When she finished laughing, she wiped her eyes and said, "Why would you do that?"
My face burned. If I could have curled up and disappeared, I would have been long gone. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and stared at the blank screen of the TV.
She said, "Oh, Nick." Her voice was empathetic and disappointed all at once.
Then she rose and headed up for bed.
I woke up on Induma's couch, Egyptian cotton sheets twisted around me. Hot. Last night I'd closed and locked the windows overlooking the backyard and the canal beyond.
The cell phone, propped right by my face, showed no messages. I was impatient for Steve to get back to me with information on Baby Everett. Bilton's crew had every reason to go full bore until they found her. If they hadn't found her already.
I showered in the downstairs bathroom, dressed, and swapped out the Band-Aid on my cheek. Sitting on the toilet with the rucksack at my feet, I removed five hundreds from my money clip and slid them imperfectly beneath the purple band of one of the cash bundles, replacing the bills I'd given to Homer. It had been bugging me since yesterday, and I was glad I could make up that money. Whoever's it was, I didn't want to owe them.
I stared at my cell phone for a while. No missed calls. If Bilton's henchmen were after Baby Everett, every passing minute gave them another chance to close in.
I dialed.
When I came out of the bathroom, Induma had old-fashioned bacon and eggs sizzling in one pan, soy sausages in the other. On the counter a bottle of OJ and an intimidating stack of pancakes.
"Are these some of those exotic Bangalore eggs?" I asked.
"Airlifted this morning."
"And the bacon?"
"Family recipe from the Mahatma himself."
"I thought he was a vegetarian."
"Eat your damn breakfast, honky."
"I think only black people are allowed to say 'honky.'"
"What are Indian people allowed to call you?"
"Non-engineer."
"Clever, for a fugitive." She slid my plate across the counter.
When we were done eating, I helped Induma clean up, then put on my rucksack. She eyed it, looking worried.
I said, "I can't wait any longer. I've got to find Baby Everett, get word to her, something."
"You don't think Steve'll be able to find her?"
"Maybe not in time." I took a breath. "That's why I called Caruthers."
"You called Caruthers?"
"His aide. Alan Lambrose-the bow4ied conduit. Caruthers just flew down from Sacramento, and he can see me in an hour. He offered to help when I met him. If anyone'11 know how to locate a person…"
"We still don't know for sure that Caruthers isn't implicated in some other way. Trying to outbid Bilton for the ultrasound, whatever."
"This'11 be his test, I guess. If he has his guys grab me, we'll know he's implicated."
"Nick. You're wanted. Caruthers ought to have his agents arrest you regardless."
"Alan checked. He said there's no arrest warrant out on me."
At this, her mouth opened a little.
I said, "Bilton's crew is busting ass to track me down, but they're keeping it off the books for obvious reasons."
She blew a wisp of hair out of her face, keeping her stare on me. "They want you on terrorism charges, Nick. Which means if they do get you, you have no rights. You're willing to bet your life on Caruthers?"
"To warn Everett? What else am I supposed to do?"
"What if Caruthers's crew leans on you to give them the evidence?"
"I'm counting on it. I don't mind Caruthers playing politics as long as I can get to the girl."
Induma laced her hands across the top of her head. Stared at me.
I said, "If you need me, don't use your home line." I dug in the rucksack, handed her the extra throwaway phone.
Still she said nothing.
"I'll be careful."
She tossed me the car keys. "That's all well and good, but you're the smallest part of the equation."
Standing in the middle of the street, sweating like an idiot under the midday sun, I turned a full circle. Alan Lambrose had given me a cross street and a time. No phone number, no address. So here I was, on a quiet residential slope, like a street hustler waiting on a Cadillac.
From down Santa Monica Canyon came the purr of well-maintained engines, the crackle of asphalt beneath tires, and I turned nervously to face downslope, my grip tightening on the manila envelope. Rising into view first were the convoy SUVs with their tinted windows, wavering in the blacktop heat like a mirage. Then two joggers, barrel-chested with slim waists and weighed-down fanny packs. Two motorcycle cops, Poncherelloed out with tan forearms and aviator sunglasses. And then, struggling up the slope, an additional RoboJogger at either side, came Caruthers. His T-shirt spotted with sweat, he looked notably human amid the seemingly mechanized procession.
