by Robert Pobi
“Whitaker!” Lucas yelled.
And over the ringing in his ears from the punch of her six shots, he heard her shoes scrape on the asphalt and knew she was turning.
All he could do was stare at Frosst. He was on the pavement now. Raising the big snout of the ugly weapon.
And then Whitaker’s gun punched in the dark—another three-round burst.
The fabric on Frosst’s suit erupted and he slammed back into the truck’s front fender.
From somewhere off to his left, Whitaker said, “Page? You okay?”
He wanted to answer. Wanted to speak. Wanted to say something to let her know that he was fine. But all he could do was watch Frosst stand back up and raise the rifle.
Somewhere behind them cars slammed on brakes. Skidded to a stop. Honked.
He found the strength to turn to her. Their eyes met. “Whitaker!” he yelled. And she understood. And began a turn. Started to raise her pistol.
But Frosst had her.
The first round hit her in the neck, vapor-trailing a black mist out behind her.
The pistol flew from her fingers, clattering away somewhere in the dark.
Whitaker’s hand went up to her throat.
The second shot hit her in the chest, punching through her body and zipping off into the dark. There was an instant of hang time where she stood there with a surprised look on her face. She tried to say something, but all that came out was a big black bubble of blood that popped down her chin.
And then the puppet master cut her strings, and she collapsed.
Lucas reached out and shots punched through the windshield as Frosst opened fire on him.
60
26 Federal Plaza
Kehoe was in his office with the door closed, and he felt like an insect in a terrarium—only less relevant, which was not his natural set point. Beyond the glass, the hive operated at full capacity, workers and drones and soldiers moving with the preprogrammed tasks of their caste. Calls were being fielded; data collected, analyzed, and collated; tips were being vetted; leads followed; suspects questioned. And yet here they were, with four more bombings to deal with.
He had reached the point where, for the first time in his career, he understood how some of his predecessors had been desperate enough to try mediums, paranormal investigators, and all manner of quackery. After all, desperation was the breeding ground for foolishness. But Kehoe was an educated man and knew that what he needed wouldn’t be found in carnival confidence scams; he needed his people to do what they had been designed to—their jobs.
Like anyone in life whose vocation involves solving an endless string of riddles, Kehoe was hardwired to believe that solutions were, in some way, always achievable. But Page insisted that the only certainty to a problem was an outcome, which did not necessarily equate to a solution. Kehoe believed that there was an acceptable reality at the end of all this—and it involved finding the person or people responsible. Page believed that was magical thinking, and that Kehoe was limited in his outlook. Page said that one way or another the bombings would stop, but it might take old age or a meteor to put the problem to rest—an outcome, not a solution.
Which, at this particular place in time, was just too much abstract masturbation for Kehoe to take. He needed to believe that they would stop this joker. He had to, because his entire life had been built around that specific directive. Or solution. Or outcome. Or whatever Page chose to call it.
Kehoe needed Page in here because he needed to shake up the cage. And if there was one thing that rude son of a bitch could be counted on for, it was a little disruptive motivation. And that antisocial prick knew how to think. It came across as navel gazing, but it produced, which was all that mattered.
Page hadn’t said anything, but Kehoe could see that machinery in his head moving pieces into place, and he wanted access to the printouts. Page wasn’t a man prone to sharing until he had all the answers, but right now Kehoe needed anything that would give his people a direction, even if it was the wrong direction. Because what they had pulled in so far wasn’t working. One thing his tenure at the bureau had taught him was that barring action, movement was the best option. It often took you in the wrong direction, but like Albee said, sometimes it was necessary to go a very long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly.
Kehoe picked up the phone and dialed Whitaker’s cell; he wanted to know what their ETA was.
When it went to voice mail, he hung up.
Then he dialed Page’s number.
And got the same result.
61
Palisades Parkway
Whitaker was on the pavement, staring up at the sky, a hand clamped around her throat. Blood was pissing out everywhere and the pavement beneath her was black.
She looked over at Lucas. Tried to say something. But all that came out was a god-awful fucking noise that sounded like a child’s made-up language in which the words were horrid shrieks.
He reached for her.
Black hydraulic fluid pissed from her neck. She was crying. And making that noise.
More rounds hammered into the SUV.
Lucas ducked. Covered his head. Screamed.
Whitaker was stretching, reaching for her gun. Trying so hard.
Frosst fired.
The round hit her in the foot and she howled again. Flopped around like a hammered fish that didn’t know it was dead.
Some part of Lucas yelled for him to hit the gas.
He stretched over the transmission hump with his leg.
Rounds zipped into the four-by-four. Drilled through the windshield. Popcorned him with glass. The seat beside him barfed white foam. All he could hear was the world coming apart at the seams.
More shots hit the car. An endless Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! of metal-eating insects.
He pulled the shift knob and pounded down on the gas. The engine went dinosaur and the Lincoln lurched forward.
Heading for the truck.
Lucas kept the gas to the floor.
To call what he did driving would be an injustice; it was the desperate act of a dead man.
Glass peppered his face. He kept his foot welded to the floor.
Peeked up over the dash.
All he saw was Frosst zeroed in the Lincoln’s hood ornament.
There was impact.
And then the space filled with the sound of the two vehicles becoming one.
The universe cracked open and Lucas hit the windshield.
The oxygen around him was swallowed by the center of the sun. The heat ate his skin and his lungs filled with fire.
He tried to scream one final time, but it was taken away by the explosion.
Everything disappeared.
And then even the nothing was gone.
62
26 Federal Plaza
Kehoe was standing beside his desk with the phone in his hand when Hoffner came in without knocking.
“You better have news,” he warned.
Hoffner paused, an action that did, indeed, have news all over it—the bad kind. “We just got a call from the Palisades Interstate Parkway PD—something happened, sir. Special Agent Whitaker and Dr. Page were in an accident. There was a shootout of some sort. It looks like they were ambushed. Palisades PD isn’t sure yet because the vehicles are all still burning and they haven’t been able to recover all the bodies.”
“Page and Whitaker—what’s their status?’
“I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone. The initial reports are that there are no survivors.”
And for the second time that day—which meant the second time in his entire career—Brett Kehoe lost his temper.
This time it was the telephone that did not survive.
63
The Upper East Side
They were done with supper. She had been playing catch-up with work since fleeing to the beach house, so tonight she opted for the easy money and they ordered Indian. Most of the kids weren’t picky eat
ers—which was a major stroke of luck—and they generally enjoyed anything put in front of them. At least most of the time. Hector was the lone exception and would rarely step out of chicken strips or macaroni and cheese territory. But he tolerated anything in batter, so they had managed.
The children were doing homework and backpacks were spilled out onto the floor of the den.
Alisha, who was still a few years from school age, always felt left out after supper, so Luke had come up with activity time for her. But that loose directive certainly had not been meant to include rearranging his library, and Erin was impressed at how well he had taken it. He wasn’t good with surprises, and he certainly wasn’t good with disorder with his work, but there had been no disguising the pleasure he had derived in seeing what the girls had done. He hadn’t grilled Alisha like she knew he wanted to, which meant that he was making an effort.
But tonight it was back to crafts for Alisha. Sometimes it was coloring (which often ended with crayon wax in her teeth); sometimes it was craft time (she could paint a pinecone like nobody’s business); and sometimes it was just sit with Lemmy and scratch his belly. Tonight it seemed like the last, and that was fine with the dog. For some reason he put up with things from the children that no other beast would. Not that they were ever cruel to him—the kids loved and respected Lemmy—but he had been lipsticked more times than Erin could count. His toenails had even been painted a couple of times. But the big goof didn’t seem to mind. And he was very protective of the children, sometimes to the point of wonder.
Damien had hauled his guitar and amp down from the bedroom and wanted to show off the new song he had learned. Luke had bought him the guitar for his birthday, and the kid was taking lessons and practicing seriously. Damien enjoyed the instrument, and since neither Luke nor Erin were right-brain people, they did their best to foster artistic aspirations in the kids—it helped them step out of their own expectations.
Damien looked the part in ripped jeans and a Beastie Boys T-shirt. He plugged his guitar into the little Fender Champ, flipped the rocker switch, and waited a few seconds for the amp to warm up. After the prerequisite not enough time, he gave it a big open E, fiddled with the tuners until the chord stopped warbling, then turned to the five-person-plus-a-dog crowd. Everyone was seated in a semicircle, committed to the viewing experience; one of the benefits of five kids was that they had a built-in audience.
Damien pulled out the grin he reserved for Diet Coke and Mentos explosions, then went into a heartfelt rendition of “American Idiot,” singing included. Lemmy sat up and began howling with the song, totally off-key. Alisha joined in. Then the other kids. And by the end of the song, Erin worried that they would start breaking furniture.
Damien finished, said, “Thank you, New York!” and took a bow.
Everyone clapped. Maude and Erin added a few whistles. And Lemmy went over and licked him.
“That was cool!” Hector looked honestly impressed. Which was the appropriate reaction toward a kid who hadn’t touched a guitar before three months ago.
Erin put a hand on Damien’s shoulder. “That was great, kiddo. Even without more cowbell.”
“Why would I need more cowbell?” Damien looked up at her, unsmiling. “Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m getting old.”
“No crap. Especially if you can’t tell the difference between a guitar and a cowbell.”
All the kids stopped in their tracks as the walls of the room lit up with flashing blue and red.
Erin froze in place.
The kids instinctively ran for the front window.
“It’s two cars of FBI guys,” Maude said. She turned back, and her eyes locked on Erin. “Luke isn’t with them.”
Erin told the kids to wait in the study as she went to the front door.
They heard the door open.
They heard men’s voices ask a question.
They heard her respond.
They heard one of the male voices say something else.
And then they heard Erin begin to sob.
64
Columbia University Medical Center Fort Lee, New Jersey
Kehoe hated these talks, almost more than the events that forced him to have them. Loved ones were never very understanding about sacrifice and duty and loss. They couldn’t afford to be because it forced them to accept that the people they loved felt it necessary to serve a different cause. If there was one supreme bit of knowledge he had gleaned from all of his years doing this, it was that most people couldn’t handle the truth—especially about their own lives.
The two agents with him stood as far behind him as the space allowed—which was more than most elevators in that this one was designed for the horizontal as opposed to vertical passengers. It was painted a horrid robin’s-egg blue.
Kehoe thought about what he would say. How he would say it. And how he would respond to the things that would most likely be said to him in return. It was a game of probabilities, and over the years he had developed a pretty keen sense of how things would go.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open, exposing a long hallway with windows down one side. But even with the natural light, it reminded him of a 1970s Soviet airport.
Kehoe wasn’t sure if the two agents with him were consciously walking in step with him or if it was an unconscious action, but he changed his pace. And so did they. It was a known phenomenon called spontaneous synchronization, and Kehoe always found it unsettling.
He had never been to this particular hospital before—it was nowhere near his regular routine—so he followed the directions he had been given at the front desk, taking the blue line to the orange line, where he turned left, to the yellow line that took him to the hallway he wanted. He entered the doors at the end.
In keeping with the Soviet airport vibe, no one was at the desk. Kehoe played a quick game of Let’s Make a Deal with the three anterooms, and walked through the first door to his left, where he almost tripped over Erin Page.
She was sitting on a bench, head back, eyes straight ahead. She wore jeans and a white cotton shirt—home clothes, not surgeon’s clothes. She was staring through the window in the wall in front of her.
Kehoe knew what she was staring at but didn’t look over. He needed to appear like he was here for her, not himself. “Hello, Erin.”
She didn’t seem surprised by his voice and she didn’t look up. Or shift focus. Or say anything. She just kept staring at what was happening beyond the window.
Kehoe turned and looked at the two agents with him, and without being told, they left to take up position out in the hallway. He sat down beside her.
From this vantage point, it was impossible to ignore the activity on the other side of the glass. Page was laid out on a table, covered in a thin cotton sheet spotted with blood. He was missing an arm and leg, as if Frankenstein’s monster was not quite yet assembled. He was bruised, and banged up, but he was alive. Which was the only thing that mattered at this juncture in time.
“How are you?” Kehoe said quietly. With someone like Erin he’d have to go in easy; otherwise there would be screaming.
Erin didn’t say anything.
Kehoe went with “I’m sorry about this.”
He paused, expecting her to say Me too, but she continued ignoring him.
Kehoe swallowed and said, “Is there anything I can do?” He expected a reaction at that one and was hoping for an angry Fuck off! because it would at least give him some stage direction.
But Erin kept ignoring him, which was a sensation he was unused to.
He wanted to ask her if he should go in for her. If he needed to talk to anyone. If everyone was being helpful. If there was anything he could do for Lucas. But none of those things seemed to be the right approach.
The technician on the other side of the glass pulled the camera down and placed it over Lucas’s face, which made Kehoe focus on the obvious. This was his fault; if he hadn’t come knocking at their door last winter, they wouldn�
�t be here.
The technician grabbed Lucas’s jaw with a gloved hand and turned his face to the left. He took a few photographs, then moved Lucas’s head to the right, snapping a few more. Lucas remained inanimate during the process, as if his batteries had been disconnected. Kehoe wondered if he was heavily sedated, past giving a shit, or just beat up.
Kehoe looked away. “Erin, I need to talk to you about some things.”
But she just kept watching the tech, her arms crossed, her eyes somewhere far away.
The best thing for him to do would be to leave. But he had a responsibility to Lucas to keep Erin and the kids safe, and that wouldn’t happen if he left. Erin had enough on her plate and Lucas was in no shape to help anyone. “I understand you are angry. But you need to listen to what I am going to say. The people who did this might not be finished yet.”
Erin didn’t say anything, but the vein on her neck pulsed beneath the freckled skin and the muscles in her jaw flexed.
Kehoe continued. “I want you and the kids to go away. Just until we sew this up. And before you tell me that you can go out to the beach house, you know that it’s not hard to find you out there. I can send some agents home with you. Pack up the kids and they’ll take you to the airport. We’ll put you on a bureau jet and take you somewhere safe. You can pick the place. But it can’t be anywhere near friends or family or someplace you’ve been before. My people in the witness protection arm will handle the flight manifests and accommodations. It won’t be for long, I promise.”
Erin didn’t even twitch, and it was impossible to miss what had attracted Lucas to her—this woman was forged out of very rare elements.
Kehoe had one last move, and he decided that it was worth the play. “Your being here isn’t going to help him. You have to think of the children. About keeping them safe.”
At that, Erin turned her head. She looked up at him. Then slapped him across the face.
Behind the window, the technician put the camera aside and disappeared through a door. A moment later he was standing in front of Kehoe, just a little too close. “Dr. Page, is everything all right? I can call security.” He was a big man with a mustache stained yellow from extracurricular smoking. His name tag said Willeford.