front counter.
“I didn’t make any copies.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, sir. There’s an envelope here with your name and phone number on it.”
“What’s inside?”
“You want me to open it?”
“Yeah, open it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He hears the muffled sound of a tear, and then: “It says ‘Clinic Visit Form’ at the top.”
Jesus. Beckler. Did she come through? Is it possible?
“There’s a name,” the guy goes on.
“Chris Ray?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“OK, put it back now. Thanks.”
“What is it?” Gwen asks after he closed his phone.
“Nothing. Someone made a mistake.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He looks at his watch and, seeing the time, wheels around abruptly, scanning the area for his shadow; he’d completely forgotten about him. His eyes dart from one person to the next: most of them are students who are either on the move or chatting in small groups of twos and threes in front of the library, just as they’re doing. A biker whizzes by, and then another. It’s going on six; rush hour has begun.
“I gotta go,” he says, and in his exuberance, almost kisses her on the lips. “Just do me one favor: If Jim says anything to you, please call me.”
“I will.”
He touches his hand to her cheek. “And smile. It’s going to be all right.”
35/ REDHOTS AND ROSE PETALS
May 11, 2007—5:45 p.m.
JIM HAD NEVER HAD A GUN—OR A WEAPON OF ANY KIND, KNIFE, spear, bow and arrow, baseball bat—pointed at him in his life, which is why it’s so easy to answer the question he’s now being asked.
“Tell me, Mr. P., you ever had a gun held to your head before?”
C. J. Watkins is standing behind him, indeed holding a gun, a Walther PPK, directly to his right temple.
“No,” Jim gasps through Watkins’s headlock.
“How does it feel?”
“Cold.”
“Good,” says Watkins. “That’s the way it’s supposed to feel. Now that we’ve got that all straightened out, we’re going to talk about what just transpired in this room a few minutes ago. Why were you speaking to the Daytona 500 and that dude who looks an awful lot like the doc we read about in the papers? I saw them go into the house, and guess where I found them: on the third floor.”
“They came to see me,” he struggles to say.
“What’d they want?”
“They wanted to know whether I saw Kristen go off with anybody that night.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said I was with her the whole time.”
Jim feels Watkins’s arm muscles flex against his throat as he tightens the lock. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
He can barely breathe.
“You better not be. I’ll come back here and put a slug between your eyes. You understand?”
“Yes.”
Finally, Watkins releases him. He tumbles on to the bed, first gasping then coughing uncontrollably. At one point, his gag-reflex kicks in and he makes a horrible vomiting sound, but nothing comes out.
“You all right?” Watkins appears genuinely concerned. “Sorry, kid, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“What the fuck?” His breathing finally starts to return to normal. “Are you crazy? Is that thing real?”
“’Course it’s real. For an airgun.”
“Shit, man. It looks real.”
Watkins holds it up in front of him, admiring it.
“The Walter PPK. German craftsmanship at its finest. The firearm of choice of Mr. Bond, James Bond, and the CIA.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“My father gave it to me.”
“Your father gave you an airgun?”
“Well, I sorta borrowed it, really. He’s got a collection. He buys ’ em on eBay. Replicas of legendary guns.”
“Doesn’t he know it’s missing?”
“I strongly doubt it. He’s got a lot.”
“What’d you say he did?”
“Real estate.”
“In Florida?”
“Florida. The Carolinas. He’s got some property in Colorado, Wyoming. You want to hold it?” he said, extending the gun out to him.
Jim shakes his head no, averting his eyes from the weapon. “What do you need that thing for anyway?”
“You spend any time in East Palo Alto?”
“No.”
“Well, you spend any time in EPA you’re going to need a piece. Even if it’s just for show.”
“What’s in EPA?”
“Whatever shade of brown I want.”
“Charming.”
“Don’t you worry about what’s in EPA, Mr. P. You worry about what you’re going to do about the present predicament.”
“You tell me,” he says, because he knows he’s going to tell him anyway.
Watkins smiles at his pre-emptive strike.
“How much do you think he knows?”
Jim considers lying. But as soon as he hesitates, he knows he’s lost; Watkins won’t believe him and he’d soon be in another headlock. Fuck him, he thinks. The doc knows a lot. We’re fucked. We’re going to get caught. But it’s not my goddamn fault. I wasn’t the scumbag, STD-infected motherfucker. So let’s