Exasperated, Norman hit the “save” button on the Roland and touched the phone screen. It stayed blank.
“Turn off your house,” said a voice he didn’t recognize. Another blackmailer?
“House, turn yourself off for thirty minutes.” It chimed. “Okay. Who are you?”
There was a click, the distorter going off, and a heavy sigh. “Norm, it’s Qabil. There’s real trouble.”
“Yeah? ¿Qué pasa?”
“Is Rory home?”
“No. I expect her any minute.”
“You have to pack up and leave as soon as she gets home. The FBI’s going to pick you up tonight, take you to Washington and bury you.”
“What, that damned interview?”
“I guess; I didn’t see it. They claim you’re agents, working for France.”
“For France? We’ve never even been there.”
“Well, you can stay at home and talk it over with them, or you can be missing. That’s what I’d advise. It’s not like the cube; these guys are a law unto themselves.”
“So I’ve heard. How long do we have?”
“Maybe until dark. I’d leave as soon as possible. Do you have cash?”
“A little.”
“What I’d do … take a cab down to Oaks and max out the ATM, then get on the first train to Archer. From there you can use cash to get anywhere, short trips. Go to Canada or Mexico, someplace you don’t need a passport.”
“But she didn’t break any law.”
“All I know is that the FBI is after her. I think they can find a law.”
“Jesus. When it rains, it pours.”
“Don’t worry about the rain. Just move as fast as you can.”
Norman had to smile. How long did you have to live in a country before you picked up the catch-phrases? “Okay. If Rory agrees, we’ll be out long before dark.”
“If she doesn’t agree, you leave by yourself, okay? All this shit in Washington.”
“Sure. I’ll get packing. Buenas.” Qabil said good-bye and Norman turned off the phone. Of course he wouldn’t really leave Rory behind. Both or neither of them would go to Washington. To be buried. In shit? He wondered what Qabil meant by that.
He’d pack for both of them, though. He set out two bags, small enough for carry-on, on the bed, and neatly stacked warm-weather clothing in each. He assumed Rory would rather go to Mexico, for the winter, than Canada. Besides, she didn’t speak Canadian.
With both of them packed, he carefully lifted out the contents of Rory’s bag. Let her check through and make changes.
She should be here by now, he thought. He went to the phone and punched RR, Rory roving.
“Buenas?” No picture, of course.
“Where are you, darling?”
“In a cab. Home in two minutes. Where did you think I’d be?”
“Just making sure.”
“How are you taking it?”
“Um … not on the phone. Talk to you in two minutes.” He pushed the “off” button and rummaged through the drawer under the phone for a joint. It was old and dry. He found a match and lit it. Took one puff and stabbed it out in the sink. Wrong direction. He poured a glass of port and sipped it, waiting, thinking.
This might not have anything to do with the interview. The FBI might have linked him and Rory to whatever that superweapon was, that may or may not have been an invention of Pepe’s.
The doorknob rattled and Rory knocked. Of course her thumbprint didn’t unlock it unless the house was on. He went down the hall and opened the door.