Part 16 (1/2)

Back in 1917 a Philadelphian named Gustav Weber brought his new bride to Los Angeles on their honeymoon, fell in love with the place and its Spanish missionstyle architecture. When he returned to Philly, he bought a triangle of land just outside the city and decided to re-create a little L.A. back at home, with street names like Los Angeles Avenue and San Gabriel Road. Along these streets, he built a bunch of stucco bungalows with red-tiled roofs. Later, others built two-story homes, also in the Southern California style, and filled out the new town, dubbed Hollywood, nicely.

Of course it would have been completely insane if Ms. Hardie's rental house was on Alta Brea Drive ... alas, there was no such road in this faux Hollywood. Instead, she was at the rather boring intersection of Fox Chase and Cedar roads.

Factboy's a.s.signment was to dig up every last logistical detail that could help Mann lay siege to the home. Utilities, security, neighbors, neighbors' utilities and security ... everything. Because at any given moment Mann might be given the green light to breach that home and slaughter everyone inside (whoops, sorry, Ms. Hardie! Sorry, unfortunately named Charlie Jr.!). No sc.r.a.p of intel was too small, especially if Mann needed it in the clutch.

So Factboy locked himself away in the downstairs bathroom and began pulling everything he could.

As he tried to work, he heard a sudden loud thud. Probably his kids horsing around, with one tackling the other to the ground. They were full-fledged teenagers now but they still acted like idiot toddlers. Any second now Ms. Factboy would enter, yelling, which would be more of a distraction than the original thud.

Factboy went back to the task at hand. Maybe after this a.s.signment, if there was enough money after paying down their cards and catching up on the mortgage, maybe he'd suggest a trip to the wife. Nowhere fancy, just somewhere to a.s.sure her that her husband still had earning potential. That the past few years were simply a road b.u.mp, not the new status q- THUD.

What the h.e.l.l were they doing up there?

Factboy coughed into his fist, then listened. Where the h.e.l.l was the wife? She was supposed to have come out and tamed these kids by now.

”Hey!” Factboy shouted. ”What's going on up there?”

Nothing but silence. Then, at the bathroom door, a small series of knocks.

”I'm in here! What the h.e.l.l are you and your brother doing up there, anyway? It sounds like you're about to come through the G.o.dd.a.m.ned ceiling!”

Then a voice, unfamiliar and creepy, whispered through the crack between the door and frame: ”We're coming through all right, but not through the ceiling.”

The door burst open, wood splintering, and Factboy tried to lift his laptop to serve as a kind of s.h.i.+eld against the knife in the guy's hand that was already-oh G.o.d, it was already stained with blood ...

”Families are fun,” Phil said. Jane nodded appreciatively. She was raiding the dead family's freezer. Phil was thinking about the storyline to go with this Flagstaff slaughter.

To think they wasted all of those years copying other people's stories. They could have been making up their own fun, crazy stories this whole time.

Jane pulled out ice cream, but Phil had to be the one to break it to her: There probably wouldn't be enough time. They had a private jet to catch and a bigger, even better story to write on the way.

22.

I would appreciate it if you would not act like a walking hard-on while we're on the job.

-Emilio Estevez, Stakeout.

SO THIS IS where you are, at this exact moment in time: You've got a dying body in the trunk, barely kept alive by life support-and thank Christ for the handy life support system in the trunk.

You're speeding across the rest of the country, trying like h.e.l.l to make it to Philadelphia before another death squad tries to cut you down.

Everything is hanging in the balance, an anvil on the head of a pin, teetering between your old life and the new one ...

And you can't help but be giddy.

Because your name is Charlie Hardie, and you're about to save your family. This is what you were born to do. This is what the military trained you for, spending untold millions molding you into an unkillable specimen of human being. This is the sum of all of your life's tough experiences, to do this one thing.

Save Kendra.

Save your boy, Seej.

You start to imagine what it'll feel like when you hold her in your arms. Your lips against hers, soft and full. Her breath, hot in your ear. The texture and scent of her hair. You've been imagining it for a year now, ever since they started feeding you information about her. At first it was an academic game. To become Charlie Hardie, you must hate what he hates, love what he loves. His motivations must be hardwired into your nervous system. You relied on your imagination. At a certain point, your imagined encounters started to feel real.

You know the difference between reality and fantasy; you're not that deluded. The difference is, you don't care anymore.

After many frenzied miles on the road, where the country around you faded into a blur of mile markers and billboards and road signs and trees and cars, you finally pull over near the finish line. You can't wait any longer; you want to hear her voice. And try your soon-to-be-new life on for size.

You pick up the pay phone, dial the number you've memorized so much that part of you truly believes it's your home number. A voice answers. You've heard this voice a million times in surveillance footage. Her voice. Kendra. A voice so familiar now it's almost as if you truly were married.

You tell her, ”It's me.”

She says nothing.

For a moment you wonder if the surgery, paired with endless hours of vocal coaching, wasn't successful. Maybe something about your voice is off, and maybe Kendra can tell.

”Are you there? Listen to me, Kendra, I know this is going to sound crazy, but you have to listen to me. You and the boy are in serious danger. You need to get out of the house now and just start driving. Drive anywhere. Don't tell me where, because they're definitely listening, but just go, go as fast as you can. I'll find you guys when it's safe.”

Still nothing.

”Kendra? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

”I'm here, Charlie. But I can't leave.”

”You have to leave, Kendra, please just trust me on this ...”

”I can't leave because they've already called, and told me I can't leave.”

You realize that things are already in motion. This is bad.

”They called me and said if I left the house I was dead.”

”Who told you that? Who told you that you were dead?”

”A woman. She didn't give her name.”

”Did you call the police? Anyone at all?”

”They told me not to call anyone, or do anything else except wait.”

”Wait for what?”

A burst of static. Then: Another voice.