Текст книги "The Driver"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

44

Arlen Crawford waited impatiently for the hotel lift to bear him down to the parking garage. He had his suitcase in his right hand and his overcoat folded in the crook of his left arm. The car had stopped at every floor on the way down from the tenth but it was empty now; just Crawford and the numb terror that events had clattered hopelessly out of control. He took his cellphone from his pocket and tried to call Jack Kerrigan again. There had been no reply the first and second time that he had tried but, this time, the call was answered.

“Jack! Smokey!” he said. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Smokey’s dead, Mr. Crawford. His friends are dead, too.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

The elevator reached the basement and the doors opened.

“Mr. Smith?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you want, Mr. Smith? Money?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Justice would be a good place to start.”

“Jack killed the girls.”

“We both know that’s only half of the job done.”

He aimed the fob across the parking lot and thumbed the button. The car doors unlocked and the lights flashed.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. There’s no proof.”

“Maybe not. But that would only be a problem if I was going to go to the police. I’m not going to go to the police, Mr. Crawford.”

“What are you going to do?”

No answer.

“What are you going to do?”

Silence.

Crawford reached the car and opened the driver’s door. He tossed the phone across the car onto the passenger seat. He went around and put the suitcase in the trunk. He got inside the car, took a moment to gather his breath, stepped on the clutch and pressed the ignition.

He felt a small, cold point of metal pressing against the back of his head.

He looked up into the rear-view mirror.

It was dark in the basement, just the glow of the sconced lights on the wall. The modest brightness fell across one half of the face of the man who was holding the gun. The other half was obscured by shadow. He recognised him: the impassive and serious face, the cruel mouth, the scar running horizontally across his face.

“Drive.”

PART FIVE

Collateral

45

The meeting on the third anniversary of Milton’s sobriety was a Big Book meeting. They were peaceful weekly gatherings, the format more relaxed than usual, and Milton usually enjoyed them. They placed tea lights around the room and someone had lit a joss stick (that had been the subject of a heated argument; a couple of the regulars had opined that it was a little too intoxicating for a roomful of recovering alkies and druggies). Every week, they each opened a copy of the book of advice that Bill Wilson, the founder of the program, had written, read five or six pages out loud and then discussed what it meant to them all. After a year they would have worked their way through it and then they would turn back to the start and begin again. Milton had initially thought the book was an embarrassingly twee self-help screed, and it was certainly true that it was packed full of platitudes, but, the more he grew familiar with it the easier it was to ignore the homilies and clichés and concentrate on the advice on how to live a worthwhile, sober, life. Now he often read a paragraph or two before he went to sleep at nights. It was good meditation.

The reading took fifteen minutes and then the discussion another thirty. The final fifteen minutes were dedicated to those who felt that they needed to share.

Richie Grimes raised his hand.

“Hey,” he said. “My name’s Richie and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Richie,” they said together.

“You know about my problem – I’ve gone about it enough. But I’m here today to give thanks.” He paused and looked behind him; he was looking for Milton. “I don’t rightly know what happened, but I the man I owed money to has sold his book and the guys who bought it off him don’t look like they’re going to come after me for what I owe. I might be setting myself up for a fall but it’s starting to look to me like someone paid that debt off for me.” He shook his head. “You know, I was talking to a friend here after I did my share last week. I won’t say who he was – anonymity, all that – but he told me to trust my Higher Power. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he was right. My Higher Power has intervened, like we say it will if we ask for help, because if it wasn’t that then I don’t know what the hell it was.”

There was a moment of silence and then loud applause.

“Thank you for sharing,” Smulders said when it had died down. “Anyone else?”

Milton raised his own hand.

Smulders cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “John?”

“My name is John and I’m an alcoholic,” Milton said.

“Hello, John.”

“There’s something I need to share, too. If I don’t get it off my chest I know I’ll be back on the booze eventually. I thought I could keep it in but… I know that I can’t.”

He paused.

Richie turned and looked at him expectantly.

The group waited for him to go on.

Eva reached across, took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

Milton thought of the other people in the room, and how they were living the Program, bravely accepting ‘honesty in all our affairs,’ and he knew, then, with absolute conviction, that he would never be able to go as far down the road as they had. If it was a choice between telling a room full of strangers about the blood that he had on his hands and taking a drink, then he was going to take a drink. Every time. He thought of what he had almost been prepared to say and he felt the heat gathering in his face at the foolish audacity of it.

“John?” Smulders prompted.

Eva squeezed his hand again.

No, he thought.

Some things had to stay unsaid.

“I just wanted to say how valuable I’ve found this meeting. Most of you know me by now, even if it’s just as the guy with the coffee and the biscuits. You probably wondered why I don’t say much. You probably think I’m pretty bad at all this, and maybe I am, but I’m doing my best. One day at a time, like we always say. I can do better, I know I can, but I just wanted to say that it’s my third year without a drink today and that’s as good a reason for celebrating as I’ve ever really had before. So,” he cleared his throat, constricted by sudden emotion, “you know, I just wanted to say thanks. I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own.”

There was warm applause and the case of birthday chips was extracted from the cupboard marked PROPERTY OF A.A. They usually started with the newest members, those celebrating a day or a week or a month, and those were always the ones that were marked with the loudest cheers, the most high-fives and the strongest hugs. There were no others celebrating tonight and when Smulders called out for those celebrating three years to come forward, Milton stood up and, smiling shyly, went up to the front. Smudlers shook his hand warmly and handed him his chip. It was red, made from cheap plastic and looked like a chocolate coin, the edge raised and stippled, the A.A. symbol embossed on one side and a single 3 on the other. Milton self-consciously raised it up in his fist and the applause started again. He felt a little dazed as he went back to his seat. Eva took his hand again and tugged him down.

“Well done,” she whispered into his ear.

46

It was time. He had already stayed longer than was safe. He had thought about skipping the meeting altogether, and he had gone so far as getting to the airport and the long-stay parking lot but he had been unable to go through with it. He needed the meeting and, more than that, he needed to see his friends there: Smulders, Grimes, the other alkies who drank his coffee and ate his biscuits and asked him how he was and how he was doing.

And Eva.

He had needed to see her.

She stayed to help him clear away.

“You hear what happened to the Governor’s aide?”

“Yeah,” Milton said vaguely. “They found him in his car up in the Headlands.”

“He’d killed himself, too.”

“Yes.”

“Put a hose on the exhaust and put it in through the window.”

“Guilt?” Milton suggested.

She bit her lip.

“You’re sure he had something to do with those men? Those girls?”

“He did.”

Milton looked at her and, for a moment, he allowed himself the thought: could he stay here? Could he stay with her? He entertained the thought for a moment, longer than was healthy or sensible, until he caught himself and dismissed it. Of course he couldn’t. How could he? It was ridiculous, dangerous thinking. He had made so much noise over the last few days. The spooks back home would be able to find him without too much bother now. Photographs, references in police reports, all manner of digital crumbs that, if followed, would lead them straight to him. The arrival of the Group would be the first that he knew of it. They would be more careful, this time. A sedative injected into his neck from behind; a hood over his head before being muscled into a waiting car; a shot in the head from a sniper a city block away. He’d be dead or out of the country before he could do anything about it.

Thinking about staying was selfish, too. He knew what Control would order. Anyone who had spent time with him would be a threat.

A loose end.

The guys at the meeting?

Maybe.

Trip?

Probably.

Eva?

Definitely.

“What are you doing now?”

It startled him. “What?”

She smiled at him. “Now – you wanna get dinner?”

He wanted it badly but he shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve got – I promised a friend I’d catch up with him.”

If she was disappointed she hid it well. “Alright, then. How about tomorrow?”

“Can I give you a call?”

“Sure,” she said.

She came over to him, rested her hand on his shoulder and tiptoed so that she was tall enough to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were warm and she smelled of cinnamon. He felt a lump in his throat as she lowered herself down to her height. “It was good to hear you speak. I know you’re carrying a burden, John, and I think it’s very painful. You should share it. No-one will judge you and it’ll be easier to carry.”

He smiled at her. His throat felt thick and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“See you around,” she said, rubbing her hand up and down his right arm. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

* * *

He drove back to the El Capitan for the last time. He recognised Trip Macklemore as he slotted the Explorer into the kerb outside the entrance to the building. He scanned his surroundings quickly, a little fretfully, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. The Group were good, though. If an agent was using the boy and didn’t want to be seen, he would be invisible. Milton felt an itching sensation in the dead centre of his chest. He looked down, almost expecting to see the red crosshatch of a laser sight, but there was nothing there. He turned the key to switch off the engine and stepped outside.

“Hello Trip.”

“Mr. Smith.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“What can I do for you?”

“There’s someone you need to talk to.”

Milton noticed that there was someone else waiting at the entrance to the building.

She smiled nervously at him.

Milton couldn’t hide his surprise. “Madison?”

“Hello, John.”

“Where have you been?”

“Is this your place?” she said, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill. “Can we maybe go in? Get a coffee? I’ll tell you.”

* * *

She explained. To begin with, she edged around some of the details for fear of upsetting Trip but when he realised what she was doing he told her – a little unconvincingly – that he was fine with it and that she should lay it all out and so that’s what she did.

It had started in May when Jarad Efron booked her through Fallen Angelz for the first time. She had no idea who he was other than that he was rich and generous and fun to be around. They had had a good time together and he booked her again a week or two afterwards, then several times after that. The eighth or ninth booking was different. Rather than the plush hotel room to which they usually retreated, this was a private dinner party. Some sort of fundraiser. He had bought her a thousand dollar dress and paraded her as his girlfriend. It was a charade, and it must have been easy to see through it, but there were other escorts at the party, a harem of young girls with rich older men. Madison recognised some of them but it didn’t seem like any of it was a big deal.

One of the other guests came over to speak to Efron. She guessed within minutes that the conversation was an excuse; he was more interested in finding out about her. She hadn’t recognised him at first; he was just another middle-aged john with plenty of cash, charming and charismatic with it. He didn’t explain who he was and when she asked what he did for a living all he said was that he worked for the state government. They had exchanged numbers and he had called the next morning to set up a meeting the same night. She reserved a room at the Marriot; they had room service and went to bed together.

He booked her two more times until, one day, she was idly watching the TV in a bar where she was waiting for Trip and she had seen him on the news. The bartender made some quip about how they were watching the next President of the United States. She Googled him on her phone and nearly fell off her stool. He booked her again the day after her discovery and she had told him, when they were lying on the bed together afterwards, that she knew who he was. He asked if that bothered her and she said that it didn’t. He asked if she could keep a secret and she had said that she could. He had said that he was pleased because he thought that she could be special – “different from all the others” – and he wanted to see her more often. Mentioning that there were “others” didn’t make her feel all that special, but she told herself that he was with her, and that she was special; she would make him see that and then, maybe, eventually, it would just be the two of them.

Robinson had been good to his word and they saw each other at least once a week all the way through the summer. She had persuaded herself that he really did see her as more than just another working girl and that, maybe, something might come of it. She dreamt that he would take her away from hooking and give her a better life: money, a car, a nice place to live. He had made promises like that and she bought all of them. She read about him online and watched him on the news. The fact that a man like him, with so much to lose, had started a relationship with her and trusted her to keep it secret? Man, that was totally crazy. The proximity to power was intoxicating, too, and she admitted that she had let it get to her head. He told her that his wife was a bitch and he would be leaving her as soon as the election was over. She started to believe his spin that, if she was patient, they could be together. At no point did she question how any of that could ever be possible for a working girl. She loved him.

“And then he dropped me,” she said. “No warning. Just like that. He called me and said he couldn’t see me again. I asked why and he said it was one of those things – we’d had a good run, he said, we’d both had fun but all good things have to come to an end. No hard feelings, goodbye, and that was it. Just like that.”

She moped for a week, wondering whether there was any way she could put things back the way they were before. She blamed herself: she had pushed him too fast, talking about the future and the things they could do together once they were a couple. That, she saw then, had been childishly naïve. She had scared him off. She called the number he had given her but the line had been disconnected. She saw that he was speaking at a rally in Palo Alto and had hitched down there in the vain hope that she might be able to speak to him but that, too, had been a failure. She had found a space near the front but he had been absorbed in his speech and even as he beamed his brilliant smile into the crowd, his eyes passing right across her, she knew that he hadn’t even noticed that she was there.

Two days later, Jarad Efron called.

“He was having a party,” she explained. “A fundraising thing for the campaign. He was inviting people that he knew, CEOs and shit, these guys from the Valley, and Robinson was going to be there, too. He asked if I could come. I couldn’t understand it at first, I mean, why would he want me to be there after what had happened between me and J.J., but then I realised, there was no way he could’ve known how involved we’d been and what had happened since. All he knew was that Robinson had taken a shine to me and so he thought he’d get me to be there too because he thought that’d make him happy.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s a laugh, right? I mean, he couldn’t possibly have been much more wrong about that.”

“What happened?”

“You drove me to the house. It was fine, at first. Robinson wasn’t there. Jarad was sweet, looking after me – the place was jammed with rich guys, totally flush and there was as much booze as you could drink.”

“And drugs?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but I didn’t take any. I’m not into that.”

Milton frowned but he said nothing.

Madison said that Jack Robinson and Arlen Crawford arrived at a little after midnight. Milton remembered the town car that had pulled into the driveway and the two guys who had stepped out; he hadn’t recognised them, it had been dark and foggy, but it must have been them. Crawford had been aghast to see her. He sent Robinson into another room and came over to deal with her. He had been kind, she explained, taking her to one side and having a quiet drink with her. He explained that the Governor couldn’t see her that night, that there were people at the party who couldn’t be trusted and that it would be damaging to the campaign if anything leaked out, but, as she protested, he told her that the Governor was missing her and that he would call her the next day. She had been overwhelmed with relief and, as Crawford refilled her glass, and keen to ingratiate herself more fully with him, she had accepted his offer to do a pill with him. He said it was ecstasy and, although she rarely did it these days, she had swallowed it, washing it down with a slug of Cristal. She realised afterwards that he had not taken his pill and then, after that, that it wasn’t ecstasy but something that was making her feel woozy and out of it. “I asked him what it was that I’d taken and he said not to worry, it was just MDMA, and then when I told him I was feeling worse he said it was just a bad trip and that he’d get me a car and take me home. He was on his cell, making a call, and he had this weird expression of concern and irritation on his face. Mostly irritation, like I was this big inconvenience for him, this big problem he was going to have to deal with. I knew then that Jack never wanted to see me again and that Crawford was getting rid of me. I told him that. He snapped at me, said I was a fucking embarrassment and a mistake and a liability and why couldn’t I have stayed away? I shouted back at him, I went totally nuts, so he lost his cool too and when I tried to get away and he grabbed me and told me I had to stay until they could drive me back and that’s when I screamed.”

“Do you remember me there?” Milton asked.

She shrugged. “Sort of.”

“Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“Because I was out of my head and terrified. I didn’t believe Crawford, not then, not for a instant, and I knew I was in trouble. Whatever it was he’d given me was seriously messing me up. I didn’t even know where I was. I just felt like I was underwater and I kept trying to swim up, I was really trying, but it felt like I was going to fall asleep. I remember an argument, men shouting at each other, and then I knew I had to get out of there, right that instant, before it got worse and I couldn’t move, and so I took off.” She paused, frowning as she tried to remember what had happened next. “I know I went to a house over the road. There are bits after that that are a complete blank. The pill, whatever it was, it totally wiped me out. I woke up in the woods behind the houses. Five, six in the morning. Freezing cold. There was no way I was going back there so I just kept going through the trees until I hit a road, and then I followed that until I got onto the 131. I hitched a ride back to San Francisco.”

“After that?”

“I’ve got a girlfriend in L.A. and so I got on the first Greyhound the next morning, this is like at seven, and went straight there. I didn’t want to stick around. I didn’t think it was safe. The first week down there I just kept my head down. Stayed in the apartment most of the time.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I heard about what had happened to them… those other girls.”

“No-one knew that they were connected to Robinson.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But it freaked me out. It just felt a little close to home. And then when they said who they were, like last week? I was about ready to get out of the state.”

“Did you know them?”

“Megan – I met her once. This one time, at the start, before I was seeing Jack properly, there were two of us. Me and her. She was a sweet girl. Pretty. She was kind of on the outs then but I liked her. I remember her face, and then, when they put pictures up on the news and said she was one of the girls they’d found, and then I thought what had nearly happened to me, I realised what was going on. I mean, it was obvious, right? Robinson likes to have his fun and then, when it’s all said and done and over, if they think the girl is gonna cause trouble, they get rid of her.”

“You could’ve called the police,” Trip said.

“Seriously? He is – was – the governor of California. How you think that’s going to sound, I call and say I’ve been with him and they ask how and I say it was because I was a hooker and then I say I think he wants to kill me? Come on, Trip. Get real, baby. They’d just laugh.”

“You could’ve called me,” he said, sadly.

“Yeah,” she said, looking away for a moment. “I know.”

“You have to go to the police now, Madison,” Milton said. “It’s pretty much wrapped up but you have to tell them.”

“I know I do. Trip’s going to take me this afternoon.”

They finished their drinks quietly. Milton had packed his few possessions into a large bag. The apartment looked bare and lonely and, for a moment, the atmosphere was heavy and depressing.

“I’m gonna go and wait outside,” Madison said eventually. They all rose and she came across the room, slid her arms around his neck and pulled him down a little so that she could kiss him on the cheek. “Probably wasn’t what you were expecting when you picked me up, right?”

“Not exactly.”

“Thank you, John.”

She disengaged from him and made her way across the room. Milton watched as she opened the door and passed into the hallway, out of sight.

He looked over at Trip. He was staring vaguely at the open doorway.

“You alright?”

He sighed. “I guess,” he said quietly. “Things aren’t what they always seem to be, are they, Mr. Smith?”

“No,” Milton said. “Not always.”

Trip gestured at his bulging travel bag. “You going away?”

“I’m leaving town.”

“For real?”

Milton shrugged. “I like to keep moving around.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know yet. Wherever seems most interesting. East, I think.”

“Like a tourist?”

“Something like that.”

“What about your jobs?”

“They’re just jobs. I can get another.”

“Isn’t that a bit weird?”

“Isn’t what?”

“Just moving on.”

“Maybe it is, but it suits me.”

“I mean – I thought you were settled?”

“I’ve been here too long. I’ve got itchy feet. It’s time to go.”

He walked across to the bag and heaved it over his shoulder. Trip followed the unsaid cue and led the way to the door. Milton took a final look around – thinking of the evenings he had spent reading on the sofa, smoking cigarettes out of the open window in the swelter of summer, staring out into the swirling pools of fog, and, above all, the single night he had spent with Eva – and then he pulled the door closed, shutting off that brief interlude in his life. It was time. He had taken too many chances already and, if he had avoided detection, it had been the most outrageous luck. There was no sense in tempting fate. Quit when you’re ahead.

He locked the door.

They walked down the stairs together.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked the boy as they crossed into the harsh artificial brightness of the lobby. “With Madison, I mean?”

“I don’t know. We’re right back to the start, I guess – that’s the best we can hope for. And I’m not stupid, Mr. Smith. Maybe we’re through. I can kinda get Robinson, how it might be flattering to have someone like that chasing after you. Efron, too, all that money and influence. But there’s the other guy, the driver, I thought he was kinda dumb if I’m honest. I don’t get that so much. All of it – I don’t know what I mean to her anymore. So, yeah – I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

“You do.”

“What would you do? If you were me?”

Milton laughed at that. “You’re asking me for relationship advice? Look at me, Trip. I’ve got pretty much everything I own in a bag. Do I look like I’m the kind of man with anything useful to say?”

They stopped on the street. The fog had settled down again, cold and damp. Milton took out the keys to the Explorer. “Here,” he said, tossing them across the sidewalk at the boy. He caught them deftly but then looked up in confusion. “It’s not much to look at but it runs okay, most of the time.”

“What?”

“Go on.”

“You’re giving it to me?”

“I don’t have any need for it.”

He paused self-consciously. “I don’t have any money.”

“That’s alright. I don’t want anything for it.”

“Are you sure?” he said awkwardly.

“It’s fine.”

“God, I mean, thanks. Do you want – I mean – can I drop you anyplace?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll get the bus.”

“Thanks, man. Not just for this – for everything. For helping me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Milton said. “I’m glad I could help.”

The corners of the books in his bag were digging into his shoulder; he heaved it around a little until it was comfortable and then stuck out his hand. Trip shook it firmly and Milton thought he could see a new resolution in the boy’s face.

“Look after yourself,” Milton told him.

“I will.”

“You’ll do just fine.”

He gave his hand one final squeeze, turned his back on him and walked away. As the boy watched, he merged into the fog like a haggard ghost, melting into the long bleak street with its shopfronts and trolley wires and palm trees shrouded in fog and whiteness. He didn’t look back. The foghorn boomed as a single shaft of wintry sunlight pierced the mist for a moment. Milton had disappeared.