she thought, I hope you stay safe, John.
“You okay?” Frank asked.
John nodded, raising the pint of Pabst to his lips. The beer was sour, but it was wet and it moistened his tongue. The shakes had mostly stopped. John could still see the dead men, but if he gritted his teeth hard enough and focused on Frank’s face, the images would pass.
The bar was dark, a long TV in the corner playing One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A few patrons dressed in tight jeans and flannel shirts stood near the bar and sipped Pabst from a can. Flogging Molly played from the jukebox.
“Okay, good.” Frank paused, then closed his mouth. “Why were you following me?”
John placed the beer on the bar table between them. He once told Ashley that they should give tables like these to his students instead of desks. The kids never wanted to sit. They wanted to bounce around, move, and not have to sit still. Kind of like how John felt right now.
“Ashley broke up with me.”
That’s it. Leave it at that. Don’t go any deeper.
Frank watched John for a moment. Then his gaze flicked back and forth over John’s shoulder. Finally, it returned to John.
“Uh huh?”
“Yeah, I think Ashley broke up with me. Said she couldn’t see me. I—I don’t know. We had a huge argument.”
John reached down for his beer. When his hand started to shake again, he wrapped it around the pint glass and held it there. He didn’t want to drop the glass when he lifted it up again.
“What does that have to do with you following me?”
That’s what we were fighting about.
Frank’s voice was tight and steady. How’d he keep it that way after killing six people? How the hell was he so calm? The best John could do was think about Ashley’s face in the car, lips turned down, eyes soft, the hint of moisture on the lids.
He focused on Michelle’s voice when he called her to tell her. How it got real soft when she said she was sorry. Told him to come out with her for some drinks. That Frank was busy again, no idea where.
He told himself to focus on that. Not all the bodies. Not all the blood.
“I called Michelle to tell her about it, about Ashley. And she said you were working again tonight. Like you always do. How you never tell her where you’re working. How when she calls you never pick up.”
Frank nodded and then his eyes took another sweep around the bar. John felt a chill pass through his body. Maybe there was someone behind him with a knife or a gun, just taking a few steps toward them. Maybe he’d feel something pierce his spine and then everything would go black.
He took a long swig of beer and had to swallow hard to force it down his throat.
“I thought you were cheating on Michelle,” John said. “When I called her to tell her about Ashley. And I thought, I couldn’t let you do that to her anymore. Keep her in the dark. So, since she wanted to help me, I was going to help her.”
The story sounded good. He didn’t want Frank to know he would have followed him whether he and Ashley had argued or not. He didn’t really want to tell Frank anything.
Frank took a long sip of his vodka. His eyes kept moving around the room.
“So I followed you. I was going to take a picture on my camera phone of you and whoever it was. I was going to show her, and she—she—”
“Was going to go back to you?” Frank said.
John didn’t say anything. His beer glass was empty, and damn, did he want another one.
“Never mind that,” Frank said. “You have no idea what you got yourself into.”
“What was I supposed to think? I was going to get a coffee at the Starbucks on Valley Road. I almost went in, but I saw you sitting across from some woman in a hat. You reached across and touched her hand. You looked like you were going to put your arm around her.”
Frank downed the rest of his vodka. Ice clinked in the glass when he put it back down.
“I didn’t see you there that day,” he said.
“I didn’t go in. Who was the girl? I couldn’t see her face.”
“It’s none of your business. I’m not cheating on Michelle. My work is my work, and it’s not her business or yours.”
“Why did you kill those people?”
“All right,” Frank said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get out of the city. Take the train this time, stay away from the water.”
John closed his eyes. Another beer would have been great. He couldn’t stop shaking.
“When you get off the train, go to the police. Tell them what’s going on, tell them what happened. You’ll be fine.”
“I can’t leave. I won’t be safe.”
Frank leaned across the table. “You’ll be safer going back to the police than you will be with me.”
“No one’s going to come after me?”
“Those people were after me. It’s not your problem. Just tell the police what you saw. Then you can go meet up with your friends and get some drinks. Enjoy your February break.”
John took a step away from the table. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Okay,” John said.
“I’m sorry to hear about you and Ashley.”
John said, “Where’s the nearest PATH stop?”
Frank gave him directions.
John walked to the door and pushed it open. When he stepped out on to the street, a gust of winter wind hit him in the face. Pulling his jacket tight, he turned up the block and immediately bumped into a fat guy in a black trenchcoat.
Beer sloshed around in John’s stomach. His knees wobbled. The guy apologized and kept walking down the street.
Peter Callahan—it was still difficult to think of himself as Frank Carnathan—watched John leave. He felt like a rat was chewing the lining of his stomach away as he pulled his Blackberry out and called Weller, his boss.
He got through to Weller after reciting his identification numbers and several different passwords. The passwords were simple, six different state flowers, and they reminded him of spring.
“What the hell happened?” he asked as soon as he was transferred.
“Let’s meet,” Weller said. He dashed off an address, and hung up. Callahan stared at the phone.
****
The first time Callahan met Weller, Callahan was in DC after switching jobs from the CIA to the newly formed DHS. Standing in the National Mall, watching the crowd, looking for anyone who stuck out. Much like he’d done at the bar tonight.
Callahan stepped into the World War II Memorial and watched a few tourists study the pillars—one for each state. He headed toward the New Jersey pillar.
A man holding a manila folder ambled up to him. He had a neatly trimmed gray beard and long black overcoat.
“Do you have a match?” the man asked.
“I use a lighter,” Callahan said, feeling the Zippo in his pocket.
“Better