Olivia was sharp; I could feel her watching me that weekend, waiting for me to slip up, or trying to catch me off guard with her questions. But I’d made up my mind. This was the right thing, the best, the only thing. Kathleen and Olivia would be together, Saenz would be dead,and I would finally, finally have done right by Daniel.
“So, we’re seriously doing this?” Olivia asked me the next morning, after I called The Sacramento Bee to put our newspaper on hold.
“You’re not backing out, are you?” I asked.
She glared at me. “I don’t really see that as an option.”
I hauled down two suitcases from a shelf in the garage, where they had aged disgracefully since our disastrous trip to Coronado, acquiring a layer of dust and more than a few spiderwebs. It took a half hour of cleaning with damp cloths before Olivia would consider either suitcase as a viable option. Then she stood before her open closet doors, hands on her skinny hips.
I sighed. “What’s wrong now?”
“It’s impossible to pack without knowing exactly how long I’m going to be gone,” she announced.
I laughed. “Are you kidding me? I know exactly what you’re going to pack. Black pants, black shirts, black sweatshirts, black socks and black boots. Can’t be that difficult.” It was basically her uniform, as much as khaki pants and polo shirts were mine. I wasn’t sure when it had started, exactly, or where all the clothes had come from—but one morning at breakfast a couple of years ago, I realized that I was the parent of a teenage daughter who wore only black.
She glared at me. “But how many black shirts, exactly?”
“What does it matter? It’s not like there are no washing machines in Omaha.” It was better, I figured, to be vague than to tell an outright lie. Telling the truth was out of the question.
There were dozens of small details to figure out, and several major ones. It was almost thrilling to have a plan, to have a specific goal that was further than a day or two ahead, the way we’d been existing since Kathleen left. I had installed a massive whiteboard in the front entryway, and each night Olivia and I had crossed off our completed chores and added new ones. Buy cereal, take the trash out, pay phone and cable, run sprinkler in backyard. Now I was thinking beyond today, beyond this week.
I didn’t find a chance to break away until Sunday night. Olivia had insisted on coming along on all the errands I devised—an oil change, a trip to Target for a few travel necessities, a stop at the ATM. This wasn’t that unusual—Olivia didn’t typically like to be left at home, where she was convinced that all sorts of things could go wrong, like a burglar who assumed the house was empty if there wasn’t a car in the driveway, or a carbon monoxide leak that she couldn’t smell. So I had to wait until she started a load of laundry to say “Why don’t I just grab dinner?”
“Can’t you wait a bit? Twenty minutes?”
“Well, I was thinking In-and-Out. You know how that drive-thru line always takes forever.”
Olivia frowned. “I could stop the washer.”
“Don’t bother,” I said, grabbing my keys before she could jump into action. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
I did go to In-and-Out, and the line was wrapped around the restaurant and through the parking lot, so at least that wasn’t a lie. But while I waited, I made the phone call Olivia absolutely couldn’t overhear. “Pick up, pick up,” I pleaded. It was a long shot; it was Plan A, but there wasn’t a Plan B yet.
“Yeah?” The voice on the other end was suspicious. One of those conspiracy nuts, Kathleen had always said, back when we’d known him, back when Zach Gaffaney had lived a few blocks away and been married to Marcia, half of a couple we bumped into regularly over the years. Privately, I’d suspected that Kathleen was right.
“I’m looking for the Zach Gaffaney that used to live in Sacramento?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Curtis Kaufman. We used to be part of that neighborhood beautification group, painting over graffiti, that kind of thing.”
“Okay. I remember you.” There was a long pause. “I don’t live in Sacramento anymore, though. I’m not even married anymore. So I think—I’m probably not the guy you’re looking for.”
“No, don’t hang up.” I almost dropped the phone, my palm was so slick with sweat. “I remember how we used to have those talks about the government, about our rights—that kind of thing. You’re the guy I’m looking for.”
“How’d you get this number?” He seemed less suspicious than curious now. This was why I’d remembered Zach Gaffaney, why I’d thought of him almost immediately, when Bill Meyers was still talking to me about how he’d rediscovered his own purpose. I’d stopped listening—all that was required of me was a sporadic nod—and instead remembered a morning I’d spent pulling weeds at a neighborhood park with Zach Gaffaney, who had gone on and on about his gun collection, how he was prepared for just about anything—not just the threat of home invasion or small scale self-defense, but the inevitable failure of a government that was basically controlled by special interests and our streets being overrun by criminals because the government couldn’t afford to keep them locked up. I hadn’t taken him seriously, but Kathleen had. “She seems like such a normal person. He’s a walking time bomb,” she’d said, mimicking some of his rants as soon as we were home.
Now I told him, “I heard you were living in Winnemucca, working in a casino.” This was true—a few weeks ago, I’d bumped into Marcia at the grocery store, and we’d exchanged casual information about our exes. I’d told her about Kathleen going to Omaha, and she’d been sympathetic. “Oh, Zach?” She’d laughed. “That was all a million years ago. He’s back in Nevada, working at a dumpy casino, living in some shit-hole trailer with only his guns for company.” I didn’t tell this to Zach, nor did I mention that just about anyone was traceable on the internet.
“Okay,” he said again, guarded. “I’m listening.”
“Well, I need something, and I figure you could maybe help me out with that.”
“You need what, exactly?”
I’d rehearsed this, too, trying for the right balance of vagueness and specificity. Zach Gaffaney was probably the kind of guy who doubted everyone, who suspected the government had wiretapped his trailer.
So I told him: I was looking for some protection. I know I could find that through other means, but I’d become concerned about the way the government was prying into the lives of average citizens, people like Zach and me. What business was it of theirs how I spent my money, what I had in my home? Didn’t a person have a right to protect himself and his family?
“I hear you,” Zach said, relaxing. “You have an idea what you want?” He rattled off a short list of options, makes and models and prices, deciding I could be trusted. Truthfully, I wasn’t worried about the government at all—I was worried about keeping my plans secret from a very paranoid sixteen-year-old and her mother. And I had no intention of letting Robert Saenz live for an extra ten days during the mandatory wait period.
Obviously I wouldn’t be a natural with a gun, and I knew that I could very easily screw the whole thing up if I tried to go with something too advanced. But I’d spent the past two nights researching and was pretty clear on the basics. I told him I wanted a revolver, something snub-nosed—easy to conceal, easy to load and shoot, no serious kickback.
“It’s never going to get back to you,” I promised him.
Zach snorted. “It’s not going to be traceable.”
“Perfect,” I said.
There was a honk behind me, bringing me back to my present reality in the drive-thru line. I’d let a couple car lengths lapse and lurched forward to make up the difference.
Zach gave me the details, told me not to call again until I was ready, and we hung up. I kept his number in my contacts but deleted it from my outgoing calls, in case Olivia looked.
And then it was my turn to order. A voice crackled from the intercom, and I replied, “Two cheeseburgers, two fries, two Cokes.”
I was surprised how normal I sounded, and that the man staring back at me in the rearview mirror looked normal, too.