The last item in the folder whipped Tom’s pulse. A map of northern California. Tom grinned. “I wanted warm.”
“San Francisco and the immediate Bay Area are full. But we have an inspector-handler on the coast, south of San Francisco who has a ready-made situation that is perfect for you.” He pointed to the map, below San Francisco.
Tom scanned the map. California. Hollywood. Earthquakes. El Nino.
And Charles Manson.
John’s finger stabbed a place-name where the coast notched in south from San Francisco Bay. “How does Santa Cruz strike you?”
Something about the name snagged in his memory.
Something he’d read. Something exciting.
Santa Cruz. He recalled it was the epicenter of the big quake in 1989. But that wasn’t it.
Pondering, he acted merely curious and apprehensive.
John smiled and said, “It’s perfect for you. A laid-back college, tourist town. With San Jose and Silicon Valley just over
‘the hill,’ that’s what the locals call the Coastal Mountains.”
“Mountains and the ocean,” said Tom happily, and it was like a dream.
“And redwood trees,” added John. “A slice of Berkeley preserved from the 1960s. Real tolerant people.”
John placed a pile of books on Tom’s bed; they were a mix of travel manuals and locally published nonfiction about northern California. He glanced at his clipboard.
“You’ve expressed a preference for a new name: Daniel Storey.”
“Is it all right?” Tom asked.
“No one in your mother’s or father’s family is named Storey, are they?”
“No. I didn’t borrow it. I made it up. From the sound of it.”
“Storey,” said John. “It could be a corruption of a Scotch, Irish, or English name.”
“James is English, and my mother’s maiden name was Higgins.”
“No problem.” John shuffled some paper in the folder and handed Tom a legal form. “Fill this out. It’s an application for a legal name change. We’ll hand carry it to a federal judge.”
“Quick,” said Tom.
“Absolutely. Now, is there anything else to start?”
“Contacts,” said Tom eagerly. “And a haircut.”
John nodded. “Get you to an optometrist tomorrow morning. For now, take it easy. Anything you need, just pick up the phone. The TV is full cable, all the movie channels plus pay per view. You understand you can’t leave the room without an escort.”
John left and Tom inspected the room service menu. He picked up the phone and ordered grilled pork chops, baked potato, green vegetable and a salad. The refrigerator in the kitchenette was stocked with soda and water. A shopping list form stuck to the front with a magnet. Cupboards were stacked with dishes, drawers with towels and dishcloths.
Coffeemaker. Dishwasher.
Back at the table, he perused the map of California. What was it about Santa Cruz? He picked up the phone and heard John’s voice answer immediately.
“John, there is something about relocating to Santa Cruz I’d like to discuss.”
“Sure, give me about twenty minutes.”
Tom opened a Diet Pepsi, carried it to the table on his balcony, and sat down. Below him, the voices of a family, male, female, whining child, rebounded off the brick cocoon.
The enclosure resonated with the hive smells and sounds.
But furtive. Out of sight.
The unmistakable scent of fish sauce drifted up from a lower gallery. A half dozen cable television stations and radios competed. The different languages. The Witness Program had been conceived for the Italian Mafia. Now it sounded like the U.N. Tom smiled. The multiculturalism of the drug trade.
Santa Cruz?
John knocked. Tom got up and let him in.
“I’m trying to remember something I read about Santa Cruz, something that made the place stick in my head. Was it ever the site of a big story? I mean, besides the big quake in 1989?” asked Tom.
John grinned. “The UCSC mascot is the Banana Slug. Is that it? Just kidding. Does serial killers ring a bell?”
“Wait, yeah,” said Tom. “In that book by the FBI profiler.”
“Sure. Douglas’s book. In the early 1970s, Santa Cruz had the reputation of being the Serial killer Capital of the World.
It’s where Ed Kemper went on his rampage-he killed six coeds, then his mother and a friend of hers. At the same time, a guy named Mullin was killing people in Santa Cruz, apparently at the direction of inner voices. Also, a hermit named Frazier came down from the hills and slaughtered a whole family, claiming to be defending the environment.”
“Real fun place to put a college,” said Tom. Serial killer capital of the world. Where the United States government, in its wisdom, was relocating him.
He savored the irony. Thanked John. After the marshal left, Tom turned up his collar, whipped a wet comb through his hair and viewed himself, minus his glasses, from different angles in the bathroom mirror.
Tom had his hair cut, received an eye exam and ordered his contacts. And he took a full physical. The doctor told him his leg was mending well, he could begin light exercise. He settled into a routine. “The facility” had a small gym. He visited it two hours in the morning and two hours in the evening. Faithfully Tom began to perform Agent Terry’s road exercises.
The red streak of scar tissue on his calf stung as he jogged on the treadmill. Liking the pain, he ran harder. In the privacy of his room, he stood naked in front of the mirror.
His glasses were now a backup system. The marshals had fitted him with contact lenses. His hair was shorter, but it wasn’t there yet. He experimented, combing it back, turning for different angles. What would he look like with ten pounds of belly hacked off.
He was not quite pudgy, but he was definitely doughy.
His breathing was shallow, and he tired easily. It seemed as if his lungs and circulation only serviced the outer layer of his body. No blood or air getting deep down inside.
His new self waited beneath that layer of flab. He began to drill through the fat. Searching for Danny Storey.
And he practiced being more assertive, aggressive. He mimicked Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver, standing in front of the mirror, pointing, demanding:
“You talking to me?”
He paid attention to his diet. I will never go to McDonald’s again. He passed on the butter, the cheese, the ice cream.
The salt. More chicken, fish, turkey, and steamed vegetables.
Rice.
An hour every morning and evening on the running machine. A half hour rowing. The first time he struggled through thirty push-ups in a row, he cheered out loud. Yeah, Danny, yeah.
48
He was Danny now. John had started using his new name.
They were changing him too fast. He was getting ahead of himself. Requesting the movie had been a mistake.
Danny paced his balcony, trying to shake off a creepy reaction to watching the movie Jeremiah Johnson.
Dumb, going back into things, she said.
Pretty dumb movie, too, mountain man horse opera, right up until the part where Jeremiah, played by a young Robert Redford-clefts, no wrinkles yet-set out to wreak bloody revenge on the Indian band that killed his family.
Fucker running through the trees. Relentless.
Broker’s favorite movie. Watched it over and over, Caren said.
Out there. Him and his bug-eyed kid. Never quit.
Calm down, Danny. Deep breath.
He forced himself to draw the oxygen down into the bottom of his lungs. Couldn’t do it right, not all the way. But soon he would master the technique. Was going to master a lot of things. Not just the casinos. Golf. The piano.
He sucked in deep breaths and pictured emerald California fairways, movie stars trundling past in golf carts.
It seemed to work; he felt calmer, centered.