Orientation was over. He’d assumed it would take months to change into Danny Storey. Not weeks. Hell, they were booking him on a flight to San Jose. He wasn’t even used to his contact lenses yet. He’d be totally dependent on his inspector in Santa Cruz.
He shut off the light and stared into the dark, into his future. His nightly ritual began with visualizing the desolate patch of woods where his fortune was hidden in the snow-covered cistern. Sometimes he imagined animals creeping around-foxes, squirrels, even unsuspecting hunters. But hunting season was over.
After he thought about his money, he, and his right hand, conjured Ida Rain. Then, usually, he was ready to go to sleep.
But tonight Broker’s fat kid was waiting in the dark, reaching for his money. And she stayed there, off and on, all night
The document was called the Memorandum of Understanding. It specified the conditions of Danny’s acceptance into WITSEC. If he abided by the rules, the Marshals Service pledged to support and protect him. If he violated security, he was out on his butt.
After he signed the agreement, John handed him a Photostat of a Michigan driver’s license with a phony address in Warren, Michigan.
There was his new name. Daniel Storey.
“We kept your day and month of birth but took a few years off your age. Turn it in when you apply for your California license,” said John.
“That was fast,” said Danny, studying the picture next to his new name. In the picture he still had Tom James’s hair, mustache and glasses. That would change in California.
“Danny, we think you’re going to be one of our more low-maintenance clients,” said John. He really was Danny now.
His new legal name-change papers and new birth certificate had been mailed to his handler in California.
Danny’s meager belongings lay spread out for one last inspection on the kitchen table. All the clothing had been combed through to make sure that there were no labels that originated in Minnesota. The procedure was brief because Tom only had the one bag.
As John checked through everything again, Danny shifted from foot to foot. He tensed as the inspector perused the parka label, turned the pockets inside out. He handed the jacket to Danny and went on to another item. Danny hugged the jacket and let out a breath.
Basic security. He could not contact anyone from his past without permission from Travis, who was his inspector in California, and then, he could only initiate supervised approved phone calls on a secure line. He could never receive calls. Mail, such as holiday cards to family, would be handled by the marshals, who would post them from a secure mail drop.
“I won’t be sending any Christmas cards,” said Danny.
He had to practice “unlearning” references that would identify him as someone from Minnesota, hereafter known as the “danger zone.”
“Forget snow. Forget winter,” advised John.
“No problem,” said Danny.
“Forget the Twins and the Vikings.”
“Who?”
Danny could tell John enjoyed working with him. Or was relieved. The rare exception. The “innocent” witness.
As with Norman and Sarah, Tom vacuumed every moment for a hint that John scented a killer in his presence. Nada.
Referring to Norman and Sarah’s extensive notes. John went over the phony background. They used Warren, Michigan, where Tom had spent childhood summers with an aunt. They expanded it to include classes at Wayne State University in Detroit. He’d had a lifelong drinking problem and was now sober for three years. They agreed, the ruse would paper over his job history. However,
John cautioned against attending AA meetings. “Too many questions. Too many experts on drinking behavior in those meetings. You may not fit the profile over a long period and might arouse suspicion.”
When his checklist was completed, John extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, considering what’s waiting for me down the hall.”
“Which is?”
“Believe me, not a reporter. Good luck,” said John.
The night before Danny was to fly to San Jose, which was one mountain range away from his new home and life, he violated his no-red-meat rule and ordered a steak, french fries, and a bottle of red wine.
Later, he couldn’t settle on an Ida Rain fantasy. Usually he pictured her in a mask, naked. Sometimes no mask, in the light. He went back and forth. Could not decide. Then.
What if-
What if, when the time was right, he went back for the money and Ida. Brought her to California and, with his new wealth, turned a plastic surgeon loose on that chin.
God, she’d be unbelievable. Gorgeous.
The power of it nearly threw him off the bed.
He took the last of the wine and went out to his courtyard.
His eyes moistened with emotion, imagining how it would be, slowly removing the bandages from her face.
How grateful she would be. How smooth her new chin would feel, sliding between his naked thighs, as her sweet auburn hair tickled his belly…
Thank you, Danny. Thank you.
And she’d cry, she’d be so happy and she’d raise her face to him and the hot salty tears would trickle down her perfect chin.
49
Late afternoon in the motel room off Highway 36. Last light leaked through the cheap venetian blinds and streaked the wall over the desk. Broker sat, eyed the telephone, sipped from a can of ginger ale, confronted the blank notebook page in front of him, fingered the message that had been waiting for him at the motel desk: Call back Ida Rain. Her work number. Put down the message. Stared at the phone again.
He picked up a ballpoint pen, twirled it, clicked the plunger.
Keith sat in a jail cell buried under an avalanche of lurid allegations, moral condemnation, and some solid evidence.
The federal grand jury would indict. He would be charged.
He refused to defend himself.
He wanted people to think he’d killed Caren and Alex Gorski, had tried to kill James. No remorse. Defiant. Strutting. Dabbling in jailhouse tattoos.
Wanted people to think he was crazy
Everyone except me.
Broker’s hand dropped to the sheet of notebook paper.
He drew a vertical line. Near the top, he added an intersecting horizontal line. Below the first line he added another horizontal, wider, parallel to the first. Farther down the vertical, he drew the short bottom bar. On a slant.
Bottom line.
The bottom line on the Russian cross represented suffering.
What do you want me to see that has to stay hidden from everybody else?
Broker stared at the symbol on the notebook page for a long time. He finished his can of ginger ale and opened another. He reached for a cigar, rolled it lightly in his lips. The phone rang. He reached for it.
“Broker? Dale Halme. I’m at your house.” Halme was a Cook County deputy.
“Hi, Dale, you get in all right?”
“Sitting right here at your kitchen table with one crumbled phone log, shows call information for the eleventh and twelfth of December. Kind of smeared up, but legible.”
“Strawberry jam. Can you make out any calls made between ten and eleven A.M. on the twelfth?”
“Right. Okay. Lessee, there’s one. Made at ten-thirty-three A.M. Short, less than a minute. You want the number?”
“Yeah.” Broker copied it.
“That all?”
“Yep. Thanks, Dale.”
Broker hung up and immediately entered the number. A woman answered. “Barb Luct, East Neighborhoods.”
“Hello, this is Cook County Deputy Phil Broker. I’m down in St. Paul cleaning up some details on the Caren Angland case. You’re familiar…”
“Yes, of course; but you want the City Desk, not Neighborhoods,” she said.
“No, I think I’m in the right place. Did Tom James pick up his calls on this extension?”
“He doesn’t work here anymore,” she said stiffly.