Читать книгу Fleeing the Past - Christopher LaGrone - Страница 12

LAYNE HAD VISITED FABIOLA AT WORK only once before and hadn’t noticed her office walls. But on this day a framed print drew him away from his pacing. It must have been there before Fabiola moved into the office, because it wasn’t something she would have chosen. The painting depicted a group of demoralized Hispanic migrant workers in straw hats, gazing hopelessly through a barbed wire fence. Layne could just make out the name of the artist in the bottom left corner: Domingo Ulloa. He had never heard of him, but his first thought was that the artist’s intention was to gain sympathy from all the bleeding hearts in the United States—those who had been spoiled out of their sense of nationalism.

He scoffed away the painting and looked down at himself to check his appearance; he was wearing slacks and one of his best dress shirts for this critical occasion. He straightened his belt and tried to sit down, but instead gave in to the urge to resume moving as he pressed the dial button and put his cellphone to his ear. Matt answered after three rings.

“I’m sweating bullets,” Layne blurted.

“What time is he supposed to be there?” Matt spoke in the thickest Texas accent Layne had ever heard.

“He’s supposed to be here at 3:00.”

“What time is it now?” Matt asked.

Layne realized that Matt was a time zone ahead as he pulled back the cuff of his shirt to look at his wristwatch. “It’s about 2:50.”

“Where’s he meeting you?” Matt asked.

“He wanted to meet in my girlfriend’s office; she’s a leasing agent for these apartments. I’m in a leasing office—like a clubhouse.” Layne shifted the pattern of his pacing as he tried to remember the primary reason he called.

“Why did he want to do the interview there?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you might know.”

“Maybe he just wants to see if you’re telling the truth about her job. Usually they will meet you in a library or something.”

“It’s a pain for her; she’s got work to do.”

When Layne told Fabiola that Edward, the background investigator, wanted to use her office, she appeared frustrated. She didn’t protest, and he let the matter settle. He knew her well enough to be sure that her pouting was held in check by fear.

“Just do what he says,” Matt instructed. “He can go anywhere he wants; he’ll probably go to your work and talk to your supervisor, too.”

Layne felt his pulse surge, and his forehead began to sweat. The conversation finally made clear the gravity of what he was attempting. He swallowed, and said, “Well, we have security at my work. Only employees can go in there because we deal with personal information and credit card numbers and other stuff. I don’t think they’ll let him in.”

“They don’t have a choice,” Matt said with a dismissive laugh.

Layne began to bite his thumbnail. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, he’s a federal agent. He can go wherever he wants, in any state. He doesn’t care if he cuts into her schedule or messes with your security at work. This takes priority over everything.”

“You went through all this before, right?” Layne said, seeking assurance.

“Yeah, I went through the Academy twice, but I never graduated because I kept hurting my knee in P.T.” Matt’s tone belied annoyance—he had told Layne the story before.

Layne looked at his wristwatch and looked out the window again. “I owe you one. If I ever meet you in person, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“No problem,” Matt said.

“He should be here any minute. I was just calling to see if there’s anything else you can tell me before he gets here.” Layne was afraid to let go of Matt’s friendly twang.

“You memorized everything you put down on that SF-86, right?”

“Yeah, I remember everything I said. The main thing I’m really worried about is the drugs. Are you sure I should’ve admitted I smoked weed?”

“Yep, if you say you’ve never tried anything, they won’t believe you and they will start looking even harder for stuff,” Matt said.

Layne began to scratch the back of his head while he held the phone to his ear and stared at the floor, searching his racing thoughts for anything else that might help. He had told Matt more about himself than he had ever told anyone. Matt knew the general truth about his past with the exception of a few significant matters—matters too personal and difficult. He didn’t know why Layne had been kicked off the University of Missouri baseball team and out of school entirely. He didn’t know what happened in Peoria after Layne was drafted by the Cardinals. It was too late to tell him now, and Layne knew that these issues could cost him the security clearance if discovered. But in addition to the fear that Matt would pass judgment, Layne feared that Matt might recommend he save himself the trouble and withdraw his application. He didn’t even approve of recreational marijuana use.

“I put down that I smoked it three times at frat parties seven years ago, like you told me to,” Layne said.

“That’s perfect. Are you sure that’s what you put down? You gotta know it down to the year and month.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I quizzed myself a dozen times to make sure I had it down.” Layne knew that his mind had a tendency to go blank under pressure.

“Good, make sure you have all that committed to memory; he’s gonna try to cross you up with what’s on that SF-86.”

Layne found himself staring again, this time at the coffee maker, then at some of Fabiola’s desk trinkets; there was a miniature flag of Argentina in a coffee cup on her desk. He was trying not to panic.

“I’m also worried about my work history,” Layne admitted.

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve been fired a few times.”

“So,” Matt said dismissively.

“How could they not care about that?” Layne said, in disbelief.

“Because it’s hearsay. They only care about facts. You don’t have a police record, right? No DUIs?”

“No, by the grace of God,” Layne said, but the memory of his previous good fortune wasn’t at all gratifying.

“As long as there’s nothing on paper, you’re good,” Matt said with finality.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, if you tell the guy the truth about drugs you’ve tried, it’s ball game, so you have to lie about that. But don’t lie about anything you don’t have to. If there’s a record of anything somewhere, you need to tell him because he’ll find it. You won’t believe the stuff they dig up.”

Based on the latest feel he was getting from Matt, he was leaning toward disclosing everything to the investigator. To risk that the guy would never find out felt more threatening during the final countdown. There were a handful of people from his past that were privy to the information, but Layne speculated that those who knew would want to keep their interaction with a federal investigator as brief as possible.

“Well, if I get past this interview, what comes next?” As he asked, Layne peeked through the blinds again.

“You have to do your Oral Board,” Matt answered, then added, “But you can’t fail this interview. He’s just gathering information; it’s not a test.”

“I bet that Oral Board is gonna suck. What’s it like?” Layne asked.

“They will have Border Patrol Agents there that will grill you about scenarios at the border, and you have to tell them what you would do in the situation. They evaluate you,” Matt said.

“Oh, screw me. You live down there; I’ve always lived up north. I don’t know squat about the border,” Layne said.

“You’ll be alright. Just don’t change your answers,” Matt warned. “They’re gonna try to rattle your cage. If they get you to backpedal and second-guess yourself, you’re done. They don’t expect you to know what to do, they just want to see how you perform under stress.”

Layne bent a metal blind to look out the window again and did a double take. He saw a man wearing slacks and a dress shirt with no tie coming from the parking lot, watching his feet as he walked slowly. He was carrying a briefcase.

“I think this is him coming now. I better go. I’ll call you after I’m done.”

Layne closed his flip phone and put it in his pocket. He moved away from the window when he was sure that it could only be Edward, the investigator, arriving along the walkway. He looked around the room and tried to decide what he should look like he was doing when Edward arrived. He elected to wait by the door for a knock and try to look calm. He would wait a few seconds before opening it. If he could pull this whole thing off, he could pick and choose the events in his history he wanted to remember. He would have a clean slate—the new start he had been wandering in search of for years.

When Edward came through the door, Layne made it a point to meet him with his firmest handshake. Edward was a tall, Hispanic-looking man in his early sixties with graying hair and light skin. Layne had approximated his age accurately from his voice over the phone, but the image of the man he had created in his mind was far off—as always.

Layne sat tentatively in Fabiola’s desk chair and offered the chair in front of the desk to Edward. Layne wasn’t sure how to act . . . or what to do with his hands in these situations.

Edward began opening his briefcase on the desk between them. Layne couldn’t withstand the awkward silence any longer. He felt expected to speak and blurted, “Were you a Border Patrol Agent?”

“Yes, I was,” Edward answered. “I worked in Calexico for twenty years and I was in the Marine Corps before I entered The Service. I retired a while back and now I do background investigations to stay busy.”

“Calexico? Is that near El Centro?” Layne knew where it was but wanted to prolong the subject to delay—even if only for a few minutes—the questions he knew were coming.

“It’s farther south. Do you know why they call it Calexico?” Edward asked, grinning.

Layne smiled. He was interested in such things. “No, why?”

“It’s one city divided by the Border Fence. On the Mexico side of the border it’s called Mexicali, and on the California side it’s called Calexico. The letters in the cities are reversed depending on which side of the border you’re on.”

Layne nodded and smiled. His shoulders relaxed a little bit, as they seemed to be hitting it off. But then he thought maybe Edward was baiting him into letting his guard down to lure him into revealing something about himself he had not intended to. Why did he pick Fabiola’s office to have this meeting? What did he know about her?

Edward removed documents from his briefcase and placed them on the desk. “I have a copy here of the SF-86 you submitted on-line. Like I said in our phone conversation, we are going to go over this and fill in anything that’s missing.”

“Okay,” Layne said.

“You’ve lived in a lot of places,” Edward said, his tone sounding somewhat critical.

Layne wondered if that might be a red flag. “Yes, I have, but I had baseball scholarships and transferred twice. I lost a lot of credit hours transferring schools.”

This was not the first time he had tried to fit in somewhere and find a new start.

“And since then I haven’t been sure of what I wanted to do . . . until now,” Layne added.

“I’m not driving to Missouri; I don’t give a damn what they say,” Edward stated as he clicked his pen. He seemed to be talking to himself. Layne didn’t respond and only shifted his posture.

He could hear his internal voice fretting while Edward finished preparing. He tried to appear relaxed, but despite Matt’s reassurances, he couldn’t muster a glimmer of confidence about exposing his past to scrutiny. His knee bounced. He was embarrassed, and well aware of how far behind he was; he knew he should’ve been married with a kid on the way by now to appear normal. Edward stopped thumbing through papers and continued.

“I see that you started taking Paxil for depression when you were an athlete at the University of Missouri. What happened there? Are you still taking antidepressants?”

Layne paused to consider his answer. He still used Paxil, but sporadically, only when he felt himself slipping. He had been getting sample boxes of tablets from a relative. They hadn’t been on a pharmacy record for years. Matt had advised him to deny using them except for one brief period long ago.

“I went through a hard time when I hurt my arm and lost my scholarship. But I only took it for about a year. There were lots of side effects,” Layne claimed.

“What happened to your arm?” Edward asked.

“I tore an elbow ligament playing long-toss.”

Edward’s face lit up as he read from his paperwork. “You were a major league draft choice?”

Layne anticipated being annoyed, despite the tension.

“Yeah.”

“What team?”

“The Cardinals.”

Layne thought, Now he’s gonna say, why didn’t you go?

“Why didn’t you go?” Edward asked.

“Because I was a draft-and-follow. I was supposed to be drafted again the next year and be offered a signing bonus, but it didn’t work out.” Layne looked away as he spoke, and scratched his cheek.

He toiled to think of a distraction to lead Edward away from that time period if he persisted; he didn’t want him finding out about what happened between him and one of his coaches. Layne interrupted the pause and rushed to deflect any further inquiry. “Do you like baseball?”

“Yeah, I’m a Yankees fan,” Edward replied, as he looked up from the questionnaire. He didn’t seem to interpret Layne’s intent.

“Oh, the Dark Side,” Layne said.

“What?” Edward said, confused.

“Oh . . . nothing, it’s just something baseball people say. It’s a joke.” Layne backed off and took a moment to observe Edward while he reacquired his place in his paperwork. He had appeared almost lost when he arrived, and he was repeatedly losing his place within his list of questions. Multitasking between the SF-86 and other documents made him look like he might be approaching senility.

“What is your relationship with Fabiola Estrada? Is she a roommate or a girlfriend? You can just tell me she’s a roommate if you want, it’s a lot more work if you say she’s your girlfriend,” Edward said.

Layne tried not to let his eyes show it while he stalled to think. Why would he offer me a lay-up like this? Laziness? Edward knew how to tempt him. To deny a principle relationship would most likely reduce the background investigation by several months. Fabiola being a foreigner was probably a mountain of paperwork. But maybe her status had just now swayed him to set a trap that would eliminate the case completely? Judging by Edward’s fatigued body language, Layne was ninety-percent sure he was being sincere.

Edward leaned back and slouched slightly while his writing hand awaited a response. Layne opened his mouth to state that she was merely a temporary roommate, then Matt’s southern drawl stopped his lips from moving at the last moment. I warned him not to lie about anything that wasn’t a deal breaker. It was too dangerous to gamble with.

“She’s my girlfriend right now. She’s here on a work visa from Argentina,” Layne said reluctantly.

“She is?” Edward seemed surprised by the last part.

Layne was convinced that Edward’s behavior was genuine. He was definitely much less adept than Layne had expected—maybe even easy to manipulate.

“She’s from the same city as Che Guevara, but she doesn’t like to talk about it. I guess it’s different down there than the way it is here with the t-shirts and stuff,” Layne added.

Edward looked perplexed.

“And she lives in these apartments here?” he asked.

“She lives in that building right over there,” Layne answered, pointing toward her building through a large window to his left.” She gets a free apartment; it’s one of her benefits for being the apartment manager.

Edward glanced at him with an aggravated eye, and sighed. “This is gonna be a pain in the butt. I’m going to have to see her passport and her visa.”

Layne reminded himself to keep his guard up while Edward jotted something down. He looked up from his paperwork and glared sharply into Layne’s eyes.

“You stated that you tried marijuana three times in college. Have you used any other illicit drugs?”

Layne braced himself and forged his best poker face. He tried to appear matter of fact, but his eyes broke contact with Edward’s. He dreaded hearing the word steroids and hoped Edward wouldn’t go there. “No, I just tried marijuana three times when I was at fraternity parties in Missouri, but I didn’t like it.”

“Nothing else, though?” Edward wasn’t releasing his stare as he waited for something to write down.

“No, just marijuana. It made me view myself, my life, from an outside perspective. It made me panic,” Layne said.

Edward looked suspicious. “Okay, I’ll put down that you tried it and didn’t like it because you felt bad about it; guilty?”

“Yes, I did feel guilty. If my dad knew, he would be really disappointed.” Layne stared at a different picture on the wall for a moment while he pondered the percentage of truth in his statement.

“How many drinks would you say you have in a week?” Edward asked, resuming the stare, but with less intensity.

Layne forced himself to maintain eye contact with him and hoped Edward couldn’t tell he was putting forth effort to do so. “I have three or four drinks a week. Unless there’s a social situation or something special going on, then I will have two or three more.”

“So, seven drinks a week?” Edward asked, his pen waiting.

“Six or seven on average, seven at the most,” Layne claimed.

“Any DUIs?” Edward asked, looking at his pad now.

“No.”

Edward wrote quietly while Layne crossed his fingers beneath the desk, hoping he would move on to the next subject.

“You said here that you speak Spanish. Cómo aprendiste Español?” Edward wanted to know how he learned Spanish.

“Yo viví en México y asistí a una escuela allí,” Layne said eloquently. He had practiced this phrase repeatedly while chatting with Mexicans about his life and schooling in their country.

“Where in Mexico?” Edward asked, eyebrows raised.

“La Paz, I was there for almost four months.”

“What were you doing in Mexico?” Edward asked.

“I was studying abroad,” Layne said.

Edward shook his head. “I’m gonna need to see your passport later on then.” He sounded deflated, as if he had pulled the shortest straw of all the investigators. He found his place in his paperwork and continued. “Why did you put Tucson Sector as your first choice of stations to work?”

Layne hadn’t anticipated this question. Why does he care? Matt had asked him the same thing, and when Layne told him Arizona, Matt said, “What? That’s the worst place on the border.”

He felt Edward waiting for an answer while he imagined the desert. “Um, my parents took me to Tucson when I was twelve for Spring Training. I didn’t know there were palm trees in Arizona until then. I have wanted to live there ever since.”

Edward gave him another bemused look.

Stop elaborating, Layne told himself. If you can’t think of anything to say just be quiet.

“Have you been to any other countries besides Mexico?” Edward asked as he flipped the yellow paper over to allow himself a blank sheet on his legal pad.

“I’ve been to Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, the Netherlands and Czechoslovakia. I mean the Czech Republic,” Layne rattled off.

“Why, what were you doing?” Edward asked with his mouth slightly open.

“I was backpacking after I graduated from college,” Layne said.

“Backpacking?”

“My parents bought me a Eurail pass and a plane ticket to Munich for a graduation present,” Layne explained.

“When was that? How long were you there?” Edward asked.

“Five years ago. I was there a month.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah—well, no. I hung out with an Australian guy from Perth for a week or so in different cities, Paris,” Layne said as he transferred his weight to his right buttock.

“Why would you want to do that?” Edward asked, perplexed.

Layne considered the best way to explain that some people found museums like the Louvre interesting, and that it was peculiarly satisfying to witness foreigners within their native cultures going about their daily lives. But he elected to simplify his answer. “I wanted to be fulfilled. It’s hard to explain; you just kind of fall in with people you meet.” He hoped Edward wouldn’t ask about Amsterdam; he had thought about saying Belgium instead, but there was a Dutch stamp on his passport.

Edward leaned slowly back in his chair and sighed. He continued to sift through papers while Layne regretted his nervous mouth. Matt told him they were primarily concerned with a candidate’s susceptibility to bribery as well as ties to foreign countries. Layne’s time spent abroad had just tripled the amount of research involving the case Edward had been handed. He prayed Edward wouldn’t ask him about his work history. When employers saw that he called in sick every other Monday, they knew he wasn’t really ill. But Matt had reassured him.

“Besides past employers, there’s gonna be people they find that will talk trash about you. They expect that; everyone has enemies. As long as you don’t have a police record, you’re good. Don’t worry about drinking. The Border Patrol lives by the three W’s—Whiskey, Women and Wets.”

Edward pulled him out of his trance. “Well, I think that’s about all I need for now. When do you take the Oral Board Exam?”

Layne stood up after he was sure that Edward was getting up. “I take it in two weeks.”

As he walked Edward to the door, he put his hands in his pockets and noticed that he was still trembling. His rear had fallen asleep and tingled with numbness.

“What happens if I don’t pass the Oral Board?” Layne asked.

“They will terminate the background investigation,” Edward said, as if he expected Layne to know the answer.

Layne tried to chat some more in an attempt to revive the feeling of camaraderie they had begun with. When he sensed that Edward had heard enough, he removed his hands from his pockets and reached out to shake his hand again. Edward fumbled with his briefcase while he closed the door behind himself. Layne took a deep breath. He got a cup of water from Fabiola’s water dispenser and returned to the blinds to watch Edward take the path back to the parking lot.

He began to chew the nail on his pointer finger. Getting past this guy was still going to be the longshot he had foreseen. Edward would disregard the people he had listed as references; he would know they were friends and would only speak favorably about him. Matt had warned him of that. Edward would seek out people from his past that he was not in contact with for good reason. He hoped that would not include his former college coaches or anyone in the St. Louis organization.

He allowed the metal blind at eye level to spring back into place as he examined the nail on his finger. It was gnawed to the quick. He involuntarily put the nail of his middle finger between his teeth as he returned to Fabiola’s chair to sit and think.