumbags like Steinbach into his trap.

• • •

The Santa Monica Freeway was lit with a strange neon glow, and there was only one other car on the road. A black sedan somewhere behind him . . . maybe a hundred yards away. What was it, a Lincoln Town Car? A Caddy? He couldn't tell.

Ah, what the hell, why should he worry?

It was just some other guy like him, heading home after too many drinks. Nothing to get buzzed about.

Still, when he thought of the old woman, the way she looked at him. The evil eye. He give you the evil eye,
señor.
Like something out of a werewolf movie from long ago. What was that woman's name? Maria Ouspenskaya. When the wolfbane blooms and the moon is full . . . Christ, that was just a lot of Hollywood bullshit.

Just the same, it had scared the living shit out of him when he was nine or ten.

And now the car was getting closer . . . really speeding up, and just to be safe, Jack reached into his coat . . . felt the grip of his .38.

Not that he was worried or anything . . .

Now the other car was really closing on him.

It was a Lincoln.

Jack squinted into the rearview. Jesus, it
was
the bearded guy, no doubt about it. He
was
following him. But who had sent him: Forrester or Steinbach?

Up ahead was Jack's exit . . . five or ten more feet.

He had to slow down a little to make the turn. The Lincoln pulled alongside him. Jack turned and looked at the guy. The scar seemed to glow off his face.

He looked directly at Jack and gave him a superior little sneer as the Lincoln rushed by.

Jack headed down the ramp, his heart beating so hard he could hear it in his ears.

Maybe Blakely was right, after all. Forrester was trying to build some kind of case against all of them.

Ever since the Hansen betrayal, the service had become wired, as if they'd ingested a ton of meth and were all having multiple hallucinations and massive paranoia.

Looking for moles, criminals, bad agents . . .

Forrester, like some kind of Stalinist enforcer trying to find the mole.

Jack felt his skin crawl. What had started out as a celebration had turned into something creepy, another bad vibe.

The thought infuriated him.

Being spied on by Forrester. If it
was
Forrester.

Once again, he thought of the old woman. “
Malo, señor.
He give you the evil eye.” And a chill ran down his back.

A few minutes later, Jack pulled into the driveway of his modest bungalow in Culver City. He walked up the path and saw his son's lacrosse stick lying in a bush. When he reached down to pick it up, he felt a twinge in his left knee. A sharp little pain that caught him up short.

Maybe from running today . . . he thought . . . maybe for that and from all his own years of lacrosse at the University of Maryland. Maybe in a few years he'd have to get it scoped out . . . and if it didn't work, they'd move him to a desk job.

Fuck that . . . he'd quit the Agency first.

He stuck the key in the door and went inside.

Walked through the living-room shadows and down the hallway to Kevin's room. He looked inside, put the lacrosse stick gently up against the wall, and walked over to his sleeping fourteen-year- old son.

How he loved him. The overwhelming emotions he felt for him were like nothing he had ever experienced before. A feeling of awe swept over him. His son, his flesh and blood . . . he would do anything in the world to protect him. Give his own life in a flash. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his son's brown hair, looked down at his long lashes, his beautiful mouth . . . He leaned down and kissed him on the head. Kevin stirred slightly and Jack cradled his head with his arms. But a second later, Kevin awakened and looked up at him angrily.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Sneaked in a hug. Sorry,” Jack said, remembering the days when he had snuggled with his son. There were no happier moments.

“Come on, Dad. I'm not a kid anymore.”

“I know,” Jack said, looking at his perfect skin, his bright brown eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Kevin said. “Just fine. Dad, look, I gotta get back to sleep.”

“Right,” Jack said. The coldness in his son's voice was like a knife through his chest. He patted him on the arm and then slid out of the room as Kevin turned over and went back to sleep.

As he walked softly in the hallway, he had a thought . . . that if Steinbach really wanted to get him he might come after Kevin. The thought was so grave — so unsettling — that he couldn't bear it.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Late-night jitters, that was all. Fucking Steinbach wasn't going to come after anybody. He was in the can and would be for a long time. All the bad guys made those kinds of threats, but Jack had never known even one of them to carry them out.

Nah, he was just tired, a little drunk . . . stressed.

Still, who was the bearded man, and how come he'd followed Jack on the freeway? Or was that, too, just coincidence?

He opened the bedroom door and saw Julie sleeping in the barred moonlight.

She was young, beautiful. In bed they were so right for one another. But they hadn't known each other all that long. Eight months. They'd met online:
Match.com
. . . Oscar had talked him into joining. Jesus, he'd had some weird dates at first. A woman who had an amazing picture in a bikini, but who, when she showed up, was twenty-five years older, and so drunk Jack was tempted to arrest her for DUI. Instead, he had one drink with her, drove her home himself, then took a thirty-dollar cab ride back to his car. Another woman, who looked fine, but had Tourette's syndrome, and cursed him under her breath as they had lattes at Starbucks. Then there was the woman who had said she was “curvy” in her online profile and weighed in at about three-ten. She had a wild, cackling laugh, and talked all about “changing her meds,” the mere thought of which made her want to eat an entire pizza at lunch.

Jack was about to give up the whole thing when he met Julie Wade. A teacher, beautiful, kind, and in touch with both him and his son . . . she seemed too good to be true.

They had clicked from the first night . . . though they didn't sleep together until the fourth date.