Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (36 page)

Him.

And Jack knew just how to do it.

7

Portman rose and asked if anyone wanted more coffee.

Cal, simultaneously tired and wired from all the caffeine he'd already poured down his gullet, shook his head. He watched Portman's lurching retreat across the tilting deck.

They'd made it to Hyannis in time for the first ferry and had commandeered a corner of the main cabin. No one protested. Not enough passengers aboard to care.

Not enough yeniçeri to matter.

Their ranks had been thinned to an even dozen. They'd needed only four vehicles—the Suburban, the Humvee, and two SUVs—to transport them and the new Oculus. The cars sat below in the ship's huge drive-in/drive-out bay.

Uneasiness wound through his gut. They'd abandoned Home too quickly to allow for a meticulous sweep. He was sure they'd left things behind. He just hoped whatever it was didn't point to the safe house.

Diana sat next to him, her black eyes hidden behind dark glasses and her arm hooked through his as she stared out the window at the rolling, wind-whipped swells. She seemed calm on the outside, but that was probably shock. She had to feel lost without her father and terrified of the responsibility his death had thrust upon her.

She turned her pale face to him. "I don't feel good."

"You're a little seasick. Don't worry. We'll be in the harbor soon."

From there it would be a trip to a narrow strip of land on the eastern edge of the island. The house there had water on both sides and nothing behind it except a lighthouse. A pair of sandy ruts offered the only access. Whoever approached them would have to come in slow or break an axle.

"For now, the best thing is to keep your eyes on the horizon—what you can see of it."

She turned back to the window.

He patted the back of her hand. "You'll be safe soon. And you'll stay safe. I promise."

He prayed it was a promise he'd be able to keep.

8

Jack sat at the MV monitoring console in the warehouse and went over his list. He'd given all three floors a close inspection in a hunt for ways to deal with the yeniçeri who'd be sent after him. He'd found a number of possibilities, but wanted a couple more as backup.

He rose and wandered back to the bunk/lounge area at the right rear. He'd already given it the twice over but it might yield something. The old TV offered possibilities. And the lockers, though they'd been swept clean, might trigger inspiration. He started there.

A couple of dozen or so stood against the wall, all their doors agape. He closed one and stepped back. Its incongruity might trigger curiosity, which wouldn't be a bad thing—for Jack, at least.

He dropped to his hands and knees and checked out the two-inch gap between the locker bottom and the floor for a place to hide a surprise. Nothing but dust bunnies and—

Something metallic gleamed a dull yellow behind one of the bunnies. He snaked his hand under and grasped it between his fingertips. He identified it on contact: ammo.

He pulled it out and dropped it into his palm. A hollow point with a long, slim cartridge. The hollow was filled and sealed. And the caliber… it looked like a.223 Remington, but a closer look told him it was a 5.56mm NATO round.

Jack leaned against the lockers as his heart went into overdrive.

The killers in the LaGuardia Massacre had used cyanide-tipped 5.56 NATOs.

His mind raced to a barely justified conclusion: The killers hadn't been Arab terrorists. Joey Castles's last words had hinted that LaGuardia was bigger than the Arabs he and Jack had shot up, that something else was going on.

Not Arabs… yeniçeri. Had the Ally showed them what to do, and they'd done it? Killed more than fifty people in order to kill one: his father?

Dad had been a branch… and a spear has no branches.

The Lady's words came back to him.

That's the way the Ally views us: as natural resources, as raw materials. There's no evil there, just pragmatism.

No evil unless you were on the receiving end.

He drew up his knees and rested his forehead against them.

Okay, we're natural resources to the Ally. It can't show compassion because it has none. It can't be held to human moral standards because it makes its own rules and answers only to itself.

But none of that exonerated the yeniçeri from following through with the "Alarms" it sent—not when it involved the slaughter of innocent lives, especially lives close to him.

"I was just following orders"… or… "I was doing it for the greater good of humanity"… that bullshit carried no weight here.

Sick and disgusted, Jack pushed himself to his feet and pocketed the round. He had work to do.

Time to adjust the calendar.

Judgment Day would be arriving early for the yeniçeri.

9

Midafternoon, after leaving the warehouse, Jack stopped by Russ Tuit's place and showed him the hard drives. Russ told him they were ruined way beyond repair. Maybe some NSA code-head geek could coax something out of them, but he doubted even that. The drives were useless.

Disappointed, he'd returned to the unit to check in on Gia and Vicky—no change. Normally that might be good news, but not in this case.

Then Jack set about tracking down someone who knew about the baby. He found that someone in the Records department. Wilma Dryden appeared about fifty and wore a blue skirt and blazer. She looked efficient and officious.

"Oh, Mister Westphalen," she said, looking up from her desk. "I'm so glad you stopped by. You're a hard man to find."

"I've been pulled in a lot of directions. Where's my baby?"

"I'm so sorry for your loss. She's in our morgue."

Jack closed his eyes as his throat constricted.

She… that meant the baby's name was Emma.

Emma… his… their Emma was in the morgue.

Jack knew lots about morgues—more than he wanted to. The thought of Emma in a bag in a cooler somewhere in the cellar sickened him.

"I suppose you've come to make arrangements for burial," Ms. Dryden said.

Burial? It had never crossed his mind.

"No… not really."

"Well, by law any miscarriage past the twentieth week must be buried or cremated."

Cremated… Emma? He wanted to scream.

"I can't think about that now. My… my wife's in a coma. I'd like to see our baby."

Wilma Dryden frowned. "Do you think that's a good idea? I mean, before the mortician has had a chance—"

"I don't know when that will be and I don't want to wait that long. I need to see her."

"Well, I don't—"

Jack spoke through his teeth. "I want to see her. Now."

"Really, Mister Westphalen, there's no need for—"

He slammed his hand on her desk.

"Now!"

She flinched and rolled her chair back.

He lowered his voice. "Please."

10

The morgue attendant was a kind-looking old gent. He checked the pass that Ms. Dry den had arranged for Jack, then led the way toward a row of drawers. Jack felt his feet dragging of their own accord. He didn't want to do this, but he had to. He owed it to Emma… to Gia… to himself.

"Terrible thing for a baby to die before it gets a chance to take even a single breath," he said. "My condolences, mister."

Jack said nothing.

They stopped before a drawer. The gent slid it out to reveal a black, zippered body bag. A little lump pushed up the center of the plastic.

Emma.

Jack stared but could not move.

The gent said, "Do… do you want me to open it?"

Jack could only nod.

The zipper was pulled down, the edges were parted, and there she was, lying on her side.

Emma was a tiny thing, maybe the size of a kitten, and pale, almost blue white. About a foot of the umbilical cord was still attached. Her eyes were closed but her mouth was open; her knees were drawn up and her tiny fists were clenched under her chin… as if she'd died in pain.

Jack leaned over and touched her. He ran a fingertip across the eyelids, down past her lips and along one of her arms. Her skin felt nothing like a baby's—cold, thick, almost hard. He wanted to say something, something as simple as
Hi, Emma
, but he was incapable of speech.

He saw a drop of water on her shoulder. He touched it. It felt warm. Then another appeared. And another.

He realized they were tears.

11

Jack sat in the family lounge. His body craved sleep, his brain screamed for a time-out, but it wasn't in the cards. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Emma lying cold and white in that body bag.

He shook himself and checked his watch. A little after eleven. Time to go see another corpse.

He exited the hospital and headed uptown. John Jay Park and its environs were fast becoming a familiar haunt. More familiar than he wished. He hoped this would be his last visit.

He trotted across the overpass and down to the promenade. A swift reconnoiter showed a couple of hardy old souls strolling the riverside, gloved hand in gloved hand. He waited until they passed, then he ducked into the alcove under the steps.

Zeklos's body was where he'd left it, but stiff as a four-by-four. As he'd hoped, none of the sparse passersby had ventured into the alcove today.

Now came the touchy part—the
really
touchy part. He wriggled into a pair of latex gloves, then pulled out the Yarborough knife he'd brought along. He used it to slice away Zeklos's shirts. The black blade slipped easily through the fabric, exposing the pale, sparsely haired chest. Jack took a deep breath, hesitated a second, then crunched the blade through the right upper ribs. Using both hands he sawed down, angling toward the midline. No blood spurted—it had long since congealed and frozen. He repeated the process on the left, then grabbed the lower tip of the breastbone with both hands and yanked it up with a sickening
crack
. The exposed heart seemed to contract within its fat pad as the icy wind found it.

Without allowing himself any time to think or reconsider, he cut the heart free and set it aside. When he'd wiped the knife clean on Zeklos's shirt, he pulled out the note he'd written earlier and pinned it to the dead man's coat.

Then, after checking again to make sure no one was in sight, he hauled Zeklos out and laid him next to the telephone. No one walking by could miss him, but the lights of one of the passing cars on the FDR might pick him out first.

Jack then grabbed the heart and tossed it into the East River. He couldn't see it land in the dark, but heard the splash.

He removed his gloves and stored them in a Ziploc, then dashed up the steps and crossed back to 78th Street. He stopped at the corner of York Avenue and leaned against a wall. He'd dreaded that grisly task, but at least it was done. Poor Zeklos deserved better than that, but Jack had to work with the materials at hand. Zeklos was one of those materials.

As he started down York he took out his phone and dialed 911. After three rings a woman answered.

"Emergency services."

"Look, I was just on the riverside walk near Seventy-eighth Street and I think I saw something that looked like a body by the overpass."

"Could I have your name, sir?"

Jack hung up.

The rest was up to the papers. He knew the note and the condition of the body would earn front-page coverage.

12

When he got back to the hospital, the trauma unit's head nurse told him he'd have to wait before he could see his family. Dr. Stokely was with Vicky who was having more seizures despite all the medication.

Helpless, he sat. And waited. And thought. Had to be some way to fix this. Not from here in the hospital, but from another direction.

He simply had to find it and make it work.

THURSDAY

1

Cal accompanied Grell and Novak to the supermarket. The little island had only two. Since Grell was the best cook among the survivors, he landed the task of filling the larders. And since that was no little task, they'd taken the Hummer and one of the SUVs and brought Novak to help carry.

They didn't need Cal, but he wanted to get the lay of the land. He'd known of the safe house for years—and had hoped never to have to use it—but this was the first time he'd stayed here.

The place had a stark kind of beauty. Rolling hills and moors near its center, dunes protecting the shore, thick underbrush, scrub pine, and oak; two-lane blacktops alternated with winding sandy paths, and not a single traffic light to be found. It measured fifteen miles east-west and half that north-south, but seemed bigger. Only locals here this time of year. Summer, he'd been told, was a wholly different story.