The Cyclops Conspiracy (43 page)

Palmer realized his right foot was bouncing up and down furiously. His nerves were frayed.

He picked up the phone a third time and dialed IS. “When am I getting my fuckin’ e-mail back!” he shouted at the technician on the other end.

“Detective, we’ve run into a problem. We’ve lost the connectivity network-attached storage. You won’t be able to access your e-mail until we get it back. It looks like it’ll be down for at least another two hours.”

“Bullshit! You gotta be kidding me!”

Palmer slammed the phone onto its cradle and released another string of curses. Barely able to focus, he scanned the remainder of the report.

Palmer read the only listing in Williamsburg. A young couple’s green Ford Taurus had been carjacked. The young woman had been momentarily kidnapped. The perp was wearing only underwear and had a wound in his left side. Palmer leafed through a stack of papers and found the police report filed after Rodgers’s escape from the hospital. He traced his index finger down the text, stopping at the lines he was looking for. Rodgers had a stab wound in his left side. He’d hijacked the ambulance wearing only his underwear and his flip flops. The ambulance had been found in the parking lot of President’s Park in Williamsburg.

“That’s him!” Palmer said out loud.

He called the regional jail, demanding to speak with one of the officers there. “Send Rodgers’s mug shot over to Williamsburg PD,” he instructed

The next call was to the Williamsburg PD. Palmer spoke to the detective handling carjacking and rapidly explained his hunch. The man said he would personally deliver the photo to the couple, who were still staying at the hotel in Williamsburg. Palmer gave the man his cell number and ended the call.

Through one more call to the Smithfield PD, Palmer learned Peter Rodgers had been wounded by fire from the assailants and was taken to a hospital in Suffolk, a fact the man had failed to mention when he’d phoned Palmer.

Palmer weighed his options, his knee banging the underside of the cubicle desk. Was it time to call the Secret Service?
No
, he told himself. This time he was going to get confirmation. If the server didn’t come up in the next hour, Palmer promised himself he’d report the threat whether he had an e-mail or not. In the meantime, he’d drive over to Suffolk and have a talk with Peter Rodgers.

Palmer grabbed his jacket and waved down a rookie, David Bartlett, affectionately known as Opie because of his freckles, red hair, and aw-shucks attitude.

“Let’s go!” he barked.

* * *

For a fleeting moment, Jason thought Christine might be dead. He placed a hand on her back, feeling for the heave of her chest. Silence. No movement.

“Oh God, no,” he whispered as panic welled.

Then a shallow, weak expansion of her rib cage elevated his hand slightly. An eternity seemed to pass. Then a second breath was followed by a third.

She was alive.

Her neck had been whipped by the tackle and whipped again when she hit the coffee table. Fearing a neck injury, he lightly traversed her skull and neck with his fingers. No obvious fractures. But a warm, sticky, pinkish fluid caressed the pads of his fingers behind her ear at the base of her skull. When Jason pulled back her hair, he saw it had oozed from the ear canal. He’d taken enough emergency first-aid classes to know about concussions and cerebrospinal fluid.
Could be
a skull fracture
, he thought. Putting his ear to her face, he felt slight, hesitant breaths against his cheek.

Shit!

Time was short. He needed to get her to a hospital. With the possibility of a neck or head injury, it was best not to move her. As much as he wanted to get Christine the medical help she needed, the situation wouldn’t allow time for the detour.

Don’t leave her again
, he thought.
Don’t leave her again!

Unfortunately, it was exactly what he knew he must do. He stood on wobbly legs, ran to the phone, and dialed 911.

The sirens approached.

Jason placed a hand on Christine’s chest again to make sure she was still breathing, more to reassure himself than anything else. Her respirations were still shallow and slow. The pulse was weak but palpable.

It was time to go. Jason could do nothing more.

By the pitch of the sirens, the ambulance had rounded the entrance to his subdivision. He checked both bodies and fished out a set of keys.

He leaned over Christine, brushed her hair back, and gently kissed her forehead. Her words came back to him.

Don’t leave me again!

He was abandoning her all over again. She was hurt badly, and he was leaving her. And worse, it was because of him, because he’d come back into her life, that Chrissie now lay mangled in his living room.

He left the front door open so the paramedics would know which house she was in. The killers had parked in the driveway. He started the killers’ car and sped off. In his rearview mirror, he watched the ambulance pull into the driveway, lights circling. Jason prayed it would not be the last time he saw the only woman he’d ever really loved alive.

* * *

“Do you know that your brother escaped from the regional jail in Williamsburg last night?” Palmer asked in the hospital room. The ex-marine’s left leg was elevated on three pillows, the knee heavily bandaged.

Palmer and a second, boyish detective had burst into his room minutes ago, flashing badges.

“Yeah. Unfortunately, it’s all over the news.” Peter lifted a thumb in the direction of the television.

“Has he tried to contact you?”

“No,” Peter lied.
But I called him.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.” It was the truth. Jason could be anywhere between his house and Peter’s hospital room, ready to stumble into the arms of these cops while he was talking to them. “Jason didn’t kill that woman.”

“Then why did he run?”

“I don’t know for sure. But I can guess.”

“Go on.”

“His life is in danger.
All
our lives are in danger. As I told you on the phone, he has important information about the christening. People are trying to kill the presidents. Didn’t you get our e-mail?”

“Unfortunately, there are some kinks in our system.”

“It has all the proof you need,” Peter insisted.

Palmer rubbed his chin. “How did you come into possession of this recording?”

“We—”

“We,
meaning
?”

“Meaning Jason, me, and Walter Waterhouse. We planted a listening device aboard Zanns’s yacht.”

“I’ll ignore the legal implications of planting a listening device on someone’s private yacht for the moment,” Palmer replied, fixing Peter with a hard stare. “I thought you and your crew were concerned about the murder of Thomas Pettigrew?”

“We were. It turned out to be more than fraud, more than murder.”

“You mean all this stuff about insurance fraud is really a plot to kill the presidents?” His tone spoke volumes about how little Palmer believed Peter’s words.

“Now you’re getting the picture.”

“And the Zanns woman is responsible?”

Peter nodded. “Yup! And her three accomplices. The pharmacist, Fairing, and a doctor—can’t remember her name right now, Jasmine something-or-other—and Zanns’s houseboy, Oliver. That’s one of the reasons Jason escaped. They’re trying to eliminate us.” Peter pointed to his bandaged leg. “The recording proves it.”

Palmer scribbled notes on a pad and asked the question again. “I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth. You’ve been in contact with your brother, haven’t you?”

Peter hesitated, and then decided to come clean. “Yes. I spoke with him this morning.”

“Where is he?”

“At this moment, I don’t know. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

* * *

Jason strained to hear what the detective and his brother were saying inside the hospital room. He fingered the flash drive in his pocket. Waterhouse had sent the e-mail. But Jason gathered that Palmer, for some reason, hadn’t received it.

He’d raced to the hospital after leaving Christine. He’d spotted Detective Palmer and his red-headed sidekick walking through the entrance as he pulled into the parking lot. Jason gave the cops a three-minute head start and followed them in.

This was as good a time as any to turn himself in. He had the proof, and Palmer was only a few steps away. He inflated his lungs, about to confront Palmer with the recording. But a flash of movement caught his eye, freezing him in place.

* * *

“Can you identify the people who are trying to kill the presidents?” asked Palmer.

“No, but my brother can.”

“Who tried to break into your house?” Palmer peered at Peter.

“They weren’t trying to break in. They were trying to kill me, and probably my family. Their weapons had silencers.”

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure enter the far end of the hospital hallway, moving quickly.

Jason backed against the wall. The red-headed cop was on his cell asking about the e-mail server and roaming dangerously close to the doorway.

The man who’d entered the hallway wore a blue windbreaker and had a hand in his pocket, clutching something. The determined stride and the imperturbable stare made Jason’s blood run cold. Instinctively, Jason glanced toward the opposite end of the corridor, where a second figure had entered and was also moving toward him. His hand, too, was hidden inside his windbreaker. Both men would be on him in seconds. Their eyes locked on Jason, silently signaling their lethal intent.

Trapped, his stomach went to his throat. The bulges in their jackets were visible now.

Number One pulled his hand from inside his pocket and removed the weapon. Number Two did the same.

Act now!

His choices were limited, his chances of survival slim. Jason quick-stepped into his brother’s hospital room.

“
Gun! Gun!
” Jason shouted, pushing the half-open door to the wall.

The redhead gawked at Jason, then withdrew his Smith and Wesson from its holster. Palmer, the veteran, had his pistol out from under his armpit in milliseconds, his notepad fluttering to the floor. Jason stepped out of the doorway and what would be the line of fire, melting into the wall. He didn’t have the presence of mind to slam the door shut.

Palmer leveled the pistol at Jason.

“They’re coming down the hall!” Jason hollered.

“Freeze!” Palmer ordered. “Show me your hands—”

“Two men with guns. The hallway!” Jason yelled again, pointing.

Peter sat up straight in bed. “Jason! What the hell?”

“Get down!”

“Freeze! On your face! Now!” Palmer still had the gun on Jason.

“Guns! In the hall! Move!”

Palmer’s eyes darted between his suspect and the doorway.

“Check it out!” he commanded Bartlett.

As Bartlett stepped into the opening, a round erupted out the back of his head. He folded like a discarded marionette. Palmer, Jason, and Peter recoiled. Jason slid to the floor. Peter dove under the bed. Palmer dropped to one knee and turned his weapon on the doorway.

A hand appeared around the doorframe, leveling a weapon. Palmer ripped off two rounds. The hand retreated into the corridor.

The second killer appeared from the opposite side of the doorframe, spraying the room. Palmer returned fire in rapid sequence, hitting him. Blood blossomed through the man’s shirt. He spun and dropped, slamming face-first into floor.

“Get on the phone!” Palmer shouted.

Peter grabbed the telephone from his position on the floor and dialed the operator. He screamed into the handset for police and security in room three-fifteen.

A short silence ensued, followed by the echo of running footfalls. Palmer ran to the door, hazarded a look, and turned back to Jason and Peter. “Check him!” he commanded Jason, referring to the wounded detective. “Stay here!” Palmer disappeared down the corridor.

Jason checked the young man’s pulse as he fought the urge to gag. Blood covered everything. The eyes were open, staring through Jason. The detective was dead.

Jason moved to Peter and pulled him off the floor. “Can you walk?” Jason asked.

“I think so.”

“We’re not staying. Let’s go.”

“Maybe we should wait for Palmer to get back.”

“Peter,” Jason replied, pointing to the dead cop. “These guys could kill Palmer, then come back and get us. You want to take that chance?”

They hopped over the body and headed in the opposite direction Palmer had run. Five seconds before hospital security arrived, they slipped into a utility room. Frantic yelling and screaming filled the corridor, mingling with running footsteps. Female voices hollered instructions. The overhead paging system called the trauma team to
Peter’s former room. A crash cart rumbled by, pushed by two nurses and an attending physician.

Jason grabbed a set of green scrubs off a rack, and they took the stairs as fast as Peter’s leg and Jason’s wound allowed. In minutes, they were squealing out of the parking lot before anyone could give chase.

Clay Broadhurst walked along the covered dais under the prow of the mighty ship. He stood at the podium in the exact spot where the presidents, Torpedo and his son Thunderbolt, would deliver their addresses in less than twenty-four hours. He surveyed the area, reviewing his mental checklist. Special guests would be seated facing the dais on two barges floating directly in front of the vessel, on the north side of the dry dock. The southern side held seating for the public. A short gangway led from the dais to the bottle-break stand against the gun-metal-gray steel of the ship’s bow. Katherine Hope Morris, the former president’s daughter and the ship’s sponsor, would break the bottle of sparkling American wine against the metal bar jutting from the bow. A likeness of Hope outlined in red, white, and blue was mounted above the spot that would be showered.