The keening wail of sirens behind him-quiet at first, but building quickly, like a migraine-confirmed Hendricks’s assumption. He didn’t turn around; he just kept walking and watched three SFPD cruisers rocket through the gate, lights flashing, in the distorted reflection of a parked delivery van’s windshield. Then they were swallowed by the neighborhood, their sirens muffled slightly by the buildings.
The backpack he’d dropped contained a pair of road flares and a scissor jack he’d scavenged from the Altima’s trunk and taped to a spare burner phone. It was utterly harmless, but when the Feds X-rayed it, it’d look scary enough to keep them busy for a while.
Hendricks passed behind the delivery van and stopped. It blocked him from view of the row houses to his right. To his left, beyond the low stone wall that marked the edge of the Presidio, was an overgrown rise, shrubs huddled beneath large trees. Hendricks glanced around to be sure there was no one else in sight-and then he vaulted over the wall.
He crouched behind it for a second, listening for any indication he’d been spotted. He heard none, so he scrabbled upslope through the trees until the ground leveled.
When he reached the edge of the tree cover, he untied the windbreaker from around his waist, turned it right-side in, and slipped it on. Emblazoned on the back, both shoulders, and left breast were yellow block letters that read FBI.
On a campus crawling with law enforcement, blending in made more sense than slinking around. The problem was, official uniforms were hard to come by. It always looked so easy in the movies: knock a guy out, drag him into a supply closet, emerge seconds later in his clothes. In reality, it was damn near impossible to put a guy down with one blow, much less strip someone while he was unconscious. Which was what Hendricks had told Cameron when she’d suggested it.
She’d frowned then. Fell silent. Opened the browser on her phone. Then she turned the screen around to face him. On it was an image of an FBI raid jacket. “Is this really what they look like or is that only in the movies too?”
“That’s really what they look like.”
“Then why not just make one?”
Cameron bought a roll of yellow duct tape and an X-Acto knife at a craft store just off the highway. Then they’d hit a uniform-supply place to pick up the jacket. She carved the letters freehand and applied them in the parking lot of a tamale joint that was closed on Sundays, the jacket laid out on the hood of the car. Hendricks had been dubious, but once she was done, he was forced to admit the illusion was convincing. Sure, it fell apart if you put your face right up to it, but if anybody got that close to him, he had bigger problems than the texture of the duct tape showing.
Afterward, since Cameron didn’t need it any longer, he pocketed the X-Acto knife. You never knew when a sharp blade would come in handy.
Hendricks watched from the trees awhile, taking in the scene. He was at the edge of a winding drive. A neighborhood of connected townhomes disappeared into the green off to his left. A pair of low-slung buildings stood to his right. Everything was off-white with red roofs, some of them actually clay tile, the others red shingles meant to convey the impression of clay.
A Park Police cruiser rolled by. Hendricks ducked into the shadows as it passed. Once it was no longer in sight, he stepped out of the woods. The command tent-and, therefore, the cell on wheels-was northwest of his position. He could either head west through the neighborhood or go north toward the commercialized end of the old base.
He chose north. Walked past a tennis court, a social club. A couple of uniformed cops loitered outside the latter, and they eyed Hendricks as he approached.
He nodded at them, heart thudding.
They nodded back, and he continued on his way.
24.
SWEET JESUS, DID Lois feel like shit.
Hangover seemed like such an insufficient word for what she had. It suggested a sense of mild discomfort that could be dispelled by aspirin, water, and a greasy breakfast. This wasn’t that. No, what she had was an affliction. A full-on disability.
Lois had slept deeply through the night-no surprise, since she vaguely remembered washing down several back-pain pills with wine yesterday. While she slept, she’d dreamed of loss, of ache, of big events forgotten until too late and important things misplaced.
Daylight was an assault-a sharp stab between her eyes, a slithery uncoiling in her stomach. Every time her eyelids flitted open-from pain, anxiety, or her uneasy dreams expelling her from sleep-she immediately regretted it. Even the red-black static of the light through her closed eyelids was almost more than she could bear. For a time, she slung a forearm over them to block it out, but her own body heat began to make her queasy.
She wondered how she’d managed not to throw up yet. Then she ran her tongue across her lips, tasted bile, and wondered if she had thrown up but was simply too foggy to remember.
Lois’s bedroom was airy and light. Blond wood, mismatched whitewashed furniture, and soft-hued fabrics combined to give the place a beachy feel. Oversize mirrors, one freestanding and another on her vanity, made the space seem even bigger than it was. Her husband, Cal, called it their island retreat. Today it seemed to amplify the afternoon light. Lois felt like she was at the center of a boardwalk busker’s steel drum.
I swear, if I survive this I’m never going to drink again, she thought.
As her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Lois realized someone was standing in the doorway. Male, and visible only in silhouette.
“Cal?” she asked hopefully, though some small aching part of her knew that it wasn’t.
“Lois, I’m sorry,” Frank said softly, “but Cal’s not here.”
The unfamiliar voice startled her. She jerked upright, her face twisting in agony as her head responded to the sudden movement. “Wh-who are you? What are you doing here? Where’s Cal? Why are you wearing his things?”
“Easy,” he said, stepping just inside the doorway but not approaching her. He was white. Older. Rail-thin. His eyes were the palest blue she’d ever seen. His hair was mussed, and he had on one of Cal’s sweat suits, the sleeves of the sweatshirt pushed up to expose wiry, liver-spotted forearms. His elbows were at right angles, his hands in front of him. One was balled into a fist; the other held a glass of water. Ella, improbably, followed him into the room and stopped at his feet, her fluffy tail wagging. “My name’s Max Rausch, remember? We met yesterday. You…had a little too much to drink last night, so I helped you up to bed.”
Lois’s face fell as the events of yesterday came rushing back. Her brow furrowed. Her lip trembled momentarily, and then stilled. As fear abandoned her, the tension drained from her muscles, and her shoulders sagged. “Max. Of course. Forgive me. Yesterday, I…I wasn’t at my best.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “I brought you some aspirin and a glass of water. I figured you might need it.”
She beckoned him closer. He dropped the pills into her hand. She popped them into her mouth and took the glass from him to wash them down.
“Easy,” he said. “Sip, don’t gulp. You probably don’t remember, but the water you drank last night didn’t stay down.”
Lois flushed with embarrassment and looked around but saw no sign of any mess.
“It’s fine. I took care of it. The empty glass fell off the nightstand when you tried to put it back, and I heard it shatter. When I came in to check on you, you said you needed a trashcan. I barely managed to get to the bathroom and back in time. Then I, uh, sat with you awhile to make sure you were okay.”