Wet Work: The Definitive Edition

by Philip Nutman

  The countryside. Yes, that was where she should be, not the city. Where they both should be.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Liz’s number. It was the first opportunity he’d had to call Sandy since last night.

  Yes, she should get the hell out of New York and head for Maryland to her brother’s farm. Which was probably easier said than done with the curfew in force.

  The receiver at the other end rang and rang.

  By the fifteenth ring he began to worry.

  BROOKLYN.

  9:23 P.M.

  Sandy sat on the bedroom floor and stared at the bedroom wall.

  The rococo patterns in the pale blue wallpaper faded in and out of focus as images swirled, blurred, faded, coalesced. It was soothing. When she looked at anything else, she saw the faces of the people she’d seen shot in the street. So she kept looking at the wallpaper, trying not to think.

  Somewhere a telephone was ringing.

  The phone is ringing.

  Her eyes flicked away from the wallpaper to Jared sleeping on the bed. Poor kid, he was scared senseless and—

  The phone’s ringing!

  Sandy snapped out of her benumbed state, pushed herself up from the floor and made for the barricaded door.

  “Damn.”

  She pushed against the dresser, but it hardly budged. It had taken her nearly five minutes to maneuver it into place, and her back muscles still aching from the weight.

  “Move, you bastard.”

  The dresser shifted an inch.

  The phone continued to ring as she paused again, breaking a nail on her left hand.

  Another inch.

  Nick. It had to be Nick. Please let it be Nick!

  “Move!’

  The dresser shifted another inch.

  And the phone cut off in mid-ring.

  “Dammit!”

  She sagged against the wall, close to tears.

  Why hadn’t she brought the phone up from downstairs? She’d been in shock—was still in shock, goddamn it! —and hadn’t thought things through.

  The call had to be Nick responding to the message she’d left earlier. She sniffed back her tears. She would get the phone.

  Sandy pushed against the dresser. It inched over slightly.

  She pushed again, starting to sweat.

  BROOKLYN.

  9:25 P.M.

  Dick Austin gazed out the window at the full moon shining in the night sky. It looked beautiful, but cold. As cold as Ruthie and little Michael’s bodies lying in the next room.

  It was over. His life had disappeared into someone else’s nightmare.

  The dead were walking, and his family were dead.

  Would they, too, get up and walk?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know about anything anymore. It was all just an endless nightmare.

  There was no point in going on. New York had stolen his dreams. And now his wife and son were gone because of some weird illness.

  Michael was the first to die. Poor kid had come down with measles over the weekend, and Ruthie already had a cold.

  How could you die from measles and a cold? Didn’t make sense. You couldn’t die from a cold, unless you had AIDS and the cold turned to pneumonia.

  Dick looked at the moon, unconsciously humming a song—”Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday”—to himself.

  Suicide. There was no point living anymore. He’d kill himself; yes, that seemed the only sensible thing left to do.

  If Ruthie and Michael came back, then maybe he’d come back, too, and they could all be happy and dead together. And if he didn’t revive and they did…Well, never mind. He wouldn’t know, he’d just be worm food.

  He picked up the straight razor from the kitchen table and went to unlock the door to the yard. If he was going to end it, he might as well do it sitting on the grass under the beautiful, emotionless moon. At least he’d see something untainted by death while his life leaked out onto the grass.

  He sat down, crossing his legs. In the distance he could hear sirens. At least they weren’t right outside the house like they’d been for most of the evening. The gunfire and explosions had died, too. Not that he really cared. He hadn’t even watched much of the riot from his grandstand seat at the front of the house. It didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered.

  Except running the blade over his wrists.

  Dick held the razor over the veins in his left arm.

  Then a scream tore out from the house next door.

  He didn’t care, he just wanted to die.

  A woman’s scream—long and loud.

  No! There was too much death.

  Dick hurled himself upright and ran for the fence.

  BROOKLYN.

  9:28 P.M.

  Sandy screamed again as the unshaven man slammed her against the wall.

  “Shut up bitch!” he bellowed as he backhanded her.

  The force of the blow knocked her to the ground. Light exploded behind her eyes as her head hit the corner of the refrigerator. The man dived on her, tearing at her clothes.

  Her right hand clawed his face. He screamed as one of her fingernails ripped his lower eyelid, partially blinding him.

  He punched her stomach, winding her.

  “My eye!”

  His fist glanced off the side of her head as she tried to roll away from his blows. Another punch caught her on the back of the neck.

  As she twisted across the floor she saw a second man appear behind her attacker. Her assailant sensed rather than saw the new invader. But before he could react, he froze as he looked like he was about to throw a punch at the intruder.

  A gargling sound suddenly erupted from her attacker’s throat. Warm liquid splashed her face. Sandy blinked the blood out of her eyes as the second man slashed at her attacker, the kitchen light glinting off the blade in his hand.

  Dick. His name’s Dick, flickered through her mind before blackness claimed her.

  ALEXANDRIA.

  9:30 P.M.

  Nick packed the last of his clean clothes in the suitcase. He paused as he caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror.

  The Nick that stared back at him looked older than his twenty-five years. Hardened, bitter. He was starting to look like his father. The thought disgusted him.

  Was the old man alive or dead? He didn’t care. Nick hadn’t spoken to his father in over six months. Will Packard never called his son, and Nick made no attempt to contact his father. They had nothing to say to each other. But he hoped the old man died a lonely death. It was what he deserved for the years of suffering the bastard had put his wife through.

  Nick looked away, zipped the case and went downstairs.

  He’d try Sandy one more time from the house, and then call again from the Precinct. But the fact she hadn’t picked up didn’t bode well.

  Let her be safe, he thought. Please, God.

  He dialed.

  On the second ring, the receiver was picked up.

  Answered by a man’s voice he didn’t recognize.

  BROOKLYN.

  9:30 P.M.

  The phone rang and Dick nearly hit the roof.

  He was trembling with fear and adrenaline as he stared down at the body of the man he’d killed.

  I killed him.

  The words flashed in blood-red neon.

  Blood.

  God, it was everywhere.

  He dropped the open razor and looked at the woman lying unconscious at his feet.

  Which was when the phone rang.

  He picked up without thinking.

  “Hello?”

  Dick heard someone at the other end breathing heavily.

  “Hello?” he asked again, looking down at the dead man.

  I killed him.

  “Who’s this? Roger?”

  “No, this is Dick.”

  “Who the hell’re you?” the voice demanded. “Where’s Sandy?!”

  “Huh?”

  “What number’s this?”

  The wom
an on the floor gave a strangled cough and moved.

  “What?” Dick replied. “Number? I don’t know. I don’t live here.”

  “Where’s Sandy?!” the voice at the other end bellowed.

  “Is she blonde?” he asked, looking at the woman, whose eyelids were fluttering.

  “Yes. Where is she?!”

  “Here.” Dick paused. “I think she’s been hurt.”

  The voice at the other end breathed deeply.

  “I heard a scream. I…I climbed the fence. I—there was a man. I killed him.” He spat the last three words out. “Who is this?”

  “My name’s Nick Packard. I’m Sandy’s husband—is she okay?!”

  “Don’t shout,” Dick replied. He was starting to feel light-headed. “I think so.”

  “What happened? Tell me, please. Is she okay?”

  “Yes,” he said, not sure, and repeated what had happened.

  Sandy’s eyes opened.

  “Nick?” she whispered.

  Her head hurt.

  The voice on the phone—Nick—said something else, but Dick wasn’t listening. He watched the woman as she tried to sit up and noticed for the first time how attractive she was. Blonde. Like Ruthie.

  “Look, hold on,” he said, putting the receiver down, bending towards her.

  “You okay?” He reached out a reassuring hand. She flinched and he withdrew.

  “Nick’s on the phone.”

  Sandy swayed as she tried to get to her feet.

  Dick went back to the phone. “I think she’s okay. Here.”

  The woman—Sandy; her name was Sandy—was staring at the body.

  “The phone.” Dick said softly. “It’s your husband.”

  He took her hand. This time she didn’t flinch. She swayed. He pulled a chair around from the kitchen table for her to sit on and gave her the phone.

  WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX.

  9:57 P.M.

  The face in the mirror was his, but the Dominic Corvino reflected there was alien to him. He reached out, touching the mirror for reassurance. Dried blood covered his throat, his clothes. His mind was sluggish, as if he’d been drugged.

  Why was he coated with blood?

  Whose blood?

  What had happened?

  The last thing he could remember was a phone call awakening him. Something about driving towards the airport. Corvino slammed his hand down on the sink. Why couldn’t he remember?

  The sound of the man’s neck snapping cracked loudly in the stairwell.

  He’d killed two men.

  But was it before or after he’d driven to the airport?

  A familiar voice called his name, a gun exploded.

  “What’s happening to me?” he whispered.

  Exhaustion clung to his body like wet clothes. His back was stiff, his joints ached, and his chest was sore. He placed a hand on his forehead. It was cold.

  “You’re dead,” a voice echoed inside his head—his voice.

  “No.”

  You’re dead. Someone shot you. And now you’re alive again. Something is terribly wrong.

  He pulled open the bloody shirt to examine the bullet hole directly over his heart.

  The Corvino in the mirror creased his brow, frowning as he probed the wound.

  “I’m dead,” he said to his reflection.

  “Dead but alive…and this…this is insane!” he bellowed, punching the mirror. His reflection fragmented, cracks spreading out from his fist. Slivers of glass dropped into the sink, smashing in the bowl. He raised the fist towards his face. His knuckles were cut. Corvino licked his hand. The blood tasted good.

  He wandered into the bedroom.

  It was insane. Nothing made sense. Reality was melting like one of Dali’s soft watches.

  Two men had tried to kill him.

  Someone else had succeeded. He was dead, dreaming, hallucinating. He had to be hallucinating. Someone had drugged him: that had to be the answer.

  Corvino sat on the futon. Whatever was going on, he needed help. And there was only one person he trusted—Ryan.

  Picking up the phone, he dialed Del Valle’s number.

  A recorded voice clicked in seconds later.

  “We are sorry. All lines are busy. Please hang up and try your call again later.”

  He pressed redial.

  “We are sorry—”

  Corvino hung up, unconsciously sucking his bleeding knuckles.

  He tried again. This time the line connected at Del Valle’s house in Belvedere, Virginia. The phone rang. And rang.

  What was he going to say? “It’s Dominic. I’m dead and need help. I don’t know what a dead man’s supposed to do.” He laughed nervously. The phone continued to ring. Yes, that’s right, Ryan, I said I’m dead. Yes, dead as in shot. In fact, I have a nice chest wound and I feel as cold as ice and I’m confused as hell and why don’t you answer your goddamn phone?!

  The receiver at the other end rang for the twenty-seventh time, and he hung up.

  Maybe he was at the Farm, as HQ was referred to. He picked up the handset, pressing the autodial number for Langley.

  “We are sorry. All lines are busy. Please—”

  “Hang up and try your call again. Thank you,” he muttered irritated.

  Sitting in his apartment wasn’t going to solve anything. He needed answers, and the only place to find them would be the Farm. Should he wait until dawn? No, he needed answers now.

  He went to the window and gazed out across the Potomac. Houses were burning in Colonial Village, the residential area next to Arlington Cemetery. Sirens screamed faintly in the distance. Plumes of flame licked the black horizon. It wasn’t just he who was mad—the world was going crazy for no apparent reason. But he’d find out why. There was always a method to the madness.

  Corvino opened the wardrobe, selecting a Kevlar vest and a black combat uniform from the row of military garb hanging neatly alongside his karate gis. He stripped down to his undershorts, stroking his fingers almost lovingly over the chest wound. It was sensual in its fatal beauty. If he’d worn the bullet-proof vest he wouldn’t be dead. He traced the circumference of the hole. A good shot. Directly through the heart. If he’d been the one pulling the trigger, he would have gone for a head shot. But then he wouldn’t be standing here now. C’est la vie.

  He dressed quickly, then removed a box of ammunition from the cupboard. Six clips for the 9mm Browning, six clips for the .45 auto he kept as a backup. A Navy SEAL knife. He slipped the latter into his boot sheath.

  He was ready. It was time to seek answers.

  He paused in the living room to glance fondly at the photograph of Billie Holiday. He’d never see it again, or hear her voice, he felt certain. He touched a finger to his lips, then placed it on the glass over hers.

  “Goodbye.”

  Corvino left his apartment for the last time.

  THE FARM (CIA HQ).

  THURSDAY, JUNE 1.

  11:58 P.M.

  Ryan Del Valle leaned up on the makeshift bed in his office and sipped a glass of water. His throat burned and his glands were swollen. His temperature was climbing, and he knew he was going to die. He had the plague. What started as a slight cold had mutated into something deadly. Within twelve hours he’d be dead. Only unlike the others, he had no intention of coming back. There was no guarantee he would, but there was a chance and he refused to face that final indignity.

  Jeannie had died that morning, and the disposal crew had taken her away to be buried in a mass grave. There was no time for tears or sad goodbyes anymore. God, what a mess. In the space of under a week, civilization had come apart at the seams.

  He reached for the gun lying next to the glass and picked it up. Its weight reassured him. Best get it over with.

  He hesitated. Although he was now agnostic, he’d been raised a Catholic, and the lessons learned in childhood clung to him. Suicide was a cardinal sin. If he took his own life, would he damn his soul?

  Damned if you do; d
amned if you don’t.

  Do it, he urged himself. Get it over now, while you still have the strength.

  He tried to ease himself up into a sitting position. His arm trembled. He ached all over, and he could feel his strength deserting him.

  The door to the office suddenly swung inwards, revealing empty corridor.

  “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely.

  Hershman stepped into view, a dark grin on his face.

  “Suicide, Ryan?” Hershman said, continuing to smile as he walked into the room. “It doesn’t surprise me. You’ve always been weak. But if you do it, you’ll never know what you missed.”

  Del Valle turned to see Skolomowski standing in the doorway. The Pole grinned.

  “It feels good,” he said. “Better.”

  Del Valle hadn’t seen Hershman in over twenty-four hours. He’d assumed the executive officer was dead. No one knew for sure, but then no one cared. It was all falling apart so quickly you couldn’t keep track.

  “It is good,” Hershman agreed. “Invigorating. Difficult at first. But once you get used to it, it feels wonderful.”

  He sat on the desk. Skolomowski remained in the doorway.

  “You’ll never know.”

  Skolomowski produced a large gun with his right hand from inside his combat jacket.

  Del Valle said nothing.

  The Pole looked at Hershman and laughed.

  He shot Del Valle in the kneecap.

  Del Valle screamed.

  Skolomowski fired again. Twice. The bullets slammed Del Valle’s body against the wall as they entered his chest.

  The Pole closed the door, and stepped inside, licking his lips.

  They ate in peace.