Fifty Mice Part 22

Jay watches Vaughn slowly try to comprehend that this is a confession. That Jay is telling him something fundamental. He doesnt move.

"I should have told you a long time ago."

"Probably," is what Jay thinks Vaughn exhales.

"Not that it explains everything, but, I dont know. It was not good. Not . . . good. My mom went catatonic with grief," Jay says. "You know. What they call fugue state or something. Shes still . . ."

Jay can tell that Vaughns mouth has gone dry because he lifts his cup and sips cold coffee, murmurs something soft that gets lost in the diners din.

"I know," Jay says.

Vaughn offers something else, kind, sorrowful, meaningless.

Spinning the ring like a gyroscope, Jay: "Me, I got away. They didnt get me because I ran. Two guys. Two guys, they took some money and jewelry. It was on Halloween, that was why I never liked . . ." Vaughn knew all about Jay and Halloween, but now knew why. "I had this righteous stash of candy under the bed in a pillow slip. I forgot to get it. When they took me back for my stuff. For the longest time I tried to convince myself that was my big regret. And everything after, its like I had this life that was predicated on not looking back, never looking back. Can you call that a life? I dont know. But, um," he says, unwittingly mimicking Vaughn, "I got a new one, on Catalina, Vaughnie. Totally by accident, and pretty much totally a construct, I guess, but . . ."

"A new life."

"Yeah."

"But what?"

Behind Vaughn, in the mirror surface of the stainless-steel wall behind the breakfast counter, Jay senses more than sees a movement, a figure, the faint ghost of the street and someone in the front window staring in- "Jay?"

-the face of Sam Dunn, staring in at them.

Jay swivels in his chair (how did Dunn survive the crash?), spooked (how did Dunn survive?), looks to the front window itself: nothing, n.o.body there. A shiny slur of traffic through morning sun.

"What are you looking at?"

Jay turns back to Vaughn. Chilled. "Nothing."

The ring wobbles to a stop. Jay covers it with his hand.

Struggling to stay on topic: "Anyway, what Im trying to say is, somebody holds your past year up like that, naked, particularly a life as sorry and sketchy as mine, it looks . . . I dont know . . ."

He glances over his shoulder to the window again. No Sam Dunn.

"Im sorry," Vaughn says.

"It is what it is. I didnt tell you because I dont tell anybody. Like I said. I dont think about it."

"Yeah."

"I just-"

"-Okay."

"So. Now you know."

Vaughn sighs, and looks relieved somehow. With a friends rare kindness, as if sloughing it off, no big deal, "I realize this will probably sound incredibly lame, but, um: its your life, Jay, youve only got one. I mean. f.u.c.k it. Whatayagonnado? Reboot?" He belches. And smiles faintly, wry. Jay is quiet. He looks down at his hand covering the ring and a life from which hes just now realizing hes been set free.

"Jay. Jay. You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Jay looks up. "Hey, Im gonna need some money."

Vaughn blinks. Money?

"And a place to crash, just until-" Jay feels the movement behind this time, his head whips to the window, where he catches just a glimpse of a face, a figure, a shape slip out of frame, and abruptly hes pushing up and away from the table. "I gotta check this-sit tight for a sec, okay?" he tells Vaughn and hurries to the front door and out onto the sidewalk, where he looks both ways, up and down the street, not much foot traffic in either direction, and no sign of Sam Dunn.

Its a bright, unforgiving sunlight. The homeless guy on the corner dances, his tinfoil cape throwing off dazzle. Jay moves along the cafe window, under an awning, to where he thought someone, maybe Sam Dunn, was standing when he thought he saw him, and turns to peer back into the diner at Vaughn- -who is gone.

Struck light-headed with a slow-rising panic, Jay tries not to freak out: theres the table, theres Vaughns chair pushed back, theres his coffee cup freshly filled. Jay wants to think maybe Vaughns in the bathroom, and when he gets back inside he goes down the narrow, dead-end hallway to the door marked: GUYS. Barges in. Its unoccupied. But the window is cranked wide, and the sound of a car firing up draws Jay to it, and to look out into the alley behind the diner where a beat-to-h.e.l.l dark gray S-Cla.s.s Mercedes is pulling out, fast.

Vaughns face is twisted toward Jay, one hand pressed to the back window gla.s.s, frightened eyes, mouth open and yelling something as the German sedan peels out. Then hes jerked back into the shadow of the interior and the suns reflection wipes even the memory of him away.

Oh s.h.i.t.

24 .

A PAY PHONE AT A VALERO SERVICE STATION.

Out of breath.

Tuneless keytones. 411: government listings: U.S. Marshals office: Los Angeles: main switchboard: the helpful operator: Jay impatient, says hi, needs to talk to Deputy U.S. Marshal Public. First name John. Yes, John Q. Public, Jay says, voice thin, hoa.r.s.e, words coming in breathless bursts, please dont hang up, he knows what it sounds like, its the name he was given, the name of the agent, or connect him with Jane Doe. Stupid, yes, but-whos calling? Jay tells them. Johnson. Jay. He tells the operator at the U.S. Marshals office that hes a protected witness, hes in the program, and she hangs up.

The receiver drops from his grasp, dangles on its metal leash. Hands on his knees, coughing, bent double, he closes his eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. He tries to fill his lungs with air.

After he watched Vaughn stolen away, he sprinted back through the diner, into the kitchen, past blank stares of startled fry cooks to the rear exit and burst out into the alley and ran pointlessly after the Mercedes just merging into traffic, as if by will alone he could catch it, down the long, shadowed alley, his legs. .h.i.tting the pavement so hard he began stumbling forward into heavy traffic on the next city street, cars swerving, honking, as Jay, sidestepping a slow-moving gridlock caused by roadwork at the next intersection, looking for the sliver of dark gray maybe, possibly, just disappearing around the corner-feet pounding, running, running, as if all the running he did on Catalina was training for this one feat-saving Vaughn-which he knew was impossible, knows is impossible, you can save only yourself and, sometimes, even if you do, whats the point?-although this time hes not running away-running, stumbling reckless forward desperate around another corner where finally he saw the charcoal S-Cla.s.s picking up speed (was that it?) three blocks ahead of him (was it the same car?) and make a merging swerve onto a main thoroughfare, disappearing, Glendale Avenue or San Fernando Road, Jay didnt know, he was all turned around.

But there was this gas station across the street.

Receiver in hand. Dial tone. Tuneless keytones, he tries it all again.

Same result. Inst.i.tutional politeness followed by exasperated skepticism, impatience, threats of legal consequences for tying up a federal phone line, for making a nuisance, and Jay says fine, fine, send somebody to get me.

And she hangs up on him.

Dial tone tuneless keytones; this time he taps out 9-1-1.

Johnson, he tells the operator. J as in . . . Johnson.

Yes, its an emergency, Jay says, hes a Federal witness, hes left protected custody, hes exposed, vulnerable, hes out, hes whatayacallit-compromised-and the emergency operator asks him to repeat his name and he does. Johnson, J. B. Jay. Johnson.

A soft voice behind him suggests trying "Jimmy Warren."

Jay spins.

Jane Doe is standing outside the pay phone kiosk, at a respectful distance, not too close, casual; he forgot how tall and striking she is. A navy blue Prius with government plates has stolen up, silent except for the faint bite of gravel under the tires, with waiting doors open, beneath the service station awning.

Tripod is behind the wheel. He grins out at Jay mirthlessly. Lifeless eyes lumped in his face like two rubber stoppers, opaque.

Doe asks, all droll and friendly: "Where you been, James?"

I saw him," Jay insists, although, as he says it, hes aware that hes not completely confident hes right.

Through some ugly ramble of lower Glendale the government plug-in hybrid floats silky, tinted windows set at half-mast. A smog-mantled cityscape roiling and wheezing past like rear projection, the Library Tower and a posse of flattop skysc.r.a.pers loom over the palm-stuck hills of Angelino Heights. Jays thoughts scatter, regroup, flailing for coherence. Piecing together a story he doesnt even know the plot of.

"Dunn?" Doe, in the front seat, with her head barely turned. Tripod driving, unusually silent.

"The pilot, yeah. My ride. After the plane crashed and burned . . . I didnt see him get out, but-" Still laboring to get his breath, though now hes not winded. Its more like theres simply not enough air. Anywhere.

The back of Does head angles, wordless, pensive.

"If he got out," Jay says, words knotting up on him. "What, or why, is he . . . ?" Then, frowning at an old thought he needs confirmed and changing subjects: "You let me go." Its a question made statement; Doe is unresponsive and wont confirm or deny. "Was he-" But Jays not sure what to ask next. "Dunn. I mean-was that why-do you guys know who he is-was-or if hes part of-?"

"We dont know him," Jane Doe cuts in, even-tempered. "The Cessna he crashed belongs to one of those well-connected private paramilitary government contracting outfits that sprung up in the fertile fields of 9/11, like genetically altered weeds, and now you cant get rid of them."

"Why would they-he, Dunn-or anyone-want Vaughn, when its me, or at least according to you, I mean . . . isnt it-?"

"Take a breath," Doe says. "You saw something, Jay. This morning. Yesterday. Something youre not sure of," gently, almost solicitous, "if you think about it."

Jay hesitates, knows shes right. "Lately," he confesses, "since I left, since before I left, okay sure: Im finding its like, yeah . . . Im just not so sure of things. Anymore. Which is not to say f.u.c.king blind," Jay adds, defensive. "And, yeah, it worries me, because we, I, all of us. Were so easily erased. And you guys-"

"Where does your friend live?" Tripod asks.

"Vaughns not part of this."

"He is now."

"What do they want? The list? Is this all about the G.o.dd.a.m.n list? Oh, and Vaughn thinks I was in a psych ward, so does Stacy, thank you very much-"

"Calm down."

"-You told everybody I went crazy? What the f.u.c.k is that? I mean. f.u.c.k. Its just, everything, is completely-"

"Jay?"

"-just completely-"

She turns to face him around the headrest. "Jay . . . step by step. Where does Vaughn-"

"-and then he was right there," Jay says, still agitated.

"Calm down."

"Right there. In the window. Outside the diner. Like a ghost."

"Jay."

"And Vaughn-"

Does arm swipes over the seat and the back of her hand delivers a moment of fireworks and darkness. "I said-"

Jays head snaps into the seat, he slumps back, hands going up, bleeding from the nose. "OwJesus."

"-Doucement," Doe declaims softly. "We know where he lives, we were just being conversational."

"What?"

"Doucement," Doe says.

Tripod: "Its French for shut the f.u.c.k up."

"No, its not."

Jay, glaring, is adrift, a flare of rage only serving to choke him wordless. Wet red threads leaking out of his nose, monsterlike; he can see them in Tripods rearview mirror.

"You need to get ahold of your emotions," Doe tells him. She hands him a tissue and looks at her hand. Her knuckles are red. She flexes her fingers and frowns, as if disappointed in herself.

The tinted windows hum upward.

They veer north on the Hollywood Freeway, the dour silence of the preternaturally mute hybrid car broken by the thump of the concrete seams, low-fluttering: fffmmmphhh fffmmmphhh fffmmmphhh fffmmmphhh.

"This is not a maze," Jay says finally. His face aches, and his nose is numb. Thoughts untwisting: "This particular zigzag gang of angles. This . . . thing youve made for me. Has no outlet. At all. Which means its not even, at the heart of it, a riddle to solve. Is it?"

Doe and Tripod have no reaction.

"A true riddle, or test, has something akin to a door," Jay says. "This, instead. Its like, what, I dont know . . . a zero-sum game. Or a watery grave. Without any hope of exit, unless, well, unless theres a looking gla.s.s up ahead."

He watches traffic fall away on either side of them and wonders if Feds can drive as fast as they want. "Is there? I mean. Is there a looking gla.s.s?"

"I dont even know what that means," Doe says at length.

"A way to just opt out of this whole thing," Jay explains.

Tripod makes a low guttural noise that is either mockery or disgust.