Javier pitched his voice low and sure, and said, "What happened?"
"It's...oh God." Kevin started crying.
Well. Now they knew what had happened to Tuyet. Who would tell Nelson? Javier would be the logical one. Kevin probably wouldn't be much more coherent once Nelson woke up, and since Javier had been the one to visit the lab with Nelson, he seemed to be the only other logical choice. Nelson might hate Javier for saying the words, but that was fine. Maybe it would serve as some small part of his penance.
Still, Javier wanted to spare Nelson whatever cruelty he could. "What should I tell him?"
"It's all over the TV-Chinatown-there was a gas explosion."
Tuyet hadn't shown up at the morgue after all?
"I don't know how it happened," Kevin said. "Nobody knows."
Plenty of buildings had boiler heat, and given that so many immigrants insisted on cooking traditional food over flames on stoves, Javier wasn't too surprised that an accident like that would happen. If it even was an accident.
Kevin had stopped explaining and fell into crooning sobs.
"Go on," Javier said, a bit more gently.
In between gulps of air, Javier made out the words, "It's a building on Nelson's block. Maybe even their building. I recognized the jewelry shop."
"All right. We'll tell him when he wakes up." There was silence on the other end. "Kevin?" He'd already hung up. Javier disconnected and turned to Marianne, who was watching him intently. "We need to see what's streaming on the online news. There's been an explosion in Chinatown." Javier considered the explosions he'd personally witnessed in Gaza. "Probably a fire, too."
"Okay," Marianne said. "Chinatown. That doesn't necessarily mean-"
"Nelson's building. Or near it."
Marianne closed her eyes and collected herself, then opened them again, stood up briskly, and said, "We'll look at the news." She limped over to the computer, typed for a few moments, then called out into the conference room, "Tim? Do you have some kind of program running? The computer's really slow."
Tim looked bleary as he shuffled into the office, though he probably looked the most like himself of any of them, since he'd always had a short beard and casual clothes. Javier had first met everyone else freshly groomed and styled, wearing suits and ties, or makeup and pumps. Tim sat at the computer, clicked a few times, then crawled under the desk and began checking the connections.
Javier's stomach sank further.
Randy followed Tim into the office, face half-green with bruising, hair sticking up and shirt untucked, and Marianne told both of them as much as she knew about the latest development, which wasn't much.
Tim crawled back out from under the desk and said, "Internet's out."
It's all over the TV...maybe there was a television set somewhere on the site. Not in Alejandro's office-he'd never had much use for American TV, where the Spanish-language channels played trashy telenovelas all day. Maybe the site supervisor's office had a set-the office Javier continued to violate, despite his intention to leave it intact.
He went and checked. The nameless supervisor had no television either. The guards? They weren't supposed to...but they might, a small portable set, easily hidden. "I'll be right back," Javier told nobody in particular.
It was early. The sky outside was just beginning to glow through the slim gaps between the tenements and the parking ramps, and Javier's breath, as visible as cigar smoke, streamed out on the chilly air. He crammed his hands in his pockets and turned toward the security trailer.
That was when the flashing strobe of a police light caught his eye.
Raul and the other remaining employee were at the gate, which was still locked. They spoke to a pair of uniformed officers on the other side. It could just be a routine check. Or maybe the cops were relaying some sort of news. Not that Javier believed it-not after he'd seen the American police clubbing down civilians, out there in the street. They were as corrupt here as they were in Turkmenistan, though they were usually less obvious about it, while a complacent public was happy to look the other way.
Javier kept to the shadows between the trailers and crept closer, until he heard, "Does anybody here speak English?"
He could have sworn Raul did. Well enough, anyway.
"English," the cop repeated more loudly-since volume was always so helpful in matters of translation. Javier eased as close as he dared, and then he heard, "Tim Foster. Is. He. Here?"
Why would anyone be searching for Tim, unless they knew he was the Voice of Reason?
And worse, how would anyone know the Voice of Reason was here...unless someone had betrayed him? Marianne had been with Javier all day and all night. That left Randy...or Nelson.
Marianne and Randy knew they were hacking through Canaan Products' records, obviously, since both of them were helping with the search. But neither of them knew Tim was the Voice of Reason.
Only Nelson did.
And only Nelson had a working phone.
Javier swayed, and allowed the trailer to hold him up for that single, brief moment that his world came crashing down all around him. He'd always told himself that if he ever trusted anyone again, they would need to damn well earn it.
It was his own fault for giving Nelson the opening to stab him through the heart.
But knowing he was, in some small sense, to blame didn't make it hurt any less.
Javier gathered his will, hardened his heart, and strode out across the gravel lot with his head held high. The two cops both looked up suddenly, and as Raul turned and saw Javier coming, he said in rapid Spanish, "Don't worry about it-they can't come in without the right paperwork."
In a world where phones and Internet functioned, where spike strips weren't landmining the streets, the hospital wasn't overflowing and the morgue wasn't full of bloody bodies...maybe. But here, and now, Javier suspected all it would take was a reciprocating saw with a diamond bit to cut through the chains on the gate-and then DLR Construction would be fair game for every looter or thug who wanted to come in and help themselves to some equipment.
"Are you in charge?" One of the cops barked at Javier. "Do you speak English?"
Javier replied with an imperious half-shrug.
"We're looking for Tim Foster." In reply, Javier stared at the cop blandly, so he repeated louder, and more deliberately, "Tim - Foster."
While Javier did actually care what happened to the DLR site, he cared far more about Tim. In fact, if they planned on hauling off Tim, they'd do it over Javier's dead body...and then an idea came upon him all at once, a realization so profound, it felt divinely inspired. Javier might not know how to read formulae or spreadsheets. He might not be able to program a computer or organize a plan to attack all that data. But he'd certainly be worth a lot more to Tim alive than dead.
There hadn't been time to get a fake I.D. together with his Canaan Products credentials, so Javier hadn't brought anything to the job fair with his real name on it. Even his prepaid Visa was an anonymous gift card. If ever there was a time Javier could be a hero, that time was now. He looked one officer up and down, and then the other. And in the coldest, most arrogant voice he'd learned at his mother's knee, said, "I am Timoteo Foster."
It wouldn't work. How could it? Foster? No one in their right mind would believe Foster was Javier's surname. But it might have been the fact that the policemen were overworked and overtired, or it was still too dark out to properly see-or maybe all credit could be given to the tone of voice Javier had channeled from Felicidad. Whatever the reason, neither cop thought twice of it.
"Tim Foster, you're under arrest."
"That's ridiculous. With what crime am I being charged?"
"Inciting to riot."
Chapter 26.
Tim yawned. Though it was ridiculously early, everyone was awake thanks to Nelson's latest headache. Since there was really nothing they could do for Nelson, Randy dragged Tim back into the conference room where they'd been sleeping not half an hour before, and attempted to show him the financial spreadsheets. Normally, Tim would have been curious about whatever it was Randy was trying to explain to him-even though he didn't know much about budgeting, and found numbers in the millions and billions to be quite abstract unless they signified gigs or terabytes. Randy, though, was positive he'd found something significant, and he seemed to know what he was talking about.
But focusing on Randy was like picking out a decent outfit from his closet. Tim wanted to get it right. He gave it his very best shot. But when all was said and done, he made sense of Randy's budget numbers no more than he'd matched any shirt he owned with any pair of pants...which was to say, not very successfully at all.
"And when the manna that's just about to expire goes to the food banks, they get a tax break, see?" Randy said, too excited to realize that Tim was not following him whatsoever. "I mean, shit. Some tax break. It's almost as much as they make selling the stuff."
Nelson, pale and muttering, with that freakish blue vein pulsing at his temple-how could Tim ever hope to comprehend what tax breaks were supposed to signify when he couldn't stop thinking about that awful vein?
"But look at last week," Randy continued. "There's a dip here, where they donate their half-rotten stuff and claim their fat write-off. The numbers are low-like maybe they pulled Manhattan's leftovers out the mix."
Tim looked down at the column Randy was pointing at. Completely meaningless. "Why?"
"I dunno. What if they didn't donate the old manna, so they couldn't claim it? What if they destroyed it? Tossed it, buried it, locked it up and threw away the key? If we can find a memo related to the missing stuff, maybe you'll have your answers. Maybe Marianne can think of some more keywords we could use to pull up anyth-"
The front door slammed open, and papers fluttered off the table. Javier's foreman stood framed in the doorway, giving both of them a hard look. "Which one of you is Tim Foster?" he demanded in heavily accented, but perfectly understandable, English.
"I am?" Tim said. He wasn't entirely sure why it had come out like a question...maybe because he wondered who wanted to know, but the foreman intimidated him so much, he didn't dare refuse to answer.
Randy stepped in front of Tim and said, "Is there a problem?"
The foreman closed the door behind him, turned back to them, and said, "Yeah, there's a problem. The police just came around looking to arrest Tim Foster for causing that riot."
Tim would have gasped, but his throat had closed up, and a little choking noise came out instead. "But I didn't..." he stammered out, although the foreman's shrewd expression conveyed that he never thought Tim had actually started the whole fiasco-just that he'd somehow managed to get blamed for it.
Satisfied that Tim understood the gravity of the situation, the foreman looked him up and down, nodded, and added, "Then Javier gave himself up. As Tim Foster."
"How could he-?" Randy said. "Javier passed himself off as a Tim?"
"Timoteo."
"Well, shit."
"Whatever you got going on," the foreman said, "I don't care, one way or the other. But them cops, they come back with a warrant? I gotta make sure there ain't nothing for them to find. You need to go. Now."
"We can't go." Everyone turned toward Marianne, who stood in the doorway to the office, red hair snarled, wearing Nelson's cast-off clothes, and gauze bandages on her feet. "Nelson is too sick to move."
"Sick how?"
"Nothing contagious-he gets migraines. Headaches. And his medications knock him out."
"You got a truck. Put him in the back."
"But you don't get it," she said. "It's dangerous out there."
"Oh, I get it. But we can't put this whole company in danger to keep on protecting you. This is the livelihood of fifty men and their families-that's just how it is. Them cops figure out they got the wrong guy and they come back, we open up the gate for them and say, Come on in, officer, and have a look around. Either that, or they break it down."
Tim's head spun. He looked at the printouts on the table. What evidence was there of him hacking into Canaan Products? His netbook. The desktop. And about fifty reams of printouts. That was all that needed to go in the truck. Not Nelson-because as far as anyone knew, Nelson Oliver and Tim Foster had never even met.
"I'm the one they want." Tim took a deep, unsteady breath, and said, "I'll go."
Marianne said, "We have to stick together," while Randy said, "I'm coming with you," and the foreman said, "Then get going."
Tim turned to Marianne. "I'm sorry. It's safer for you if I leave-and I take the printouts with me." The construction guys would probably think he was pulling some kind of scam on them if he tried to take the desktop, but he could set the hard drive to overwrite itself with a string of zeroes, no problem. "I'll drive down to Chinatown and see if Nelson's family is okay. You stay and take care of him."
The foreman relented. "All right. If he's that sick, then we got no choice but to let him stay. But, Tim Foster-you need to go, now."
Tim's heart hurt, physically hurt, when he thought of that blue vein pulsing on Nelson's temple. And Javier being hauled away in handcuffs. And of kissing them. Both of them.
He wished he'd had the stones to say, "I love you," since now it might be too late.
Javier stared into the camera. At his side, a police officer held a sheet of paper from the laser printer at chest level announcing his name as Timoteo Foster. If the Internet had been functioning, he would have been taken down to The Tombs-Manhattan Central Booking-and been processed for real. Or, more likely, someone would have figured out by now that there was no such person as Timoteo and resumed the search for the real Tim. But the Internet wasn't only down in the private sector-it was down everywhere. It seemed that the Internet was more egalitarian than Javier had ever realized.
Thanks to whatever had killed the Internet, the officers at the Midtown North precinct would need to make do. They had searched him thoroughly and taken his belt, his shoelaces, and even his eye patch-either because they thought he would strangle someone with it, or they were worried he'd hang himself with a foot of flimsy elastic. The mug shot would be quite the photograph with the hideous, milky blue eye in its bed of blotchy scars. If "Tim Foster" was to have the riot pinned on him, no doubt the mug shot would even make the news...if anybody from a news station came over in person to collect the photo. Since the riot was probably the biggest news anyone would see in their lifetime, maybe some intrepid reporter would actually take time to obtain the photo, despite the fact that it couldn't be conveniently downloaded. Javier would've liked to think his own journalistic instincts were that good, though he suspected they never really had been.
If his lovely mugshot did make the news, they'd likely show it over and over again, in the same way they rotated a few clips of film while the newscaster tried to make sense of breaking stories. Maybe Felicidad would even see it. Despite himself, Javier smiled slightly over the unexpected opportunity to give that bitch a good reason to be mortified.
As the smile touched his lips, the camera clicked. The officer behind the camera said in Spanish, "Turn to your left."
Was the right side of the face always the one to be shot-or were they just making sure to preserve Javier's most monstrous side for posterity? He turned, the officer held the Timoteo Foster printout in place again, and the shutter clicked.
Another officer led him to be fingerprinted, and after that, someone else offered him a disposable white adhesive patch in a paper packet to cover his damaged eye.
Javier considered refusing it, since he'd be less likely to be chewed up and spit out by a detainee with a chip on his shoulder if he was staring out at everyone else through the hideous eye. Or possibly the plan might backfire, and cause him to be the target of violence from a badass with something to prove. Since half the room looked hazy and indistinct, and since it interfered with the monocular vision he'd grown accustomed to, Javier accepted the adhesive patch, peeled it open and pressed it on.
He could always remove it later, if it seemed he might need to, though he doubted he could use it to kill himself or anyone else. Unless he forced it down someone's throat.
The holding cell was crowded. Rioters? Looters? Probably plenty of those. The majority of the two dozen men inside were black and Hispanic, no big surprise. But very few of them had the looks of repeat criminals. Some, maybe. Many, though, looked like otherwise-normal men, the types you'd see at a bar, or in line at the bank, or riding the subway. Javier's gut relaxed at the notion that his whole internal debate over whether or not to wear the adhesive eye patch was based on stories he'd heard about prisons full of hardened criminals, and not a local precinct's holding cell.
The door clanged shut, and immediately someone approached his blind side and said, "Where you from?" in Spanish.
And Javier realized his brief spike of optimism had been entirely unfounded.
He turned slowly to get a look at whoever'd been asking, to try to see if he looked Mexican, or Cuban, or Puerto Rican, or Ecuadorian....
No tattoos were showing. No obvious African ancestry mixed in. Straight hair. Wispy mustache. Solidly-built, muscular, looked like he could handle himself in a fight. But nothing telegraphed his nationality.
The guy could have been from anywhere.
Most other Latinos had no quarrel with Costa Ricans, not in general, although you never knew when you'd come across someone with a personal score to settle. "San Jose," Javier answered-and left it to the other detainee to determine if he meant California or Central America.
"I'm Carlos. From Chicago."
Well. How exotic. Javier continued scanning the room to ensure that no one was flashing gang signs or edging around in an attempt to jump him, but it appeared as if no one was particularly interested in him, other than a few curious glances at his eye patch. "Timoteo," he said, pleased that Carlos from Chicago hadn't given a surname, so he didn't have to give the unlikely name of Foster to a person who'd actually notice he wasn't half-Anglo.
"What happened to your eye?" Carlos asked.
"Chemical burn."