by C G Cooper
“I am so sorry about the club,” Mikayla said, looking horrified.
“You didn’t know,” Mac assured her. “I should have said something.”
“Did you say bridges?”
“Only when I’m driving. Your offer to drive saved me a longer trip to get off campus.”
“I’m glad I did something right.”
“You did everything right.”
The stars reflecting off the ice of the pool made it look like they were floating in space. Mac felt himself tilting. Mikayla leaned in, shut her eyes.
His phone rang. He fumbled it out of his pocket, trying to hit mute and preserve the moment. But the bulky gloves made him drop it in the snow. Mikayla put her hand to her face and laughed.
Mac checked the number, sighed. “I have to take this.”
She twirled a finger and started loosening her laces.
After walking a few feet away, he said, “What’s up?”
“Where are you right now?” said Lynn.
“On a date, in town.”
“That was fast work. Our friend is back.”
“Same friend as before?”
“We think so. He’s on the move. I was hoping you could get eyes on.”
“I’ll head back,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Thanks. Call my number when you get here. You won’t get me, but somebody’ll be on the line.”
“Understood.” He hung up and walked back to where Mikayla was slipping on her shoes. “Look, uh, sorry. I’ve got this paperwork thing. SNAFU with a couple of forms. I’ve got to get sign-off, take pictures. The way these things usually happen, it could take hours. Believe me when I say that I’m sorry to ask, but do you think I can get a rain check on what’s happening here?”
She stood up, brushing the snow from the blades of her skates. “Why, what’s happening?”
His face fell.
“Kidding!” she said. “Rain check granted. You need to head back to the ranch?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I am really, deeply sorry.”
“I understand,” she said. “When you cash that rain check, you’ll have to show me how deep.”
Chapter Nineteen
With a slight embellishment of the lie he’d told, Mac got Mikayla to drop him off in front of the Grant-Spencer Reception Building. After waving goodbye from the steps, he dialed Lynn’s number.
Kreisburg came on the line. “Boxer, are you on site? Never mind, I see you.”
“Taking comm in person tonight?”
“You’re the one who told me to trim the budget. Do me a favor and make it worth my while.”
“I’ll try. Where’s our guy?”
“He came out of the woods a few minutes ago. Tentpole’s on him.”
“Let me cover my exit, then I’ll be on the way.”
He ducked inside the reception building and stood in front of the swirling carpet. While he waited for the tail lights from Mikayla’s Kia to disappear over the bridge, he produced the phone from his jacket and stood studying it, as if someone had just sent him a perplexing text. Shrugging at the receptionist to indicate an unexpected change of plans, he walked back out into the cold.
“Down the steps, turn left,” said Kreisburg. “He’s moving fast.”
Mac followed his directions east along the sidewalk.
“There,” said Kreisburg after a hundred feet. “Cut uphill.”
Concrete steps led to a side entrance of the Reception annex. The electronic lock clicked as Mac reached the top.
“You’re welcome,” said Kreisburg.
Mac stepped into a dim hallway. Admissions was housed in the annex, together with the IT department and offices for a few grad students who couldn’t be accommodated elsewhere. Mac passed a number of closed doors as Kreisburg guided him to an emergency exit that let out south and west of St. Alban’s.
“Hold on,” said Kreisburg. “Okay, go.”
Mac pushed against the plate marked “Alarm Will Sound” and hurried to shut the door before the icy wind convinced him to head back inside.
“Sending you a link,” said Kreisburg. “This new friend of yours knows every blind spot in the old security set up, but Tentpole added a wrinkle or two.”
Mac’s phone buzzed. The text from Lynn’s number contained a link to a video feed. After the progress circle swirled a few times, Mac saw a wall of St. Alban’s through the skeletal limbs of a tree. The watcher was leaning against one of the granite blocks that formed a corner of the church’s wall. His back was turned and he was wearing his balaclava, but Mac knew him from size and posture. As he watched, the kid stood away from the wall, pulled off his gloves, breathed into cupped hands, and tugged the gloves back on, just as he had at the townhouse.
Kreisburg said in Mac’s ear, “He’s at the northwest corner, just above the main doors.”
Gliding over the glacé ice between charcoal etchings of trees, Mac approached the church. When he had closed half the distance, he stopped to check his feed. The watcher hadn’t moved. Distributing his weight so as not to smash through the crusted snow, Mac inched along to the south wall.
From here, he could see the corner that was parallel to the south wall occupied by the watcher. The snow was shallow and frozen solid, owing to the shelter of the building’s eaves. Scattered fragments of fallen icicles made it impossible to creep along without crunching and crackling, so he hunkered down against the sandstone and listened to Kreisburg breathing.
After a few minutes, the old man said, “What’s he waiting for?”
Mac said, “Where’s Tentpole?”
“She’s got eyes on from the edge of the woods.”
He meant the half-acre strip of evergreens that screened St. Alban’s from the less saintly goings-on of the dorms. That put Lynn further north and east, at a greater distance but on a clearer approach to the church.
“Can you patch her in?”
“Wait,” said Kreisburg. “Something’s happening.”
Like Kreisburg, the watcher had evidently lost patience. The feed showed his balaclava lit briefly by a phone’s pale glow. He removed his gloves and tapped out something on the touchscreen. A moment later he stuffed the phone into his pants pocket, leaned out to take a look, and rounded the corner.
“He’s mobile,” said Mac. “Patch her in, Diamond.”
“Yeah.”
A whisper came over the earpiece, “Wait.” It was Lynn. “Okay. Eyes-on.”
“What’s he doing?” said Mac.
“Nothing,” said Lynn. “Cooling his heels.”
“Why here?” said Mac. “Why now?”
“Not a clue.”
“Speculate,” said Kreisburg.
Lynn said, “My guess is he’s meeting somebody.”
“Inside or out?” said Mac.
“I’ve been here ten minutes,” said Lynn, by way of explaining that she didn’t know. “Diamond, any action indoors?”
“It’s too dark,” said Kreisburg. “Hold on. I’m cutting in a new feed.”
The image on Mac’s phone switched from a shot of the lonely wall to a high angle looking down on the shallow steps that led up to St Alban’s double doors. The watcher stood on the top step, fidgeting nervously. With a creak that could be heard from Mac’s place on the south wall, one of the doors opened just enough for the watcher to squeeze through.
Mac listened for the thud of the door before asking, “Who let him in?”
“I’ll run it back,” said Kreisburg.
Tentpole said, “I’m going in.”
“Me too,” said Mac.
“You armed, Boxer?” said Kreisburg.
“No.” He hadn’t taken his gun on the date with Mikayla.
“Then negative on the entry. Move up ‘til you’ve got eyes on the door then stay put. Tentpole, move up and wait for my signal. When I say go, I want recon only. Do not engage.”
Reluctantly, Mac stopped at the corner and watched as Lynn, still dressed as a campus sec
urity guard, took a position outside the church door. She unholstered her pistol.
“Plenty of cams inside,” said Kreisburg. “But no lenses.” The hidden cameras in the church weren’t equipped with night vision. “I couldn’t make out who helped our guy. Tentpole, you’re on a five count.”
Mac mouthed numbers silently. When he was between four and five, Kreisburg said, “Tentpole, you’re a go.”
Mac watched her try the door. She presumably had the key on her key ring but didn’t need it. The door creaked slowly open. Lynn disappeared. Without being told, Mac advanced to the foot of the stairs.
Time seemed to draw out. Blown snow spiraled skyward, refusing to fall. Every time Kreisburg cleared his throat, Mac tensed his muscles, prepared to run. When his phone vibrated, he was so surprised he almost dropped it.
“Sent you a new feed,” said Kreisburg, unaware of the minor heart attack he had caused.
Mac tapped the link. A new feed replaced the old, rotating through views of the inside of the church. The auditorium, vestry, a rec room with folded tables against one wall, two long hallways with doors on opposite sides, and a stairwell were displayed in turn. Only the stairwell was brightly lit. From the moonlight peeking through the windows, he could make out the faintest details of the other spaces, barely enough to know what he was looking at.
As the feed ran through its second cycle, Lynn exited a door in one of the hallways. She was holding a flashlight. Finding the next door locked, she paused and reached for her belt, presumably going for the keycard. The feed advanced, showing a dim view of the auditorium. As Mac twirled a finger, willing it to refocus on his partner, a shadow crossed a beam of moonlight filtering down through stained glass.
“You see that?” Mac said.
“Tentpole, hold position,” said Kreisburg. “Tentpole, acknowledge.” He paused, on edge. “Tentpole?”
Mac pocketed his phone and leapt the steps in a heated rush. As Kreisburg hollered at him to hold position, he flung open the door. It wasn’t a bullheaded mistake; he’d meant to surprise any lurker who might be waiting. But the shadow was moving away from the entrance.
Mac found himself alone in a broad vestry with checked tile floors and a moonlit baptismal font. A wall comprising six columns, three to either side of an arched opening, divided this space from the auditorium. Saints and gargoyles and a few variations of the Green Man guarded the columns. Mac swallowed as he passed through the archway under their sleepless gaze.
The auditorium was much as he had pictured it. A vaulted ceiling looked down on two sets of wooden pews, a broad central aisle between them and narrow aisles framing them. To the left of the stage that had replaced the altar was an arched portal, wider than the one through which Mac had entered. It had been toward this doorway that the motion he had observed was directed.
Glancing up at the camera, he sprinted between the pews. He had cleared the fourth-from-front row when he felt something hard strike his leg. His feet flew into the air. The ground swept up. He pushed it away just in time, turning the spill into a forward roll. Springing instantly to his feet, he turned to see the watcher fleeing up the aisle.
Mac started to give chase but was slowed by a shock of pain from his shin. He didn’t think the bone was broken, but he’d have a nasty bruise in the morning. He forced himself to run and was rewarded by a tackle from his left. The blow knocked him off his feet, ramming his ribs against a pew. One of his hearing aids clattered to the stone floor.
Scrambling back to his feet, he tried to elbow his attacker but had to dodge a blow to the head from a metal truncheon. He barely saw it in time, thanks to a glint of moonlight. Sidestepping a kick to the ribs, he caught his attacker’s leg below the knee. Before he could take advantage of the position, another swing of the truncheon forced him to cover his head with both fists. The steel bar struck with knuckle-numbing force. Mac’s hands opened involuntarily, as if the blow had driven the will from his nerves.
He could see well enough now to recognize his attacker. She wore the same motorcycle jacket he remembered from the morning’s pursuit. Like the watcher’s, her face was covered by a black balaclava. She aimed a kick to his leg and he jumped back, barely avoiding contact. The heel of her boot caught the pew beside him and lifted it off the floor. It crashed down, sending up a spume of dust.
Mac backed away, coughing, and took a moment to survey his situation. So far, the watcher didn’t seem to want to involve himself in the fight. Mac could see him lingering between the auditorium and the foyer. The woman swung her weapon. He dodged and charged at her with his shoulder down. Pivoting too late, she brought her up knee to absorb his blow.
The impact bowled her over, Mac still close. She rolled backwards and caught the boot he directed at her head. Rising, she tried to wrench his ankle. That was a mistake. As big as he was, he didn’t have to spend a lot of gym-time bulking up. Instead, he used it getting nimble. As she twisted, he jumped, using the trapped foot as an axle. The top of his other foot met the back of her head.
Gravity kept him from putting too much force into the kick, but it was enough to take her down. She put out her hands to catch herself, but Mac spun out of his fall in time to snag the back of her balaclava and crack her forehead against the stone. She grunted and thrust away with all her failing might, flopping backwards like an upended crab. Snatching up the baton, she swung wildly to back him off then climbed to her feet.
Tough lady, Mac thought.
A gloved hand caught her shoulder. She spun around, but the owner of the hand ducked her swing and relieved her of the truncheon with a twist of the wrist. Once she saw him, she bowed deferentially and stepped aside. The newest man was tall. He wore a black balaclava with what Mac could barely make out as a red ring stitched around the right eye. He didn’t look at the woman but nodded at Mac.
Mac checked that the watcher still hadn’t moved. Returning his gaze to the newcomer’s truncheon, Mac took a defensive stance, favoring the bruised leg only slightly.
The tall man advanced with astonishing speed, whipping the baton forward to bury it in Mac’s ribs. Pain doubled him over. The truncheon rang off his back like a giant tuning fork. Glimpsed dimly between blows, his assailant struck at body, legs, and hands, wearing him down from all angles. Mac felt like a bait fish being picked apart by snapper.
Fighting blind, he kicked out at the tall man, opening a small space between them, but only for a second. The metal bar feinted at his head then struck the middle of his chest. He dropped back, made a grab at the weapon, and got stinging fingers for his trouble. A blow to the back of his knees forced him into a crouch. The tall man stepped back.
“Hold him,” he said. His voice had an odd, metallic rasp.
Running footsteps from behind revealed that the watcher was hurrying to obey. Mac waited until he was close then lunged backwards, getting to his feet and reaching back to grapple the watcher in one motion. He spun, putting skull-face between himself and the truncheon. There was a thud of metal on flesh that drove the watcher’s breath out in one gasp.
Mac threw the watcher at the tall man, who jigged out of the way and returned to the attack. This time, Mac didn’t try to catch his blows. He charged forward, trying to absorb just enough punishment to get inside his opponent’s guard. It might have worked, if the woman hadn’t interfered.
Her boot cracked into Mac’s right hip, making him to stumble. The baton came down on his head. A glancing blow, but enough to bring stars. Mac was mad now and used his anger to lash out faster than either attacker could react. He caught the tall man by the throat and crooked his elbow around the back of the woman’s knee as she tried another kick. There was just enough light that he could see the tall man’s eyes go wide. He clamped down hard on the sinewy neck and willed himself to kick the woman’s leg out from under her.
Bang! A shot rang out.
Mac hunched over. He wasn’t hit, just shocked. In his moment of hesitation, the tall man brought the weapon down on his shou
lder. Mac lost his grip, even as the woman twisted away. Stepping back, Mac held up his hands. The watcher leveled the pistol he had just fired into the church ceiling.
Kreisburg was yelling at Mac through his remaining hearing aid. He’d been yelling for some time. Now that the peal of the gun had summoned a holy stillness, his voice sounded unbearably loud.
“You don’t want to kill me,” said Mac.
“That’s true,” said the tall man. “Take a seat.” He jabbed Mac hard in the solar plexus. The woman threw her full weight into a tackle. Breathless, Mac was driven sideways and back. His legs fetched up against the edge of a pew.
“Be smart,” said the tall man.
Mac glanced around, saw the watcher drawing a bead on his head. He sat down.
The tall man collapsed the baton and slipped it into his belt. From behind his waist, he produced his own pistol. The watcher took a new position beside the woman. On a signal from the tall man, they grappled an arm each, anchoring Mac with the full weight of their bodies.
“Don’t struggle,” said the tall man. He unzipped his jacket. Steadily, he withdrew a metal case a bit longer and slimmer than one that might have been used to hold a pair of glasses. Without looking away from Mac, he opened it. Inside was a hypodermic syringe. The needle was long and menacing, the glass pre-filled with some dark liquid.
Mac surged out of his seat, dragging his captors over the back of the pew.
“Don’t,” said the tall man. He lashed out with the pistol, clocking Mac in the jaw.
Mac thudded back into the seat. He blacked out for a split-second, in the middle of Kreisburg saying, “What the f—” and “—penning?” In that time, the woman opened Mac’s jacket and the tall man stabbed the needle into his chest. Mac shook the woman and the watcher off with the strength of desperation, but it was too late. The tall man jammed the plunger home and jerked away the hypodermic before Mac could stand.
All three attackers stepped away as Mac thrashed at them with fists and elbows. He tried to follow the tall man into the aisle, only to be halted by a creeping deadness spreading outward from his chest. He looked down at the place the needle had pierced his shirt. It was too dark to see the puncture. The draining strength was all that told him it was there.