SURVIVORS: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 2) (16 page)

“Did Argon keep some sort of list? Something with contact information? Something that. . .”

Dutko was tapping the side of his head. “Up here. He kept it all up here.”

Brendan nodded. It explained why he hadn’t found anything along those lines in his search of the house. “Well, I keep coming back to why he would write down Largo’s name. That’s inconsistent with him keeping it all in his head. Think he wanted someone to find it?”

“I don’t know why he would. Argon knew them all by heart. He carried it all with him. The good and the bad. In the end I bet that’s why he picked up the bottle again.”

“Maybe he didn’t, Dutko. Maybe it was meant to look like he did.”

Dutko considered this.

“I don’t know. What I know is that Argon saw the world for what it was, and that can be rough. Real rough.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you? Okay. Private banks aren’t going anywhere; shit’s only going to get worse with inflation and wealth disparity. The Fed isn’t really going anywhere either. It’s baked into the fucking country. You try to control money, it goes underground. You outlaw something, whatever it is, it goes underground, too. Same system applies to Washington as it does to drug cartels in Juarez, Mexico as it does to black markets right here in New York.”

Brendan nodded. “I’m trying to put it all together – bear with me. But I’m still stuck on how a sinking Dow Jones or the political or economic woes of foreign countries has to do with babies in trunks. Sorry, but you put that image in my head, and now I can’t get it out.”

“Really? You don’t see?”

Maybe, thought Brendan. Maybe I do. Maybe I have been feeling it for a long time, thinking it for a long time. Maybe I’ve been obsessed with Titan because something happened to me during the Heilshorn case, a moment where I thought I saw something, felt something, some field that surrounded and bound all of this together. Some moment of dark nirvana when I understood.

“Illuminate me,” Brendan said.

“There’s a group of us, cops and probation officers and some criminal lawyers, and we see it. We’re awakening.”

“Awakening.”

“Yes, Healy. Fucking awakening. To see that all this shit, it’s all related. What’s the answer in ninety-nine out of a hundred crimes? Money. The common denominator. And I’m talking crimes from petty larceny all the way up to presidential assassinations. Big coal right now? Other carbon-based energy companies? They’re talking about a ‘utility death spiral.’ Solar is on the rise and getting cheaper and their market is getting frozen up; it’s not liquid. That’s just one example. Things are bad; people are losing money and getting desperate.”

Brendan suddenly wanted a cigarette. Dutko was calmer, but something had changed. Brendan thought he was about to pass a point of no return.

“Argon was my mentor. With him, everything was equal,” continued Dutko.

Made sense why Dutko knew his way around the house so well.

“He knew what this country was coming to. Argon – he was Scottish, off the boat, but he loved his country. Don’t think for a second that he wasn’t a patriot. Because patriots question their government, they don’t go blithely along. The tree of liberty must be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants. So said Tom Jefferson.”

“Jefferson also had slaves.”

Dutko waved his hand in the air. “That’s cultural. It changed. Our forebears used to beat their wives and burn witches, too. What’s critical is that we were warned about central banking and big business. Listen, we just, you know, we can’t sit by anymore. Cops on the take, that’s one thing. Officeholders in Washington and in every capitol and in every city and town in our country, the Fed controlling the money supply, and now they’re backing down reducing the bond-buying program by billions each week with this quantitative-easing bullshit? You have any idea what
that’s
going to do to the economy? Like I said, it’s gotten bad. It’s gotten real bad. And the ones who get it the worst? The innocents.”

“The children.”

“Fucking right the children. Because it all rains down. People who don’t see that are scared – they’re in denial. Kids are killed in India by their mothers. Strangled, right after birth. Put to death if they’re girls, because girls don’t make the family any money, and they’re dirt poor. See? Money. That same shit is now happening in our country. Just last spring some mother was arrested for killing
six
of her babies and putting them in cardboard boxes in the garage.
Six
, Healy. In cardboard boxes.”

Dutko set down the bag and gingerly draped the suit over the easy chair. Brendan was struck by the care this big, angry cop took. When Dutko resumed talking, he was quieter, as if the laying down of the suit had soothed him.

“Something started in Argon that day he found baby Sloane. You know what I mean? Something started in him and he got on a path. Argon started to see the world differently.”

“How so?”

“As a battleground,” Dutko said. It was a plaintive, matter-of-fact statement.

“And so what did he do?”

“More than you, pal. More than me. Argon started to live a different sort of life. And he saw things in other people. I guess he saw things in you.” Dutko laughed again in that grunty way, meaning
not that I see anything in you myself.

Brendan considered the implications of Argon putting some sort of group together and the question surfaced which had been burning in him since the previous morning. “You think he made enemies?”

“Of course he made enemies.”

“How did he effect change?”

“What?”

“What did he do? How did he work towards winning the battle?”

Dutko looked at Brendan as if he were an idiot. Or, at least, an outsider. Someone who just didn’t get it. “You’re asking the wrong questions,” Dutko said.

“Ok. Do you think someone killed him?”

Dutko stared back. His lips were pursed. His hands hung at his sides.

“Do you think he was killed in a traffic accident in the line of duty, or do you think someone might have arranged that, or tried to make it look like that, even planted a flask in his car – someone who he might have been getting ready to expose, or someone he had been getting too close to?” asked Brendan.

Dutko tilted his head a little, again reminding Brendan of a dog. Not in a derogatory way; Dutko was exactly that – Argon’s loyal dog. Smart, fierce, devoted.

“You got to be careful now, Healy.”

“You’re not answering me.”

“Yes. Fucking
yes
, Detective, I think he was killed. It’s right under your nose; it’s right under everyone’s nose.”

Brendan sighed. He leaned back against the wall. He felt like this was a major breakthrough, just getting someone else to confirm it at last. But instead of feeling relieved, or lighter, he felt heavier, more burdened. If it was “under everyone’s nose,” then why wasn’t Cushing up front about it? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything? Because they believed Argon had been drinking again? Maybe that was enough incentive to keep quiet so as not to trash the career of a hero cop. But Brendan thought maybe, too, it was because they were out of their depth. Or they were being coerced.

There were channels for this, up the ranks. And that was probably what was happening – Argon’s records were probably taken by agents, like the nurse at Westchester Medical Center had assumed. And Cushing was playing it close to his chest because it was a federal investigation – he’d probably been told to keep it quiet, to lie if necessary. No one could talk to anyone and the information stayed bottled up, ready to explode. Welcome to the justice system.

“Thank you, Leonard.”

Dutko looked down at the living room carpet. “Look at this old shag shit.”

“Leonard.”

Dutko looked up. He looked sad now, as if some of his life had just drained away.

“Please, just tell me, in your own words, what you think is happening,” said Brendan.

Dutko thought for a second. Then he picked up the uniform and the duffel bag again.

“I think we’re going to go bury our friend. Funeral service is tomorrow; calling hours are eight until three. Body will be buried in Valhalla at three tomorrow afternoon.”

Whatever had turned on inside Dutko was now shut off. He looked around, as if taking in the place one last time, some essence of Argon that the outdated bachelor home preserved, and then he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

* * *

Brendan followed Leonard Dutko outside. In the driveway, he sparked a cigarette. Dutko stopped before he reached the cruiser.

Dutko turned around. He took a few steps closer to Brendan, and when he spoke, his voice was low, and his breath spilled in white vapor from the corners of his mouth.

“I can’t go any further. I’ve got a wife and two little ones.”

“I understand.”

Dutko got in his vehicle and drove off.

CHAPTER TWENTY / Monday 10:56 AM

Jennifer Aiken swam up through the locks of her consciousness. As she drew a few cautious, shallow breaths, she realized she didn’t know where she was.

No one we don’t like comes anywhere near this building.

Things slowly started to take shape. This was a dance studio, with a railing along the wall of mirrors. A place where ballet dancers practiced their pirouettes and ballroom dancers their swirling glides.

Something stung her eyes and nose. Like she’d suffered smoke inhalation. She found that her wrists hurt, too, her fingertips were tingling, her hands numb, with the blood slowly returning.

It all came back, then – being bound to the chair, the man coming in named – what was his name? Staryles. A young man who had hinted that he was black ops. JSOC. The Joint Special Operations Command; what detractors called the President’s personal hit squad. Men who went around performing raids at three in the morning that left women and children dead. Squads that took out a target and then went after his sons – even little boys – to wipe the enemy’s seed from the earth.

The fact that he’d told her his name was not a good sign.

She’d screamed and kicked. She’d kicked straight out towards him, missing his shins by inches.

She’d snorted and yelled and kicked and the chair was scraping around beneath her. Staryles had recoiled a little from her flying feet. And then he had thrust the vial out towards her.

A brownish plume of dust had filled her vision. She’d thought to hold her breath, but it was too late – she had put up such a fight, she’d already inhaled the poison in great gasping breaths.

Her heart had become a turbine engine in her chest. Every alarm in her body wailed. The back of her neck flared with fresh lances of pain as she threw her head back, wrenching it from the man’s grip behind her. She exhaled and screamed and spit up into the air, all at once. Her eyes squeezed shut and stinging; she opened them and the ceiling was blurry through her tears. Her spit was overtaken by gravity and drizzled back down onto her face.

She felt the poison in her nose. Her sinuses usually so inflamed from the allergies she’d never quite outgrown, those passages were open now, never before so free and clear as her body sucked down the thallium, as it was absorbed into her every pore, invading her bloodstream, tissues, cells.

Thallus sulfate, or, thallium. She’d done her research on it, and what Staryles had predicted was what was true in most cases, depending on dosage. If he’d given her anywhere close to a gram, she had forty-eight hours to live. Maybe three days at the most.

Jennifer was lying on her side. She realized that she must have passed out for a while after they had given her the poison. That was the only explanation. Her hands were free, however, hence the tingling – had they somehow come unbound when she’d fainted? She doubted it. They had been snipped by Staryles and his men. Why?

She pushed off of the floor and got herself sitting up halfway. The pain was still there in the back of her neck, where her skull joined her spine, but the pain from her pistol-whipping paled in comparison to what she was facing now.

She slowly got to her feet. The world swam for a moment as she stood fully upright. She squinted her eyes and leaned forward a little, willing it to pass. Maybe this was what morning sickness felt like. She couldn’t say, exactly, because she had never been pregnant. She’d been too careful. After John Rascher, she’d barely even dated, focusing on her studies. She rationalized her isolation and dogged work ethic; too many students turned college into one long party. It was more about the hooking up and the drugs than anything else. There was Jennifer, from a farming town in Rockland County, and she had no oats she felt needed sowing. After John, she’d gotten down to business, and she’d never let up.

And she was still single now, in her thirties, with the time for having babies ebbing away. What did they call it if you were pregnant and over the age of thirty-five? For a long time it had been referred to as a Geriatric Pregnancy. Recently they’d euphemized it to a “pregnancy of advancing years.” Advancing years? Weren’t years always advancing? Her own mother had been forty. It had been ten years since her last child – Jennifer was a big surprise.

She sat there, blinking, her mind wandering. She needed to focus. It wasn’t the time for last regrets, it was time to do something.

She walked gingerly towards the door in the corner of the room, careful not to lose consciousness again, to give the blood time to get to her brain. She looked in the mirrors at the reflection of city. And she couldn’t help see herself there, too, crossing the room in the middle of it all.

The light from the windows behind her darkened her image revealing a thin and hunched shape. As she drew closer she saw more clearly what a mess she was. Her hair was sticking up on one side. Her face was banded with dark streaks – the tears had tracked through the grime of sweat, dirt, and powdery poison.

Jennifer stopped and swiped at her face with her hands, frantically rubbing off the residue. She brushed off her body and she smoothed her clothes with her hands. She ran her fingers through her hair, and shook it out, and watched as a faint cloud of thallium dust plumed from her head. She blew at it, trying to disperse it, knowing it was all in vain – the toxin was already inside her. By now her blood was transporting it throughout her body. In fact, the more she moved around, the more excited she became, the harder her heart pumped, the quicker the poison would spread.

She tried to get herself under control. She took some deep breaths – yoga breathing. She inhaled, slowly and deeply. Everything was okay at the moment – and the moment was what mattered. The moment would tell her what she needed to do, if she opened up to the present, if she allowed the wisdom of her body and the insight of her heart to do what they did best, unpolluted by the endless scheming and planning of her thoughts. She exhaled.

Feeling slightly more together, breathing in rhythm with her steps, she made her way to the door. She extended her hand gradually and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob. She was ninety-nine percent certain the door would be locked, but it was irresistible not to try opening it. Her grip tightened and she twisted the knob. Of course, its tumblers were prevented from rolling over and drawing back the latch because the lock was activated. There was a small keyhole in the end of the knob. The door locked and unlocked by key only. Even if someone were to arrive on the other side to help her, they’d have to break it down.

She walked away from the door, determined not to panic. Instead, she walked in the other direction, passing by a support post, towards the windows, where she stopped and looked down. She remained there for a moment, gauging her location.

The avenue was about twenty stories below her. She knew it was an avenue, and not a street. For one, it was five lanes across, and for another, avenues ran north and south in Manhattan, and the way the light was hitting the buildings she was able to get her compass bearings. Her guess was that the avenue was either 2
nd
or 3
rd
. In fact, she thought she knew where she was – she was on the Upper East Side.

There was an intersection that was close. The building she was in sat on the northeast corner. Her vantage point was up a little further from there, situating her at the north end of the building, or in the middle, at least. Across the street, far below, were what looked like a construction site, a Laundromat, and a bar. It was next to impossible to make out anything more than that because of the height and because she wasn’t wearing her glasses or contacts. In fact, if she was to be honest, she really didn’t know what she was looking at down there – one little fuzzy neon light may or may not have indicated a bar. One large plate glass window with something in it that looked from here like an egg carton didn’t necessarily mean a row of dryers stacked together.

None of this information did her any good anyway without someone to pass it on to. She had no phone, no way to contact anyone.

The buildings she could see down along 2
nd
or 3
rd
avenue were only a couple of stories high – the other tall buildings, two brick-red apartment buildings – were all the way across the block, over along the next avenue. The windows were the size of tooth cavities from here. She could stand there all day waving her arms and no one would ever see her, unless by some crazy fluke someone was looking in her direction, at this building, along this floor, with a pair of binoculars.

There could be people on either side of her, though. The Upper East Side was primarily residential – a dance studio was anomalous; artist lofts, rehearsal spaces, and all of that were in Midtown, or the West Side, or the Village.

Having inventoried the street below and mapped out where she thought she was, Jennifer turned and padded in her bare feet over to the wall with no windows or mirrors. She was conscientious not to work herself up, and resolved to be systematic. She pounded firmly but not desperately, calling out “hello?” as she did. She moved gradually down the wall like this.

She was going to get out of there.