The Cyclops Conspiracy (37 page)

Through the outer door, voices and the drone of engines drifted to him. The clipped conversations were sharp and tense.

Jason fought his sluggishness and moved to the emergency exit. The outside of the door had no handle. If you exited through it, there was no way back in. Hence the dustpan doorstop the attendant had used earlier when emptying the trash. He cracked the door and peered out.

A blue uniform walked past, followed by another, then a third. The squawk of a radio. Swirling lights pulsed against the building. Police swarmed like moths to a floodlight.

Jason heard one of them say, “He’s not in the hotel; we searched every room.”

A few seconds later, the voice emanating from the foyer, which had been jovial and relaxed, became filled with concern. “Hold on, let me go check out this alarm. Patrick probably propped the door open again. The police are everywhere looking for some escaped prisoner.”

Jason inspected the doorframe. A contact sensor was mounted on the crossbeam. He had activated an alarm.

The metal dustpan leaned against the wall. Quickly, he grabbed it, sticking it between the frame and the door. He retreated into the stairwell and climbed the stairs three at a time. A minute later, sweaty and panting, he cracked the stairwell door on the third floor. A maid’s cart sat near an open room five feet away. The metal catch lock was stuck between the door and the frame, keeping it from fully closing. The cleaning woman was not in sight.

He pushed out of the stairwell, stepped to the room, and peered in. He found it empty. The beds were made and towels were neatly folded in their metal racks. Jason ducked inside the closet and quietly slid the door closed.

A few minutes later—it seemed like an eternity—the cart rattled and footfalls shuffled just outside the closet. Jason tensed. Just as quickly, the footfalls retreated, and the door swung closed. Jason breathed again. He waited thirty seconds and stepped out into his new sanctuary. The police had already searched every room in the hotel, so he relaxed a little. He was trapped at the moment, but relatively safe.

* * *

I’m too old for this shit
, Waterhouse thought.

The forecast called for heavy rain and thundershowers tonight and tomorrow. The dreary day added to Waterhouse’s monumental fatigue. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Some expensive surveillance equipment was at the bottom of the James. He was
pissed—and tired. The adventure on the
Vengeance
and his near drowning had caught up with him. Becky Sue had called an hour ago, ready for some adult fun. Waterhouse had begged off, promising to call her soon.

Waterhouse had attached the handheld recorder to his laptop and burned a CD for Jason to share with Christine. The “Conversation,” as Waterhouse now referred to it, had been sent as an e-mail attachment to Detective John Palmer. Waterhouse was sure Palmer would run it over to the Secret Service within minutes of receiving it. For good measure, a copy had been sent to Jason’s account and also to his own. Finally, he’d wrapped the recorder in plastic and duct taped it to the underside of the fireplace near the flue.

Fifteen hours had passed since Rodgers had departed for the Pettigrew woman’s house. In that time, he’d even gone to Rodgers’s house and scanned it for electronic surveillance, spending nearly two hours checking the place. It was clean. That meant that the small camera Jason had come across was the only device planted, or that the bad guys had come back and removed the rest. Waterhouse guessed it was the latter. In any event, the space was now righteous again.

His cell phone was in the Blazer, and had been since he’d arrived home. He’d returned the borrowed Dodge to his buddy and driven home in the Blazer. Waterhouse thought about retrieving it. If the Rodgers brothers tried to contact him, he wouldn’t know it. His landline was unlisted. He’d learned long ago not to give it out. There were angry spouses out there who didn’t like being spied on.
No matter
, he thought. The Conversation had been sent. For now, his job was done. He didn’t want to hear any urgent messages which might nag at his conscience and interfere with his ability to catch some shut-eye. He would get the phone when he woke. He laid his head on the sofa and was fast asleep in seconds.

* * *

Robert Ford peered through the binoculars at the small, square house in Poquoson from the passenger seat of the Lincoln. His driver and leader, Eurus, had pulled to a stop a hundred yards up the street, in the shadow of a large elm.

“He’s in there,” Ford said, his lips moving beneath the field glasses. “I saw him going past the window. In the living room.”

“He’s got to be alone,” Eurus said. He was pointing a device at the window. Its laser beam picked up the vibrations of the glass. His headphones captured sounds inside. “He hasn’t said a word since the woman called. It’s been over an hour.”

“Are we going in?” Ford asked.

Eurus paused and said, “No, this guy’s probably armed. I’ve got a better idea. Hand me the rifle.”

Eurus picked up his phone, looked up the phone in the dossier, and dialed. Ford pulled the long, silenced sniper rifle from under the blanket on the backseat.

* * *

Waterhouse’s landline chirped beside his head, stirring him instantly. Years of stakeouts and surveillance had honed his ability to wake to alert status quickly. He didn’t recognize the number.

“This is Mike with Glencoe Home Exteriors. We have a man in your area and we’d like to give you a free estimate on covering your home with premier vinyl siding—”

“I’m sorry, I’m not interested. How did you get this number?”

“If you’ll just give him a minute, I’m sure we can make you a great offer—”

“I said I’m not interested!”

“The man is in your driveway right now. It will only take a minute—”

Waterhouse ended the call and marched to the door, yanking it open. Damned telemarketers! He stopped on the stoop when he realized the driveway was empty except for the Blazer.

What the hell?

The round struck Waterhouse above the left eyebrow, snapping his head back like a doll’s. He tumbled back into the house, crashing back through the open front door.

The circle of light had vanished. Christine had no idea how long she’d been inside the pipe. The darkness was absolute, a three-dimensional shroud that seemed to possess mass and weight. It pressed down on her. She flexed her neck, looking back to the now-invisible opening. Two sensations told her she was still alive: the coarse feel of the cold pipe, and the sound of frigid water dribbling around her.

The voices of cops mingled with the barking dogs lingered for what seemed an eternity. The commotion was barely audible from inside the pipe, but nerve-racking nonetheless. Twice, water sloshed near the entrance. A beam of light lurked near the opening but was swallowed by the darkness. Both times, it disappeared. Eventually, all sounds of her pursuers died away.

Keeping her eyes closed, Christine crept backward, aided by the downward incline. Minutes later, she dropped silently into the water of the James.

Trying to take vengeance on Lily Zanns had been stupid and juvenile, that was obvious now. She’d barely managed to evade capture—or worse. By now, the police knew who she was and where she lived.

She had to find the one person, the only man she trusted. Jason had always looked out for her, even when he’d left all those years ago. His decision had been steeped in concern for her and her father’s well-being. He’d sacrificed his professional and personal life for her. It was a totally selfless act. After he’d found out that Zanns’s people were sending people to kill them, he’d run to warn her. Selfishly, she’d ignored him and sent him away. Then, foolishly, she’d tried to take matters into her own hands.

She knew now what she wanted. She wanted Jason Rodgers at her side, now and forever. She needed his help to get out of this mess. And she wanted to make up for the years they’d missed together. She wanted to erase the past and create a new future. She had to get back to Jason.

Christine prayed she hadn’t jeopardized her relationship with him. More importantly, she appealed to the Almighty that her miscalculation hadn’t put his life in greater danger.

Dripping wet, she crawled out of the river onto the grass. Staying in the shadows, she moved south to where she’d left the car. It was gone. Scanning potential escape routes, she decided on one and slipped into the trees, the night swallowing her.

* * *

Jason peeked through the thick drapes. From the hotel room window, he spotted a car fitting his needs, and an escape plan quickly materialized.

The police had departed an hour ago. In that time, Jason had paced the hotel room. Every creak and sound echoed like a hammer coming through the wall, causing him to freeze and take cover.

Lily Zanns and her team of killers were going to shock the world, and he was stuck in a third-floor hotel room. Waiting for the cops to
leave made him want to jump out of his skin. But he saw no other options. If he were apprehended, he would be powerless to stop her.

The cops were gone. It was time to move.

Keeping the lights off, he moved the curtain back an inch and studied the grounds one last time for lingering signs of police activity. Satisfied it was safe, he retraced his steps down the stairs and sneaked out the same service entrance door he’d entered hours ago. He made his way over to the dumpster and knelt behind it. On cue, a head poked out the alarmed door, looked around briefly, and, apparently satisfied, retreated inside. He waited another minute to make sure no one would make a delayed search of the lot. When nothing happened, Jason moved.

The car was a faded green Ford Taurus coated with dirt and sporting Michigan tags. Jason crept to it, kneeling beside the trunk. Along the way he found a large rock, twice the size of his fist. Still almost naked, he moved to the passenger-side rear window. Through the filthy glass, he saw three large suitcases in the backseat. Maybe his luck was changing: a car he could steal, loaded with clothes.

The meperidine had worn off hours ago. An intense, stabbing pain throbbed up and down his left side. A headache was forming at the base of his skull. And the chill of the night air raised goose bumps on his skin.

He tried the handle. Locked. The car was an older model and probably didn’t have an alarm. He could break the window, pop the trunk, and pray there was a toolbox with a screwdriver he could use to strip the ignition and start the car. He raised the rock above his head to smash the glass when voices stopped him.

“Why are we leaving now, at this hour? Let’s wait until tomorrow,” a girl said.

“I told you. We’ll beat the traffic this way. We’ll be halfway home before noon,” the young man replied.

The young couple chatted and split as they approached the car. The man headed for the driver’s side, jostling keys. The woman, a brunette with large green eyes, turned the front corner of the Taurus.

Jason lunged at her. He clamped a hand over her mouth and spun her around before she could react. Boyfriend jerked at the noise, stunned. His eyes widened at the naked, blood-covered man who had his girlfriend by the neck.

“I want the keys. Now!”

“Don’t do this, man.”

Jason moved both hands to the woman’s head. “I’ll snap her neck!”

Slowly, the man reached out, the keys dangling from his fingers. “Here!”

“Get in and start it up!”

He moved to the door and climbed in. The car rumbled to life.

“Now get back out and come over here!”

Boyfriend hesitated.

“Move! Leave the door open!”

Boyfriend rounded the car. Jason backed toward the rear of the car, out of the panicked man’s reach, dragging the woman with him.

“Stop there! Now, go over to the end of the lot, near those woods, and lie facedown!”

Boyfriend backed off, inching away, his concerned eyes never leaving his woman, who shook and struggled with a renewed intensity. Whimpers and stifled breaths escaped her lips. The woman pivoted, dropped her right shoulder, and rammed her elbow into Jason’s abdomen between his wound and groin. He released her. Wriggling free, she ran toward her boyfriend, who was thirty feet away.

Jason pushed her as she fled. She stumbled and fell. As she clambered to her feet, she screamed at the top of her lungs. Jason hopped in the car and jammed it in gear. He hesitated, because the coed was in his path. She staggered to the side as the engine revved, never ceasing her ear-splitting wail. When she cleared, Jason slammed the pedal to the floorboard.

Minutes later, he was on Interstate 64 headed south toward Newport News, shaking his head in disbelief. Grand theft auto and kidnapping were in keeping with the severity of his other felonies.

A desperate man with dwindling options, he decided to take matters into his own hands. The christening was twelve hours away. One sunrise lay between the presidents and a disaster that would dwarf the events in Dealey Plaza. Jason sped past lagging cars, weaving with abandon, headed for the last place anyone would expect him to go and the last place he wanted to be.

Five miles up the James River, Oliver pressed the button on the console, and
Vengeance’s
anchor descended into the dark water for the final time. He maneuvered the massive ship alongside the float plane. Using the stern-mounted crane, the powered launch
Retribution
was lowered into the water. He stepped over two black body bags as he assisted Zanns, holding a small suitcase, into the craft. Three minutes later, Oliver helped her into the aircraft. Then he left Zanns and returned to
Vengeance
.

Thirty minutes later, he was done with his preparations. Three clusters of six five-gallon plastic fuel cans duct taped together, filled with diesel, had been scattered on the bow, amidships, and aft. To each six-pack two sticks of dynamite had been fastened, taped securely to one of the spouts, with the distal end protruding into the fuel and rigged with a remote detonator. Plastique had been placed at strategic points on the hull, ensuring the vessel would sink quickly. The fuel tanks had been topped off. The vessel had been transformed into a floating bomb. It was overkill, but Oliver was taking no chances.