Deadline (39 page)

“Part of the grandeur of heaven’s music is the melody of the female set to the harmony of the male. No one here will ever resist or reject the gender within him. What woman would want to be other than woman when her womanhood is the very glory of Elyon? And what man would want to be other than man when Elyon intended for him to be nothing else? The multifaceted dimensions of Elyon’s character are fully reflected neither in the man nor the woman, but only in the two together. The two genders shall never war against each other here, any more than hydrogen would war against oxygen in a vain attempt to be water by itself. Both are redeemed and completed, both will find in the other the perfect complement Elyon intended from the beginning. You experienced a foretaste of that mystical union on earth, in your marriage with Sue. It prepared you for a dimension of heaven many come unprepared for, never having known the sacred dimensions and distinctions of male and female.”

Zyor’s powerful body suddenly seemed far less awesome than that which would one day be Finney’s.

“You shall be all man was meant to be, in full strength and full sensitivity, in full power and full compassion, never one sacrificed for the other, each fully realized in the other. You shall be what man was meant to be, and what he has yet been only once, in the perfect spiritual body that is Elyon’s Son. Your resurrection body will be the body and soul of a man. It could be nothing else, master Finney, for by the decree of none less than God himself you were, are, and ever shall be a man.”

Jake stopped at Morely’s Market on his way home from Scanlon’s office. While dozens of cars circled the front parking lot in search of a space, he smugly pulled around the back of the building. He stopped in his favorite parking place, unmarked by yellow lines or anything else.

Morely had given Jake night parking privileges in the back where deliveries were made during the day. At night there were just a few employee cars, most of which he recognized, maybe all but the brownish late model Volvo. The back of the store was still, dark and quiet, an eerie contrast to the perpetual motion, glaring headlights, and commotion at the front of the building. Jake hopped out into the darkness, using as his beacon the store light shining through the wired window of the employee entrance. He carefully climbed the concrete stairs, then pushed the button by the door. The back room manager on duty peered through the window, smiled, and let Jake in.

Jake bought his usual coffee, turkey pot pies, cereal, diet pop, eggs, soup, crackers, and a few other miscellaneous items. As he shopped, he pondered the day. What more could be crammed in it? He looked forward to getting back home, wrestling with Champ, and maybe writing in his journal to help crystallize his thoughts. Jake paid at the front of the store, then turned and headed to the back again, a plastic grocery bag in each hand. Congratulating his good fortune in avoiding the zoo of the front parking lot, he stepped out the back door, pausing a moment to introduce his eyes to the darkness, then slowly stepped down the stairs.

Without warning he noticed out of the corner of his eye a shadowy image, eerily like the Statue of Liberty. He felt a stunning blow to the back of his neck. As he crumpled to the asphalt, he heard the crash of soup cans and the cracking of eggs. He turned his face toward the source of the blow, the back of his head still on the ground. Jake looked up at his stocky assailant who appeared, as best he could tell in the shadows, to be wearing a ski-mask.

The man’s strong arms raised something over his head again, something long and thick—it appeared to be a baseball bat. The apparent target was Jake’s head, which lay vulnerable on the bare asphalt. Jake braced himself, but the man seemed in no rush to finish him off, giving him time to think,
I’m going to die.
And then a corollary.
But I’m not ready.

Why was his attacker hesitating? Each second allowed Jake time to regain his wits. His neck and shoulders throbbing, he lay perfectly still, to give no hint there was any fight left in him. He readied himself to move his head out of the bat’s path, which seemed now more like an executioner’s ax, the ski mask being the modern equivalent to the medieval executioner’s black hood. Jake visualized catching the attacker off balance, then rolling toward his legs and tripping him to the ground where he would take him on in a fair fight, one he could hope to win. The bat was poised for what seemed an eternity. Did the masked man have second thoughts? Or was he savoring the smell of murder as he might a fresh cup of coffee before drinking? Suddenly the thick arms, fully extended, tilted slightly back and the broad chest inhaled. The ax was about to fall. Jake tensed, knowing that making his move—if indeed he
could
move—too fast or too slow would be equally deadly.

The surface between the assailant’s feet and Jake’s head suddenly exploded like a Claymore mine, followed by a rush of deafening sound. Jake instinctively closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. He felt sharp edges of splintered asphalt cutting into his exposed flesh.

When he opened his eyes, ears still ringing from the explosion, he saw the stocky man running, like a panicked animal, still clinging to his bat, flailing away at his side. In a moment the darkness swallowed the shadowy figure, and the two became one.

Suddenly another figure was at his side. A hand reached down and pulled him up, rougher than he could have wished. Jake’s head swam. He saw a hand only a foot from his face. The hand held a gun, pointing into the darkness. It was a huge piece, a .44 Magnum.

“You okay, Woods?”

“What?” The voice seemed familiar. “Mayhew?”

Jake was confused a moment, then realized he was still being followed by the FBI. Agent Mayhew had drawn duty.

“I could have nailed the creep on the dead run, but the Bureau frowns on shooting people in the back, even when they’ve tried to waste somebody. You’re lucky I was on your tail, Woods.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mayhew. I really mean it. I owe you.” Jake felt a little guilty for his previous hostility toward Mayhew and Sutter and the Feds.

Mayhew seemed uncomfortable with the whole thing and obviously wasn’t as trained in aiding victims in crisis as he was at using his gun. “Want a ride home? Need to go to the hospital?”

Jake moved his neck around, feeling the back of his shoulders with his hands. “No. A hot shower sounds good though. Maybe you could help me pick up my groceries?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mayhew looked painfully out of place collecting dented soup cans and sorting out cracked eggs from uncracked, but seemed to be a good sport about the whole thing.

Once Jake and his groceries were in his car, Mayhew said, “I’ll follow you home.”

Jake drove home very slowly, applying the brakes quickly with every shifting shadow. It embarrassed him, knowing Mayhew saw how edgy he was. After parking his car in the apartment lot, he waved and nodded thanks to Mayhew and headed inside. He knew Janet would have insisted he go to the hospital, but that wasn’t Jake’s style. Janet—what made him think of her again?

As Jake turned the key in the lock he noticed Mayhew, across the street, settle in to the front seat of his car just like it was his living room. The night was hopefully over for Jake, but Mayhew was still on duty, watching over him sleeplessly.

Not exactly my image of a guardian angel.
But Jake had to admit he’d been a little hard on Mayhew. Sure, he was no Rhodes scholar, and wasn’t Mr. Congeniality, but he’d just saved his life. For the first time, this “invasion of privacy” seemed a very welcome and comforting presence.

After he picked out a dozen slivers of asphalt from his hands and face, Jake took off his pants and shirt, still damp from being laid flat in the parking lot, and stepped into the shower. He let the stream of hot water pound on his neck and upper back, turning up the knob for maximum water pressure and losing himself in the steamy deluge.

After drying off, Jake searched through drawers and cabinets for some kind of soothing ointment to rub into his neck. If Janet were here she’d know what to use and exactly where to find it. Finally he gave up looking, put on old sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and sat quietly in the muted darkness of his living room.

Was death a door or a hole? He’d come perilously close to finding out just an hour ago. He felt more determined than ever to solve the mystery of his friends’ deaths. He wondered if death resented this intrusion on its domain and might claim him before he found the answer.

Jake went to his bedroom closet. He got up on his tiptoes and reached to the far left back of the shelf above his hanging clothes. He found it. The Walther P38, a World War II trophy his father had brought back from Europe. Then he went over to his dresser and reached into the top drawer. He pulled out the black five-inch-long metal clip, looking through the round holes in the side to see it had three bullets. He started to shove the clip into the Walther, then stopped, reaching back into the dresser drawer to fetch a little cloth sack. He dumped out the bullets on the bed. They were gold shelled and bronze capped. They looked dull and old. They were. He picked one up and squinted to read the “43” engraved across from the “9MM.” Jake soberly contemplated the history he held in his hands. These bullets had come with the gun, made in Nazi Germany in 1938, when it replaced the Luger as the standard Nazi sidearm.

When Jake would take the Walther on hunting trips with Doc and Finney, he’d always shoot new 9MM shells, throwing in just a couple of the old ’43 bullets, saving the other few dozen as precious relics. He’d shot off the last of his new rounds, so all he had now was this sack of antiques. But not one of the dozen he’d fired over the years had failed. Fifty-year-old ammo that could still fire. Legendary German craftsmanship. He looked closely at the gun, cocking it, examining the chamber, the barrel, pulling back the hammer. He detected the faint scent of gunpowder buried beneath the strong smell of metal coated with WD-40, with which he’d cleaned the gun after using it on a hunting trip—the last of its kind with his friends, it occurred to him.

He broke down the gun, made sure all parts were clean and well oiled. He moved it back and forth from one hand to another, refamiliarizing himself with it, as he might a tennis racquet he hadn’t held for a long time. Then he pointed at the center of the bed and dry fired, squeezing the trigger and imagining the water bed’s explosion if a bullet had been in the chamber. He remembered the countless dozens of plastic pop bottles he and Doc and Finney had filled with water, then wasted in target practice on those hunting trips. Doc had joked that if the three of them were ever attacked by two-liter pop bottles filled with water, the bottles wouldn’t stand a chance.

Carefully and methodically, Jake loaded five more bullets into the clip, making eight total, then shoved it up into the Walther. It glided smoothly into place. He hesitated, then after a moment’s thought pulled back the chamber, loading the first bullet. He positioned the safety, then studied the gun again, wondering as he often had about the man it had been issued to. Who was he? Did he understand what the Third Reich was about? Had he sincerely bought into what had once appeared a virtuous social vision that had originated, and finally culminated, in the very pit of hell? How many civilians had been threatened by this gun? How many ruthlessly killed? Had the soldier who carried it unloaded the trains at Auschwitz? Was his uniform soiled by the human ashes that fell like snowflakes? Did he escort women and children into the chambers of the Nazi doctors, who in the name of medicine committed such unspeakable crimes against humanity? Did he go home to his own wife and children, leading a “normal” life and denying his complicity in an evil that murdered children and women and old people?

Where was the man whose gun this had been? A young soldier then could still be alive now. And even if he’d died, the question remained unanswered.
Where is he now?

The throbbing pain in Jake’s neck reminded him the stakes had been raised. He wasn’t merely an object of someone’s curiosity. He was in someone’s way. He would have to be ready. Mayhew and Sutter couldn’t always be there for him. He would have to defend himself.

He placed the gun carefully on the floor next to the right side of his bed, the side he still slept on as a matter of habit, though Janet had not been on its other side for nearly four years. He turned out the lights.

Suddenly Jake reached down to the floor, grabbed the gun, flicked off the safety with his thumb, and pointed the barrel toward the open door of his room.

He repeated the drill three more times, until satisfied. Then he tried to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

O
llie’s message on Jake’s home answering machine had asked him to call him at his office around 6:00 the next morning. It was 6:02 now, and Jake dialed the special number that bypassed the precinct switchboard. He was stiff and sore, but knew he couldn’t tell Ollie what had happened last night without bringing in Mayhew and the FBI.

“Ollie’s Sub Sandwiches. Our special today is the
Tribune.
It’s 100 percent bologna. How may I help you?”

“For starters, you can tell me what you’re doing there so early.”

“It’s been a zoo, Jake. The body count’s incredible. Street gangs are at it again, and we got a couple of weird yuppie killings yesterday, no robbery or anything. We’ve had a rash of those lately. Some of them are hooked up at the hospital, but they’re brain dead. It’s pathetic. The city’s going to hell in a hand basket. I’m considering retiring. Maybe take up the easy life, write a crime column or something.”

“Yeah, right. You’d really fit in at the
Trib
, Ollie.”

“Well, I’ll probably get sent to another murder scene before lunch, so I’ll make this quick. I interviewed the two anti-abortion guys, you know, the names you gave me? Don’t think there’s anything there. One of them’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but I think he’s harmless. I got my eye on them, but I’d be surprised if either had any connection to the murder. There’s still some doctors low on our list I haven’t contacted. Frankly, I don’t think I could get to them for a couple of weeks. I mean, I’m still on the case, but I can’t put it over all these fresh cases that keep getting thrown on me. Just wanted to shoot straight with you. I’m giving it all the time I can, but things are crazy right now.”

“I understand, Ollie. Can I help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe contact a few of these doctors on the list? Let’s see. There’s Marsdon. Maybe Simpson, although he’s low priority. You’re still checking out the angry husband angle, right?”

“Yeah, but it hasn’t amounted to anything. Some guys who could have gotten mad, sure, but no one I could picture doing this.”

“But somebody did do it, Jake. And we’ll find him. If I could just get the rest of the killers to take a few weeks off, we might find him a lot sooner.”

Sue Keels waited in line on the ramp leading to the 747, her carry-on slung over her left shoulder, while her right arm awkwardly held up her boarding pass and struggled with the heavier-than-usual purse that dangled from her elbow. Every time she put down her carry-on the line moved another twelve inches, so she moved with it just to prove she was awake. She shuffled forward, staring at the boarding pass again, still not understanding why the agent rewrote her ticket.

Angela had dropped her off at the airport. She reassured Sue she’d pick up Little Finn from school and he’d have a blast staying with her and Bruce while Sue was gone. Since Finney left, Angie had become an even closer friend, more like a peer than ever before. How she wished Finney could witness Angie’s pregnancy. Their first grandchild. Finney would have been so proud. Sue’s eyes misted up.

“Hello,” the flight attendant greeted her warmly, looked at her boarding pass and said, “4A—to your left, ma’am. Up here.”

“But…that’s first class, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. This is a first-class ticket.”

“But I bought the cheapest fare there was.”

“Well, somebody must like you. If I were you I wouldn’t make a fuss about it!”

“I guess not. I’ve never flown first class before.”

“Well, a 747’s the place to start. You’ll love it.”

Sue wandered into the cavernous first class, looking this way and that as if she’d crept into the holy of holies and some offended inhabitant of this sanctuary might chase her out or strike her dead. She tentatively sat down in 4A, then stretched out her legs till she was almost horizontal, giggling because she still couldn’t touch the back of the seat in front of her. Two flight attendants appeared, offering her juice and snacks and magazines and pillows and blankets and things she didn’t know airplanes carried.

Sue still couldn’t figure it out, but she knew enough to say,
Thank you, Lord
! In a funny sort of way she wondered if Finney had pulled some strings for her from up above, just to tell her he approved of her getting away.

As the long line of commoners trudged back into coach, Sue felt like royalty, walking to the base of the spiral staircase leading to the upper deck of the 747. Seeing her gazing up with childlike wonder, the flight attendant smiled and said, “You’re welcome to climb up and take a look.” She did. It was amazing, this compartment. It reminded her of her secret space in the attic where she had kept her dolls, and her friends gathered.
Little Finn would love this
, she thought. And thinking of how delighted he would be with it made it seem all the more delightful to her. Being around one of the special ones, like Finn, made you see how special life was. The unexpected little things such as…somehow ending up in first class!

Sue climbed back down and settled into her seat, which was really a nicely padded recliner. She popped the footrest in and out, decided she could easily sleep up here but wouldn’t want to. It was too much fun. She wished the nearly five-hour flight was even longer. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the light air blowing on her face.

Sue was still sprawled out like a junior high girl at a slumber party when suddenly, standing by the seat next to her, a gruff voice barked, “Madam! No slouching on the seats!”

Startled and embarrassed, Sue straightened up, expecting to see the pilot. What she saw took her totally off guard.

“Jake! What in the world?”

Jake smiled broadly. “You didn’t think I was going to let you fly all the way to New York by yourself, did you?”

“Jake, what’s going on? Why…?”

“I’ve had this trip on the calendar for months. Going back to New York for a journalism conference and to see an old friend, my mentor. Ever told you about Leonard? Anyway, at your house when you said you were leaving eight o’clock Thursday for New York, I knew we were on the same flight.”

“But how did you…?”

“Well, I don’t usually fly first class. But I’ve got a stack of frequent flyer coupons, and you can use them to upgrade. I had enough for both of us, so I called and had them change your ticket, but told them to surprise you. I guess it worked, huh?”

“It sure did!”

Sue threw her arms around Jake, with all the warmth of an adoring sister. For a moment it made Jake wish he’d had a sister, though somehow he doubted she would have adored him. He cringed from the pain in his neck and shoulders, which were still tender from the supermarket mugging. He hoped Sue hadn’t noticed.

“Jake, that was so thoughtful of you. And the best part is just having time with you. We can catch up!”

“I saw Angie in the terminal and told her all about this. She screeched and giggled and hugged me, the whole nine yards. You’d think she was your clone!”

Excited, Sue chattered on and on. She told him how she and Janet had a slumber party with Betsy, wearing pajamas, eating popcorn, and watching old movies. Betsy was having a rough time, and they’d tried to cheer her. Jake couldn’t imagine Betsy having better friends than Sue and Janet.

After they’d settled in and chatted awhile, and Jake thought the last passengers had boarded, a large sixtyish man in an expensive dark blue suit made his way to 3C, the aisle seat across from Jake and one row up. Accompanied by an attractive short-haired woman, dressed in a snazzy business suit, he walked with a self-important swagger. He took off his suit coat and handed it to the flight attendant as if she were his personal valet, then perused first class like a man who expected to be recognized, and who wanted to see if anyone of any importance would be traveling with him. No one registered until his eyes fell on Jake.

“Jake Woods? The columnist?”

Jake looked up from the
Sports Illustrated
he’d just opened, then groaned inwardly.

“Good morning, Senator. How are you?”

Senator Rupert Colby. Chairman of the Ethics Committee. A legend in his own mind. He’d never forget how impressed the senator had been with himself when he last interviewed him a few years ago.

“Connie, this is Jake Woods of the
Tribune.
Jake, this is my lovely assistant, Connie Lang.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Lang. This is my good friend, Sue Keels. We happened to end up on the same flight.”

The senator winked at Jake. “A happy coincidence, I’m sure.” He looked at Sue, admiring her in a way that irritated Jake, as a big brother is irritated when someone looks at his little sister as though she were a piece of meat.

“A lovely traveling companion, Ms. Keels. Mr. Woods is a fortunate man.” The senator turned and looked at Connie, seated next to him, and grinned slyly at Jake, “As am I.”

The senator beckoned for a flight attendant, with a hint of annoyance that he’d been seated all of thirty seconds and hadn’t yet been served a cocktail. The flight attendant, thirty and attractive, with a Barbie-like neatness and precision, responded immediately.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Several things come to mind, darling, but a Bloody Mary will do for starters.” The senator’s eyes wandered all over the woman.

Don’t you know the rules have changed, Senator? You want a sexual harassment lawsuit
? It occurred to Jake that the senator just didn’t get it, that he saw himself as a real charmer the ladies just loved.

Jake had to smile at what was brewing there in the intimacy of first class. Without even looking at Sue he knew she was thoroughly unimpressed with the senior senator. After a bit of small talk and a smooth take off, Jake settled back to some casual conversation. He usually read nonstop on flights, often pulling out his notebook computer to work on a column. But he really enjoyed talking with Sue. In an eerie sort of way, it was like talking to Finney. The two of them were like one, so in tune with each other, and since Finney’s death Jake felt to be around Sue was somehow to be around Finney. Not so with Doc and Betsy. Their lives just didn’t have that connection. Much as Betsy loved Doc, there didn’t seem much of him in her.

There was something else Jake liked about being with Sue. In the last three years he’d had some flings with women, but never the unique dimension of friendship with the other half of the race, friendship unthreatened by romance and therefore devoid of scheming and manipulating and hurt feelings. He enjoyed that kind of friendship.

Jake stood up and looked out the windows of the airplane, as if somehow it would allow him to see everything in perspective. A few days away might let him get a fresh jump on the investigation. What was he missing? Or Ollie? Or Sutter? It was so aggravating not to be able to put all their heads together. He sat quietly, going over and over the raw information as if it might suddenly come together as in the last ten minutes of a mystery movie, and he could say “of course” and get the bad guys once and for all. But did real life ever end in such a satisfying way?

After twenty minutes of being further spoiled with first-class service, Senator Colby turned in his spacious seat, which he filled to overflowing. Jake noticed.
The prima donna is about to speak.

In a bombastic voice he said, “So, Jake, still putting the right wingers in their place, I see!” He chortled as if this were the cleverest thing people had heard all day.

“Uh, yeah, sometimes, I guess.” This was just the sort of praise Jake didn’t want right here and now. He wished he was on the other side of Sue so he could see her reaction without having to turn and look. It was profoundly uncomfortable sitting between her and the senator, like being trapped between the front lines of two armies in which the slightest flinch would trigger the inevitable skirmish. He had the distinct feeling shots were going to be whizzing by his head, and he wished he could dig a trench and get low.

“Don’t be modest. You nail those bigots with the best of them.”

“Well, I try to be fair.”

“Fair? If they had their way they’d put the cause of women back a century. Well, we’re not going to let them do that in the senate!” Colby looked around first class as if he were stumping for his campaign and expected some applause.

“Senator.” Sue’s voice was sweet, but Jake cringed because he didn’t have to guess where she was going to take this.

“Yes, ma’am. Sue, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Senator.”

“Call me Rupert, ma’am. I’d be honored if such a pretty thing as you would call me Rupert.”

“Senator, what do you mean about putting the cause of women back a century?”

“I suppose primarily, of course, I mean the abortion issue.”

“Well, were you aware Senator that all the pioneer feminists, including Susan B. Anthony, were totally opposed to abortion? That they regarded it as the killing of innocent children and completely degrading to women?”

“Well, I doubt they thought of it in those terms…”

“But they did, Senator. It’s a fact. I’ve read their writings. That’s exactly what they thought. Their solution to the abortion problem was to offer women support and alternatives so children could be saved. So, I’m wondering, why did you vote for the legislation that would effectively put Crisis Pregnancy Centers out of business?”

“Well, because…they’re just thinly disguised right-to-life organizations.”

“Have you ever visited one, seen first hand how it operates? Talked to the staff members and volunteers? Talked to the women who’ve gotten help and assistance and love and guidance from these centers?”

“Well, I’m a busy man, Sue. I don’t have time to go check out everything first hand. But I’ve been fully briefed on their activities.”

“By whom?”

“Well, I’ve received information from Planned Parenthood and the National Organization of Women, among others.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Senator, I
have
seen these centers. I’ve volunteered in one, gone through the training, met with lots of desperate women we’ve been able to help. I could make some phone calls, ask around, and with their permission I could easily give you the names of dozens and dozens of grateful women who were helped immensely at Crisis Pregnancy Centers and Birthrights and all sorts of similar organizations. Would you like me to give you a list so you could get some first-hand knowledge?”