The Holdouts (Buddy Lock Thrillers Book 2)

by James Tucker

  Nobody stepped into the foyer.

  “Hello?” came the voice.

  It was Schmidt, their doorman.

  Buddy stuck the Glock into the holster and stepped out where Schmidt could see him.

  The doorman stood in the elevator. He was of medium height, stout, with dark hair partly covered by bandages, and blue eyes. In his dark uniform, he looked impressive, even formidable. In both hands he held a large pizza box.

  “Hey, Schmidt,” Buddy said. “Thanks for bringing it up.”

  Schmidt handed him the pizza box. “You’re welcome, Mr. Lock. Have a good evening.”

  As Schmidt backed into the elevator, Buddy lifted the box and read the computer-printed label on the front of the box. It stated his name, the order of a large pepperoni pizza, the time he placed the order, and, in handwriting, the time of delivery to Schmidt downstairs. The order was correct. He again thanked Schmidt, set the elevator lock when the door had closed, and returned with the box to the kitchen. Mei was waiting with Ward, neither of them talking.

  After setting it on the counter, he walked along the hallway to the bedrooms. He came to the doorway on the right leading to Ben’s room. As he expected, Ben was sitting at the desk that had been Mei’s. His headphones plugged into a MacBook Air, he was typing rapidly. Buddy walked two paces into the room. He saw that instead of the expected text or email, Ben had begun typing a response to his assignment’s question about Mesopotamia and the Fertile Crescent. He hated to tear Ben away from his homework and from his new home, but he had no choice. He said, “Ben?”

  The boy continued typing.

  More loudly: “Ben?”

  The typing ceased. Ben turned slightly and pulled off his headphones. He said, “Hi.”

  “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  “How’d it go with the judge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did she ask you?”

  “Where I wanted to live.”

  “Yeah, we knew she’d ask that, didn’t we?”

  Ben said, “I told her.”

  “Good.”

  “I told her I hate my aunt and uncle, that they’re horrible, and I hate them.”

  Buddy touched his shoulder. “You told the truth. That’s all you could do.”

  Ben’s light-brown eyes, glimmering with worry, looked up at him. “So can I stay here with you and Mei?”

  “I hope so.”

  Ben sat quietly for a moment.

  Buddy said, “Would you come out to the kitchen? We’re talking about you and Mei going to stay out of the city for a little while.”

  Ben didn’t move. He said, “Out of the city?”

  Buddy hesitated. “Mei can tell you.”

  “But why do we need to leave?”

  Buddy jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s talk it over with Mei. The pizza’s here.”

  In the kitchen, Buddy and Ben sat on one side of the counter while Ward and Mei stood on the other. Mei had taken out four white plates and put two slices on each one.

  Mei looked at Ben and said, “You and I are going on a little vacation, just for a while.”

  Ben put his arms across his chest. “Why?”

  “Buddy’s working a case. We can stay in the country until he’s finished.”

  “But why?”

  Mei said, “The case involves some very bad people, and we want to stay away from them. Okay?”

  Ben looked at Buddy and asked, “Is it because of my aunt and uncle? Or because of something I told Judge Miles?”

  “No,” they replied in unison.

  “No,” Buddy repeated. “This is about something else—a case I’m working that relates to a couple of people out on Long Island. Nothing to do with your family, okay?”

  Ben seemed uncertain.

  Buddy said, “This is just my job. Sometimes I have to deal with bad people, and I don’t want them to know about you or find you. Let me put the bad guys in prison, and then you can come back, all right?”

  “Okay,” Ben said softly, relaxing his arms.

  Buddy nodded at him. Ben had been in danger before, and Buddy knew he wanted his life to be calm and normal, even boring. He said, “Good. It’s settled.”

  “Plus,” Ben continued, “I can attend school on the web.”

  Buddy was confused. “The web?”

  Ben’s eyes shone with excitement. “I can connect to my classes, Buddy. They’re all on camera because so many kids are gone with their parents.”

  With Ward’s help, Ben had recently gained admittance to Vista School, at Tenth Avenue and West Twenty-Eighth Street in Chelsea. Tuition for Ben was $45,000 per year, and the parents of his classmates were movie stars, hedge fund managers, and other wealthy people who had second or third or fourth homes and used all of them. Buddy knew the school accepted its students’ absences and realized that Vista must have begun doing live broadcasts of classes—or even taped classes—for students out of town.

  Mei said, “Yes, you can attend remotely. So pack your laptop and everything else you’ll need.”

  Ben turned to her. “When are we leaving?”

  Mei glanced at Buddy.

  Buddy said, “Fifteen minutes.”

  As Ben began walking, favoring his left leg, toward the hallway and his bedroom, Ward said, “Hang on, Ben.”

  Ben stopped and turned as Ward went over to his camel hair overcoat draped over a barstool. He fished in the pocket and withdrew a small square box of the most perfect white.

  Ben’s eyes brightened. “For me?”

  Ward offered him the box. “For you.”

  Buddy said, “What is it?”

  Ben turned to him. “It’s an Apple Watch. A new one, with cellular.”

  “You already have a phone,” Buddy said.

  Ward nodded. “This watch has cellular. Even if he forgets his phone, he has the watch. He can text and make calls. Just in case.”

  Buddy thought the gift was unnecessary since he’d never seen Ben without his phone. Yet he appreciated Ward’s generosity. He said, “Thanks, Ward.”

  Ben smiled. “Yeah, Mr. Mills. Thank you!”

  Buddy noticed there wasn’t any plastic wrap over the box. A hand-me-down from Ward? he wondered. That seemed unlike his brother. But maybe Ward had discarded it in favor of the enormous satellite watch-phone-GPS, whatever it was, he wore. Buddy also noticed Ben’s expression of wonder as he took the top off the box and saw the black watch and the royal-blue band. Buddy was amazed by how quickly Ben attached the watchband and strapped the device to his wrist.

  Ward patted his shoulder. “Need my help pairing it with your phone and laptop?”

  Ben laughed. “I can figure it out.”

  Buddy thought he’d need a few days to figure it out, or longer, or never. He said, “Good. But you still need to leave in fifteen minutes. Wear your jacket and pack your boots.”

  As Ben and Mei left the kitchen to get ready, he looked at Ward and then drank his beer.

  Ward put both hands on the counter and leaned across toward Buddy. He said, “There’s something I’ve been hiding from you for two years.”

  19

  Buddy knew his puzzlement showed on his face. “Hiding from me?”

  Ward nodded. “I wanted to thank you for visiting me at McLean.”

  Buddy remained impassive. He was uncomfortable at the mention of the psychiatric hospital outside Boston where Ward had lived for six months following his wife’s murder. He remembered the large gothic building and Ward’s room: fake wood floors, tan walls, plain bed made of dark wood. Like a hotel room, but one with a lock on the outside of the door.

  Buddy had sat in his half brother’s private room every Saturday afternoon for six months. For two months, he’d talked, and Ward had stared at him or at the ceiling or out the window but had never replied. I’m talking to myself, Buddy had thought. And I’m not much of a talker. He’d left recent copies of the Gazette and issues of the N
ew Yorker and Rolling Stone for his brother, who hadn’t seemed to notice.

  The third month, Ward had listened, focusing his dark-blue eyes on Buddy’s face.

  The fourth month, in response to questions from Buddy, Ward had nodded or shaken his head.

  The fifth month, Ward had begun to speak.

  The sixth month, Ward had met Buddy in the dining room and conversed with Buddy like a sedated but otherwise healthy man.

  A week later, Ward had been released, and returned to live in his mansion in Greenwich, looked after by Ms. Gallatin, his sixtysomething housekeeper and cook.

  “At McLean,” Ward continued, “I lived for your visits. For a long time, I couldn’t even acknowledge them. I couldn’t do much more than breathe and shit. You couldn’t have known they were important to me, but it’s true. After Anna’s murder, dying was all I could think about. Each day, I told myself that I’d live until Saturday morning. And if you visited, I wouldn’t take a sheet from the bed and hang myself from the bathroom door. But you came to see me every Saturday for six months until I was released. If you hadn’t come—or even if you’d missed a Saturday because you were sick or working or with a girlfriend, I wouldn’t be here. So when you call me, the way you did tonight, and ask for my help, I’m here. It’s that simple.”

  Now it was Buddy who couldn’t speak. He felt his entire body grow hot. His throat swelled up. He stared at his brother. His heart pounded in his chest like a bass drum.

  After a moment, he nodded.

  Ward reached his hand across the counter.

  Buddy took it.

  Competitors and rivals, but brothers, too.

  20

  Mei and Ben moved swiftly through the lobby of the Carlyle Hotel. Following them, Buddy and Ward carried their bags. In case of surveillance, Mei had asked the valet to bring her car to the Carlyle Hotel entrance on Madison Avenue rather than to the Carlyle Residences entrance on East Seventy-Sixth Street. They didn’t have to go outside since the residence building was connected by a short hallway to the hotel if you had a key card. As she walked, Mei’s stomached tightened with fear.

  What if somebody sees us leave? she thought. What if we’re followed all the way to the country house?

  She had the revolver in her handbag, but she knew that wouldn’t be enough to save them. Their escape needed to be anonymous to succeed. Nobody could find out.

  Buddy and Ward handed the bags to the hotel doorman, who took them out to Mei’s SUV. Mei and Ben stood in the vestibule, looking at Buddy and Ward, not knowing what to say. Ward took out his money clip and handed her several hundred-dollar bills and a few twenties.

  She pulled back her hands. “No,” she began.

  “You must,” he insisted, taking her hand and pressing the bills into it. “You can’t use credit cards or an ATM, because your charges could be tracked.”

  Reluctantly, she closed her hand around the money and turned to the door. She wore her black Moncler down parka over jeans and boots. Ben wore his navy-blue peacoat, khakis, and New Balance running shoes. Both wore gloves and hats.

  Buddy said, “We won’t communicate unless there’s an emergency. Keep your phone—Ben’s phone—off unless you’re using it. If you need to check emails and voicemails, keep the phone on for a few minutes at the most, okay?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You won’t give me the address where you’re staying?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  He said, “You don’t want me to visit. I get it.”

  Of course she wanted him to visit. To hear his voice, to watch him laugh with Ben, to lie against him in bed. Yet she resisted. Now she needed and was demanding safety—in the present and in the future—for herself and for Ben. She met Buddy’s eyes and raised her chin. “Not until it’s safe here for us. You have to solve this, Buddy. You have to change things.”

  His eyes showed warmth, but his expression hardened. He said, “I know. I’ll deal with it.”

  Sensing she’d blamed him unfairly for things he perhaps couldn’t control, she put a hand on his chest, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his lips.

  He responded, holding her tightly. In that moment, she felt secure and safe, but she knew he couldn’t be with her constantly. When they finally separated, she felt less safe, but she also sensed anew the fear driving her away from the city. Her skin crawled with anticipation and the desire to flee.

  She drove away from the hotel with Ben sitting quietly in the front passenger seat. As they crossed the George Washington Bridge and headed north, she saw fine snowflakes in the Audi’s headlights. Tightening her hands on the steering wheel, she realized her grip was already too tight. She let go with one hand and opened her palm. Her hand shook. She looked over at Ben and saw that he’d noticed her agitation.

  After a while he said, “Mei?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will we be okay?”

  “Yes. We’ll be okay. We’re just going to have a little vacation. That’s all. And then we’ll go back home and you’ll be in school, just like usual. Does that sound all right?”

  Ben didn’t respond. He pulled up the left sleeve of his jacket, revealing his new wristwatch. He pressed on the screen, and it lit up with colorful icons and white letters. The device occupied him for a half hour. Then he let down his wrist and stared at the snow swooping up over the windshield as they pressed north.

  21

  Buddy stood in the living room, looking down at the lights of the traffic crossing through Central Park. He wished he could see Mei’s car. Yet he knew that by now she was out in the dark countryside. Ward had eaten a final slice of pizza with Buddy and gone, too, either to his house in Greenwich or to his obscure perch on the island.

  Now Buddy paced by the windows, anxious to be reinstated tomorrow. Reinstatement, he knew, would give him some power. And he needed to work, to learn why he and Mei had been targeted. He needed to show Mei that life with him could be safe.

  Turning from the window, he walked through the living room and along the back hallway to the master bedroom. In the closet, he opened the safe and pulled out his shoulder holster. He replaced the IWB holster he’d worn that day, as well as the Glock 26, and closed the safe door.

  As he kicked off his shoes, he thought about Tan Jacket. And about the call Tan Jacket had received from the main line of the NYPD.

  He knew that outgoing calls from One Police Plaza came through the same line. So the call might have come from any of the hundreds of people who worked at One Police—or from someone visiting One Police who’d used one of its phones.

  At this idea, Buddy’s sense of the case’s difficulty increased.

  His phone buzzed. He took it from his front trouser pocket and answered. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Mingo.”

  Buddy’s pulse jumped. “What’d you find?”

  “I went down to Mulberry Street, just like you said.”

  Buddy’s hand tightened around the phone. “You found the guy?”

  Mario’s voice grew louder. “I’d already checked with the Fifth Precinct patrol, the detective bureau, and local hospitals. Nada. So I drove down to the spot. I found a pool of fresh blood but no guy. Maybe he got well enough to walk away.”

  Fuck, Buddy thought. But his frustration was replaced by foreboding. A nearly dead man, scraped up from the sidewalk and taken away not by an ambulance but by someone else. More than one, he thought. Tan Jacket hadn’t been working alone.

  He said, “No, Mario. The only place Tan Jacket could go was the hospital—and not on his own two feet.”

  “Maybe a Good Samaritan helped him,” Mario offered.

  Buddy said, “Maybe. But more likely it was a bad Samaritan.”

  “A bad Samaritan?”

  “Yeah. Someone from . . .” Buddy almost said Someone from the NYPD, but he didn’t. He couldn’t say it. He had no real evidence to make that leap. He had only the One Police main line on his attacker’s burner phone. Moreover, Mingo worked for the dep
artment—could he be trusted? Buddy said, “Someone from the guy’s crew.”

  “You’re probably right,” Mario agreed. “See you in the morning.”

  “10-4. Hey, Mario?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for checking on it yourself.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Buddy went into the bathroom and washed his face, then climbed into bed. It was too quiet in the bedroom without Mei, without her form under the covers. The sound of her breathing. Her face on the white pillow. He missed it all.

  After an hour, he slept. His dream was first a recollection of a week ago, a better time when he and Mei had taken Ben to the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum down in Hell’s Kitchen on Pier 86. Where Ben had gotten to see fighter jets and an aircraft carrier and had toured a submarine. Ben must have seen movies with military men, because he’d begun saluting—with his left hand—nearly everyone they came across. When anyone returned the salute, he grinned and laughed. “Your right hand,” Buddy had reminded him. “Your right hand.”

  Yet mischievous Ben had continued using his left.

  Afterward, they’d returned home, where Mei had made French toast (Ben’s favorite) for dinner. They’d watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, a movie Ben hadn’t yet seen but loved. As in real life, they’d been eating and talking, Buddy sitting next to Ben at the bar in the kitchen, and Mei standing across from them at the counter. But from that point onward, the dream changed everything.

  Buddy turned, and Ben wasn’t on the stool next to his. He walked through their home, yet Ben had gone.

  Buddy went outside and searched for him. But in the enormous city, he didn’t know where to begin. When he remembered how much Ben had enjoyed the Sea, Air & Space Museum, he began walking rapidly toward it, but the journey through an impossibly dark night seemed to take forever.

  When at last he reached the building on Pier 86, he pulled open the large doors, and stepped inside.

  Blackness everywhere. He could barely see. When his eyes adjusted, he made out the massive, terrible outlines of the planes, the missiles, the tools of war.

  Weaving through the displays, he called Ben’s name, but there was no response. Buddy could hear nothing but his own footsteps. Yet he kept going and eventually reached the submarine. Climbing the steps to the conning tower, he reached the top and looked at the ladder that led down into complete darkness.