Mission

PATRICK TILLEY

To Pen-yr-Allt

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

A Note on the Author

MISSION

‘Angels are the powers hidden in
the faculties and organs of Man.'

Ibn al-' Arabi the Murcian

Greatest Master of the Sufi

1165–1240 A.D.

The night I called at the Manhattan General to pick up this lady doctor I was dating, something quite extraordinary happened.

For Miriam and me, it was the first in a chain of events that were to change our lives – mine especially – in a way that neither of us could possibly have imagined. For what we stumbled across that night was not the beginning of the story. If I am to believe what I have learned so far, the beginning was before and beyond Time as we know it. Our life-streams – along with those of the handful of other people who became involved – have established a brief interface with a cosmic event whose magnitude dwarfs the imagination.

If this is starting to sound heavy, hold on. I'm not kidding. This is going to change all our lives before it's over. Or end them. It's that big – and that simple. Even so, I don't guarantee to explain everything. You'll have to figure some of this out for yourselves. That's the way it works. But it's one hell of a story. I've got notes, photographs, tape-recordings. All the evidence is locked in a safety deposit box registered in my name at the Forty-seventh and Madison Branch of the Chase Manhattan Bank. I've put down everything I saw and everything that was said just the way it happened. It can all be checked against this account I am writing now. It's all true. Every word of it. So help me God.

Before we go any further, I'd better tell you who I am. My name is Leo Resnick. I'm thirty-five years old and, at the time this thing started, I was a partner in the Manhattan law firm of Gutzman, Schonfeld and Resnick. The firm specialises in corporate legal work but occasionally handles divorce suits for its more favoured clients. I was supposed to be making good as a claims attorney. How true that
is, is not for me to say, but they put my name on the door last Christmas so I guess I must have been doing something right. Let's just say that it brought in enough to eat out in restaurants where they don't put the prices on the menus, run a three-litre Porsche Carrera, pay the bills on a nice apartment up on 75th Street and a weekend place overlooking the Hudson. Except that to see the river, you have to stand on the roof.

Actually, the house at Sleepy Hollow was left to me by my uncle. Still, it added to my net worth and gave me problems like replacing shingles, cutting grass, buying heating oil and alarm systems. And so on. But there were a few bonuses too. If you had time to look, you got to see the leaves change colour, clouds moving across a Panavision piece of sky, hear the wind in the trees, and split kindling for the log fire in the living-room.

The whole Back-to-Nature bit.

To be honest, I didn't get up there all that often. I don't know about you, but I always got a little twitchy sitting around just listening to the grass grow. I needed the buzz from the streets, the big-city hype to get my nerve-ends tingling. Some of that tangy, rush-hour traffic air in my lungs. It sharpens a guy up. Makes him feel human.

In town, most of my time was spent working. Either at the office or my apartment. Boning up on case law, laying the groundwork for suits. Looking for angles. I'm not married. I'd been going steady with this lady doctor for a couple of years. I guess you could say we were close but neither of us had let it get too serious. In other words, I'm open to offers. Miriam – that's the lady doctor – knew they came my way now and then. She wasn't too wild about it but we always managed to avoid any heavy scenes.

So much for romance.

I've got a sister, Bella, who's married to a dentist up in Boston. She used to play cello with the Philharmonic but now she's into kids and clambakes. My parents live in Florida. They were always writing to tell me I should visit them more often and that I should holiday in Disney World. I didn't like to tell them that I preferred Fritz the Cat to Mickey Mouse and that I hadn't been to synagogue since Bella's wedding. End of life story. There's more, of course, but we don't need to get into that here.

Let's get back to where I got involved in this thing. The Manhattan General. I had arranged to pick up Miriam between nine-fifteen and nine-thirty. The plan was to have dinner and catch a late movie by
that German guy Fassbinder. I find him a little heavy but Miriam is completely hooked on the art movie scene. It had been raining hard and I'd had some trouble in getting a cab. As a result, I didn't arrive at the Manhattan General until nine-fiftyish. She wasn't waiting at the desk. The duty nurse, who knew who I was, phoned around and located Miriam in the morgue. I tried to figure out what she was doing there. Normally, she works in Emergency and I know she hates losing out. Miriam told the nurse that she'd be right up.

I ducked out to look for a cab, but there was nothing in sight. As I walked back into the building, Miriam stepped out of the elevator. I always liked seeing her in her white coat with a stethoscope round her neck. I guess it was because it made me feel like a responsible citizen and because I knew that my parents would approve if they'd known about her. Which they didn't. Or that when she got that white coat and the rest of her things off, she was a really great piece of ass.

We gave each other a hello-type kiss, then she took my arm and walked me away from the desk. ‘We may be stuck here for a little while. Did you make a reservation?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I wasn't planning on going anywhere fancy. Have you got some kind of crisis – or are we just going to sneak off and get stiff on lab alcohol?'

‘Neither,' replied Miriam. ‘Listen, an ambulance on an NYPD call brought in a man about half an hour ago. It turned out that he was a DOA who should have gone to the city morgue but – ' she shrugged. ‘ – maybe they thought we could give him the kiss of life. Anyway, there was something about him that really threw me. I want you to take a look and tell me what you think.' She hit the elevator button.

I grimaced. ‘You mean – in the morgue?'

‘Yes.' She smiled. ‘Hey, that's something I've never asked you. Have you seen dead bodies before?'

‘I've seen a couple of car crashes,' I said. ‘But they were mainly blood and feet sticking out from the blankets.'

The elevator came. Miriam ushered me in. ‘Don't worry. He's still in one piece.'

I eyed her warily. ‘You promise? No messy exit wounds?'

‘No. Nothing like that.' She took hold of my hand and lead me out of the elevator when it reached the basement. ‘This way, Dr Resnick. I'll get you a white coat.'

Smart move. Putting me in a white coat meant that I couldn't pass
out without looking foolish. I composed myself as we entered the morgue and walked over to where the body lay half-covered by a sheet on an autopsy table. What they call the slab.

Miriam introduced me to the doctor who was carrying out the postmortem examination on the body. A guy called Wallis. A grey-haired chain-smoker who looked as though he'd seen it all. There was also a young intern with Harpo Marx hair hovering in the background. His name was Lazzarotti. He gave me the story so far. Two cops in a squad car had spotted the body in an alleyway over on the East Side. It had been stripped naked. There were no clues as to the possible identity of the victim. Nobody in the immediate vicinity had seen or heard anything. The usual story. The cops had radioed for an ambulance, the crew of which claimed to discern lingering signs of life in the body. As a result, they had burned red lights all the way across town to the Manhattan General and had taken off again before the reception staff in Emergency discovered that they had been landed with a corpse.

I took a deep breath and looked at the body. Like Miriam had said, he hadn't been blown away but he was still a mess. The man was about thirty to thirty-five years old, medium build, lean hard body. In general, his features were of the type the police label Hispanic. He had a swarthy complexion and his skin was deeply tanned. He had a beard and straggly, shoulder-length hair. Like a hippie who'd done time on a
kibbutz.
There was a gaping, two-inch wide stab-wound in his left side just under his rib cage but the most unsettling thing was the bruises and lacerations. The guy had had the shit beaten out of him, then taken one hell of a whipping. The skin on his back had been cut through to the bone and there were deep raw stripes on the backs of his thighs as well. It also looked as if his attackers had beaten him over the head with a nailed piece of wood.

Miriam pointed to his feet. ‘See that?'

I nodded. ‘Yeah, what are they – bullet wounds?'

‘No,' replied Wallis. ‘Somebody drove a metal spike through them. Through his wrists too.' He picked up an arm and showed me.

I swallowed hard. ‘Jeezuss! What kind of people would do something like this?'

‘Animals,' said Wallis. ‘New York's full of them.' He squinted at me through the smoke of his cigarette. ‘You think this is bad? You want to stay on my tail for a week.'

‘Well, whoever it was really gave it to him, didn't they?' said
Lazzarotti. ‘I wonder what the hell he did to deserve it?'

Wallis shrugged as he took the butt from his mouth and lit another cigarette with it. ‘Probably a pusher who stepped on one of the big boys' toes. Or maybe he was carrying a consignment and decided to cut himself in. If you cross up the Mafia, they don't fool around.'

‘That's right,' said Lazzarotti. ‘Remember that guy those two hoods hung on a meat-hook and worked over with a blow torch and cattle-prod?'

‘There are no needle-marks on his arms,' said Miriam.

‘So he's an acid-head,' replied Wallis. ‘Or maybe he screws Boy Scouts. Who cares? All I want to do is fill in this report and get the hell out of here. My wife is waiting in a restaurant uptown for an anniversary dinner. Not that I give a damn, but I'm an hour late and I've cancelled twice already.'

‘Would you like me to finish up for you?' asked Miriam. ‘I've done some P-M work with your friend Ericsson.'

Wallis hesitated, then scribbled his name at the bottom of what I presume was the autopsy report and death certificate. ‘Make sure you get a set of prints to send downtown to check against felons and missing persons.'

‘You got it,' said Miriam. ‘Do you have any ideas about the cause of death?'

Wallis pulled on his cigarette and sniffed. ‘From what I can see, I'd say respiratory failure. The beating helped, but from the rope marks under his arms it looks as if this guy has been strung up somewhere. A few hours of that is all it takes. My guess is that the stab wound was inflicted after death occurred, but you may have to open him up to check that out. It's up to you. Personally, I don't think any of us need bust our ass over this one but don't let me stop you being zealous.'

‘Isn't that what practising medicine is all about?' said Lazzarotti.

‘It is indeed,' replied Wallis. He closed up his bag and headed for the door.

Miriam called out to him. ‘How many years?'

Wallis paused with his hand on the push plate. ‘Years what?'