Collision

“So. Really. How are things right now?” Ben went to the medical kit, poured six ibuprofen into Pilgrim’s hand, watched him swallow them with sips of the Chianti.

“You got questions. I hate questions.”

“I got questions.”

“Get a glass. I don’t want to drink alone,” Pilgrim said.

Ben didn’t want a drink but he got a glass. If Pilgrim drank to kill the pain, it might loosen his tongue. Better to be sociable, to get him talking. Ben found a clean plastic cup in the bathroom, dumped an inch of wine in it.

“Life changes fast, doesn’t it?” Pilgrim said.

“Yes.” He thought of the moment when his life divided, married one second, widowed the next, the echo of the shattering window.

“I killed seven people in the past four hours. I’m like a goddamn serial killer, all in one day.” Pilgrim downed more of the Chianti. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and Ben saw his hand tremble.

“You need some food.” Ben heated water with the room’s tiny coffeemaker, poured the hot liquid into a ramen noodle cup, watched while Pilgrim ate the spongy mass of noodles, studded with chunky dried vegetables.

“So your questions.”

“Your boss, you, this secret group. Who are you?”

A long pause. “Teach is the general,” Pilgrim said, “and she’s the only one who knows the troop strength, the battle plans.”

Ben decided to let Pilgrim tell this his own way, to let the answers unfurl, because he could guess from Pilgrim’s grimace that he was unused to discussing his life. “And the bad guys want to know what you and Teach and this group do. Or keep you from doing your work.”

Pilgrim emptied the cup in an unsteady slop and reached again for the wine jug. Ben didn’t stop him. Pilgrim gulped more Chianti, didn’t look at Ben. For the first time the intense gaze in his eyes dimmed, as though he were tired of glaring at the world.

Ben decided to prod him. “The credit card was for James Woodward. Is that your real name?”

“Promise me you won’t freak out.”

“I don’t have a lot of freak-out left in me.”

“I could tell you were thinking of going through my wallet. I know you’ll do it as soon as I’m asleep. Go ahead.”

Ben went to the pocket, dug out the wallet. Opened it.

A Texas driver’s license lay under a plastic window. Pilgrim’s face on it. The name read “FORSBERG, BENJAMIN LARS.”

Ben thumbed through the rest of the wallet. Visa, American Express, health club membership: each one in Ben’s name. A business card that was a match of his own. Tucked into the wallet was an American passport: Pilgrim’s face, Ben’s name.

His breathing grew ragged and a slow rage rose in his chest. He threw the wallet at Pilgrim, who caught it one-handed.

“I’m you, Ben,” Pilgrim said. “I’ve been you for the past three days.”

“You’re the reason… Homeland thinks I’m guilty,” Ben said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me, or my life…”

“It has everything to do with your life,” Pilgrim said. “You were framed as much as I was.”

“You stole my identity.”

“No. Your identity was given to me by a traitor. He set me up to be you because someone wants us both destroyed.”

“You could have told me this immediately… back in the car.. .”

“I couldn’t have. I needed your help. And earlier I was too busy saving your life. Sit down. Drink your wine.”

“Don’t expect me to thank you.” Ben went and picked up Pilgrim’s gun off the table.

“I don’t think you’re a fool. You and I both got played, both got nailed with a single shot. We’ve got a common enemy.” He paused. “I’m not your enemy. If I were, you’d be dead. I would have grabbed you when you were checking the last of the bandages and broken your neck. I didn’t.”

“Wow. Thank you.” Ben put the gun back on the table. “Tell me why you’re pretending to be me.”

The silence stretched between them like a wire drawn tight. The only noise was the distant ripple of highway traffic and the drone of cicadas in the trees. “You told me you trusted me before I dug that bullet out. Prove it.”

Pilgrim cleared his throat. “The group I’m with does the dirty work that is necessary at times to identify and neutralize threats and protect the country.”

“Dirty work.”

“The activities the other agencies are legally blocked from doing.”

“You do the jobs no one can take credit for or be blamed for.”

Pilgrim blinked. “Excellent description.”

“Where’s your budget hidden-FBI? CIA?”

Pilgrim looked at him with a bit more respect. “Only Teach knows for sure, but I think the budget’s hidden inside the CIA, cobbled together from miscellaneous funding. We’re a back corner. A forgotten room.” He paused. “It’s called the Cellar.”

“And you routinely hijack other people’s identities.”

“No. At least never before. A little shit named Barker created my legends-my identities-when I’m on a job. Normally he spun them out of thin air, invented a name, a history, a financial background. He gave me your identity; I had no idea you really existed. He also betrayed me and Teach; he worked with her kidnappers. Which means his boss-whoever that is-gave him your name to use.” He paused. “I didn’t know you were real.”

“But why me?”