“The hangman’s needle?” I was incredulous. “The soul of a writer and the syntax of a refugee.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my syntax that bringing back the electric chair wouldn’t fix.”
“I don’t understand,” Guppy seemed perplexed, “truly. How do they have us by the balls?”
“Because the manhunt and the murder charge against Klein are real,” MacClough said, “but the evidence and testimony we have to bargain with are phony as a three-dollar bill. There are limitations to what you can do with smoke and void.”
Guppy, suddenly looking quite ashen, stood and excused himself. He mentioned needing some time to meditate before talking to Zak. Like Zak before him, it had dawned on Guppy that play time was over, but that killing time might have just begun.
Abraham Lincoln
I don’t know how Zak had made it through his weeks of seclusion. I was three days into my life in the bunker and I was ready to turn myself in. MacClough was dealing with it better than me, but he wasn’t the current poster boy for America’s Most Wanted. Ma Barker and Pretty Boy Floyd had nothing on me.
I don’t know, I just couldn’t get a handle on which part of the ordeal was worst. At times, the fear of capture made me nauseous. Then, minutes later, the world would turn on me and capture would seem like salvation. The apparent hopelessness was getting to me; Existentialism 101. Somewhere, Sartre and Camus were laughing at me. I wondered if the point was to try and evade capture long enough to rate a movie of the week or could I hold on until I inspired an entire series? Alas, no. Quinn Martin was dead.
I hated being scared all the time and I was scared all the time now. Having been scared my whole life, you would’ve thought I’d’ve been prepared. I wasn’t. This kind of scared was different. This kind of scared was amorphous and specific all at once. But being so scared helped me block out the thoughts of Kira.
In the end, though, it wasn’t the insecurity nor the hopelessness nor the fear. It wasn’t Guppy’s god-awful cooking nor was it speculations over how much Kira had suffered. The worst part, I guess, was knowing that people thought I was a monster. It was eating me whole, inside out. I tried to recall how many times I had recited the cliche: “It doesn’t matter what people think of you.” It matters, believe me, it matters. I think I understood how MacClough must have hurt when I confronted him about Hernandez’s death.
Things were bad for me, but they had just gotten worse for Valencia Jones. The newspapers reported that her trial was back on and that each of her attorney’s motions had been denied, most without comment. At least I had the myth of freedom to cling to. Guppy and Zak were bummed to the max and were busy trying to devise some new message to draw their enemies out. I had my own ideas about that, but kept them to myself.
“Guppy,” I tugged at his sleeve. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
“Certainly.” He followed me out of the shelter into the basement.
“I need to make two phone calls in private. Unfortunately, there’s a chance at least one of the lines I’m calling could be tapped. Is there-”
“Yes, Mr. Klein, there is a secure method. Let us say that I have managed to gain access to certain phone systems in other countries which will allow me to route your calls through so many places that the place of origin will be impossible to detect.”
“You’re sure?” I was skeptical. “I don’t want any more innocent people hurt.”
“No one will be hurt. But what is-”
“It’s better not to ask what you were gonna ask. If it works, maybe I can make it work for Valencia Jones, too.”
His face brightened beneath the low light of the bare bulbs. His desperation to get out of the hole he and Zak had dug for everyone was beginning to wear on him as well. The late-season blizzard had kept him out of work for an extra day, but he had called in sick the last two days. Someone needed to stir the pot and I meant for that someone to be me.
“When would you like to make these calls?” Guppy was eager to know. “I will need several minutes of preparation.”
“Tonight, preferably when Zak and Johnny are asleep.”
There was a yawn, a pause, then: “Hello.”
“Tess.”
“Dylan!”
“Shhhhh, keep it down.”
“Are you all right? There are cops-”
“I know, Tess. I’m fine. And no, I didn’t do it.”
“You couldn’t, Dylan, not what they say you did.”
“I loved her.” That was met with reverent silence. Tess was great like that. “Listen-”
“I’ll go get Jeffrey.”
“Don’t! I called for you. Zak is alive. He’s with-”
Her voice cracked. “Can I speak to him?”
She began crying. I heard her put her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece, but joy was a difficult thing to cover up.
“Tess. .Tess, you okay?”
“Never better,” she sniffled.
“He can’t talk to you now, but he’ll be home soon.”
“What about you?”
“Forget about me. Just tell everyone Zak’s okay. And tell my brother I know about Hernandez.”
“But-”
I hung up before she could put Jeff on the line or talk me into or out of anything. I waited for Guppy to give me the go ahead for the second call.
He tapped on the radiator and I picked up. The phone number I had given him was already ringing.
“You have reached. .” the message began.
“Larry!” I screamed as loudly as I dared, “Larry Feld, pick up! Pick up the goddamned phone. It’s me! Larry!”
“If you leave your name, number, time you called and a brief message, I. .”
“Larry, pick up! It’s me, Dylan!”
“. .If this is a business matter, you may reach me after 10:00 A.M. at my office. The number is. .”
“Lar-”
“Dylan, for chrissakes! I’m here. I’m here. Wait for the message to finish.”
As I waited, listening to the recorded Larry, I found myself feeling sorry that I had found him at home.
“Larry?” I screamed from nerves when the message was ended. “Are you there?”
“No, schmuck, I ran down to the deli for a cup of coffee while the message was running.”
“I need help, Larry.”
“Help!” He was incredulous. “You were never much for understatement, Dylan. From what my sources tell me, you need a miracle, not help.”
“I need you,” I said.
“For what?”
“To defend me, genius.”
“I don’t do miracles, Dylan.”
“You gonna make me beg, Larry?”
“Maybe.”
“Consider yourself begged.”
“Not good enough.”
“What is it, Larry? You want me to swear I’m on my knees or something?”
He giggled. “I wouldn’t care if you were standing on your head.”
“Then what is it?” I was really starting to regret finding him at home.
“Did you like me?” he asked.
“Did I what?”
He repeated: “Did you like me?”
“Christ, Larry, I feel like I’m in Fiddler on the Roof. What does it matter?”
“Maybe your future depends on it or maybe you would like your brother to defend you?”
“I didn’t ask my brother. I’m asking you.”
“Answer my question,” he persisted.
“Yes, Larry, I liked you. What, do you think I was always sticking my neck out for you because I was Abraham Lincoln? I’m no hero. I did that shit when we were kids because you were different, driven, but not like Jeffrey. With him it was like success was preordained, like he had it coming. If I had what you had, Larry, I’d be the most famous fucking writer in the world, not some putz peddling his screenplay ideas like a Fuller Brush man. And you could make me laugh. That’s it, you could make me laugh.”