Silent Night (Sam Archer 4)

by Barber, Tom

  The store was about twenty five yards from the Seaport and the water. Inside, the manager liked to keep the lights low and the music thumping. Given that it was a week before Christmas the place was doing a brisk trade. They had eight very busy employees assisting customers and processing sales, all of them wearing store-brand polo shirts and jeans. The tills were working flat out and the clothes were flying off the shelves. One of the employees, a twenty two year old NYU student working at the store over the Christmas period to earn some extra money, was carrying some fresh merchandise from the storeroom out back. He laid out an assortment of shirts and jeans, draping them across a wooden stand and adjusting them neatly as he had been taught, displaying the items to their best advantage. As he was finishing, he caught a familiar whistle coming from the second level. He looked up and saw a colleague motioning for him to come and help her.

  He quickly headed up the stairs. By the time he got there she’d already moved back to her position behind one of the tills, but he could see why she’d called him. There was a long queue of customers waiting to be served in front of her and the line was growing.

  But as he walked over to log in to the till beside her, something caught his eye.

  A white shopping bag was sitting on the floor by a table stacked with merchandise to his right. It was unattended. Someone must have put it down to check out some clothing, then walked off and forgotten it. It happened all the time.

  He went over to retrieve the bag and put it aside for collection when the forgetful customer had realised what they’d done. But as he bent down to pick it up, he looked closer and frowned. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him in the low lighting of the store.

  Some kind of yellow gas was seeping out of the bag.

  SIXTEEN‘OK,’ Marquez said, ending the call, still in Dr Tibbs’ apartment. She turned to Jorgensen. ‘CSU are already on their way. They should be here any minute. Apparently Archer and Josh are onto something downtown.’

  ‘Onto what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Check the TV.’

  Jorgensen turned, then using his sleeve to shield his fingerprints, grabbed the remote for the television off the couch and pushed the power button. Flicking channels, he found Fox News.

  ‘Holy shit.’

  The report was showing footage from 34th and 7th, outside Macy’s. There were civilians, ESU, Hercules Teams and CRT specialists everywhere, as well as news crews. They looked at the headline.

  Breaking: Macy’s evacuated after bomb threat.

  ‘Looks like we’re missing the party,’ Jorgensen said.

  Outside in the corridor, the guy from the front desk was still recovering from the shock of seeing Tibbs’ corpse. He turned as the sound of approaching footsteps came from the corridor. Jorgensen flicked off the TV and tossed the remote back on the couch as a four-man CSU team quickly entered the room, each carrying a suitcase containing their gear. Both Marquez and Jorgensen knew the team. The lead investigator walked over and shook both detectives’ hands. Then she looked down at Tibbs’ body.

  ‘This is how you found him?’

  ‘Walked in and this is what we saw,’ Marquez said.

  ‘Four gunshot wounds. Tight groups. Must have been silenced, otherwise everyone in the building would have heard.’

  Behind her, her team started pulling on their gear.

  ‘We’ll get to work,’ she said, hinting that she wanted them to leave.

  ‘We need to head out anyway,’ Marquez said to Jorgensen, who nodded. She looked out of the apartment and saw the guy from the front desk out in the hall. She turned back to the CSU investigator. ‘The receptionist saw the body when we did. He might need a few minutes.’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘We’ll get him out of here. I’ll have someone stay with him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll contact Shepherd when we get something.’

  The two detectives nodded, stepping past the CSU team and walking out of the apartment, quickly headed down the corridor to the lifts. As they walked, Jorgensen pulled a pad from his pocket and checked the next address.

  ‘Frankie Glover. Lives across town on 70th and 3rd. Dr Number Three.’

  Marquez nodded and they stepped into the open lift, pressing the button for the ground floor. In the silence, both of them thought about the dead doctor laid out in the apartment they’d just left.

  A strip of duct tape across the mouth. Two to the sternum, two to the head.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Jorgensen said. ‘Not a good way to go.’

  ‘Is there ever a good way?’ Marquez replied, as the doors slid shut.

  Josh and Archer were just heading out onto the Pier when they heard the screams.

  They swung round and saw a handful of people staggering out of a store twenty five yards behind them. They were all choking. Several of them collapsed to their hands and knees, heaving and hacking blood onto the sidewalk.

  ‘No!’ Archer shouted, turning and running towards them.

  People standing closer to the store stopped and stared as they suddenly saw people falling out of the doorway in front of them, retching and gasping for air. Blood was starting to leak and spray from their mouths, their bodies fitting and spasming violently as the people watching began to scream and back away.

  Some members of the ESU and CRT teams had been close by. They reacted fast, sprinting across the street. Archer and Josh had almost reached the store when a CRT guy turned and ordered them back, blocking their path.

  ‘Remain where you are!’

  Obeying orders, Archer and Josh watched in despair as people who’d made it out of the store writhed and flailed on the sidewalk, their mouths and chins covered in blood. The ESU, gas masks firmly in place, were frantically pushing people away from the area. Other members of their team had already raced towards the front of the store and had pulled the doors closed, holding them shut. It took three of them. The remaining people trapped inside were desperately trying to force their way out and the trio had to fight to keep the doors secure in order to contain the virus.

  Several members of CRT were trying to help the five people on the ground, but it was useless. Two of them were already dead and the others were about to join them, their bodies stiffening, blood erupting from their mouths. The guy who’d ordered Archer and Josh to stay back was dragging what looked like fabric tenting from the back of the CRT van with the help of two other men.

  An ESU officer ran over to the entrance of the store with a bully ram he’d pulled from their truck, the other three officers still holding the doors shut. They lodged it across the entrance bars, providing a makeshift block. People were still thumping the other side, more weakly now, but they weren’t getting out.

  Having moved back, standing with a crowd of civilians watching in dawning horror, Archer and Josh could hear screaming from inside the store.

  But it was fading.

  And soon, it stopped.

  SEVENTEENJorgensen drove fast at the best of times, but the discovery of Dr Tibbs’ corpse had put an extra few ounces of pressure on his pedal foot. They sped across town, lights on the fenders flashing as they cut several reds. Before long they pulled to an abrupt halt outside Dr Glover’s address, an apartment building on the Upper East Side on 70th and 3rd. Unlike Dr Tibbs’ apartment building there was no reception, which also meant they had to wait for someone to let them in. Standing on the cold street they scanned the occupiers list beside the buzzer. They found F. Glover beside Apartment 2D. Luckily, a resident exited the building less than a minute later and Jorgensen jammed his arm in the door before it could shut.

  Moving quickly up the stairs, the two detectives headed down the second floor corridor towards Dr Glover’s apartment.

  However, as they approached they saw that the door was ajar.

  Marquez was first inside, checking the apartment through the top sight of her pistol. Jorgensen followed her in. They cleared the place, the same as before.

  And just
as before, the apartment was empty. No sign of Dr Glover.

  After a few moments they met up in the living area, holstering their weapons and looking around. The television was on, showing the news. There was the beginnings of breakfast on the kitchen counter, a couple of cereal bowls and two pastries. One of them had a bite taken out of it.

  ‘Someone was just here,’ Jorgensen said.

  Marquez nodded in agreement. As Jorgensen moved to the kitchen to take a closer look around, Marquez saw several photo-frames placed on a table in the sitting room. She approached them, and noticed that the same man was in all three. Picking up the middle frame, she examined the photo. He was blond, in his thirties, standing on the deck of a yacht. Dressed in a white polo shirt, cream shorts and deck shoes and holding a green bottle of Heineken, he was smiling at the camera. It had been a beautiful day when the photo was taken and she saw nothing but blue sea and horizon behind him.

  ‘Here’s our guy,’ she said.

  ‘The kettle’s still warm,’ said Jorgensen, his hand on the jug. ‘He was here recently.’

  Feeling uneasy, Marquez looked down at the photograph, at that broad grin on the man’s face. She thought of Dr Tibbs, flat on his back, four gunshot wounds to his head and chest.

  Where are you, Dr Glover?

  Wherever it was, she had a gut feeling that he wouldn’t be smiling.

  Marquez was right. At that moment Glover’s face was a mask of wide-eyed shock, fear and confusion.

  He was still sitting inside the lab at Kearny Medical across the Hudson River in New Jersey. His initial shock at his predicament was fading and was now being replaced by an ice cold fear and disbelief. Melissa’s body had been dragged away and dumped in a room across the level. He was trying not to stare at the blood stain it had left on the floor, smeared on the white tiles. Outside the lab Glover saw the man with the black curly hair watching him from an office next door, his face expressionless, his feet up on a desk and that strange machine pistol clasped in his hand.

  Suddenly the lift dinged. It opened and Glover saw the man and woman who’d kidnapped him walk out and head towards the large man. They were a terrifying pair.

  He and Melissa had just woken up and had been preparing breakfast and planning their day when someone had knocked on the door. Glover had opened up and been punched hard in the face. He’d fallen back and the man and woman had entered, a silenced pistol trained on him and Melissa, who’d been sitting at the kitchen counter eating a Danish. They’d forced them out of the apartment, taking them downstairs and hustling them into a car outside, then brought them straight here. He watched as the dark-haired woman pulled a small vial from her pocket. Glover recognised what it was straight away and his blood ran cold.

  It was Dr Flood’s virus.

  The curly-headed guy took it from her, raising it and examining the vial in the light.

  He turned the cylinder, peering at it from all angles.

  Then he looked over at Dr Glover and a broad grin spread across his face.

  Back at the Pier, the screaming inside the store had long since ended. The ESU and several Hercules teams had formed a cordon with a fifty yard radius. CRT had opened up a secure containment tent, rigging it up to the outside of the building and sealing it airtight to ensure that any remaining gas was contained. The bodies of the five victims who’d made it out of the store had been quickly covered before the news cameras got there. Respective news teams had arrived, but they were being kept well back along with everybody else.

  Having shown their badges to an ESU officer guarding the barrier, Archer and Josh were standing inside the cordon, looking at the entrance to the store. Neither said a word. A CRT specialist stepped out from the tent and walked towards the two detectives. The man pulled off the helmet of his bio suit, running his gloved hand through his hair. His face was grim. The two men moved forward to meet him.

  ‘What’s the damage?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Fifty nine dead. No survivors.’

  Silence.

  ‘You have any idea who’s responsible for this?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘Well work faster. I think the youngest in there is about twelve.’

  Pause.

  ‘What about containment?’ Josh asked.

  ‘We sealed the place before it got out. Believe it or not, we got lucky. The bomb went off on the second floor, so it bought us some extra time. We shut down the building ventilation system and the tent is keeping the place airtight. Luckily, there are no windows in there so the gas had nowhere else to go. We’re still working on filtering the air.’

  ‘What’s the cover?’

  ‘A chemical pipe ruptured. If the truth gets out we’ll have a major panic on our hands.’

  Without a word, Josh pulled his cell phone, turning and walking away, leaving Archer and the CRT specialist alone.

  ‘Do you have a spare suit?’ Archer asked.

  The guy nodded.

  ‘Follow me. I’ll give you a mask.’

  The interior of the store was dark. Incongruously, the music was still thumping and the lights were flashing. It looked like an abandoned nightclub. Archer moved inside slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He had a gas mask sealed to his face, his air filtered and protected through the respirator. Although he’d trained with a gas mask at the ARU, he hadn’t worn one in a while and felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable with it pulled tight to his face. No way was it coming off, however.

  The floor was littered with bodies. Corpses, shopping bags and personal belongings were scattered everywhere. Amongst the twisted and contorted dead, Archer could see a few who were obviously trying on clothes when they got hit but who must have abandoned the fitting rooms in panic, desperately running for the doors and the air outside. They lay there half-dressed, many of them with arms outstretched, blood around their mouths and all over the ground beside them. Archer moved further into the store, stepping carefully past the bodies making sure he didn’t touch any of them out of respect.

  The CRT specialist led him up to the second floor. The scene was much the same as downstairs, the place strewn with infected victims, people of both sexes and all ages. Then the specialist pointed to a white bag beside a stand.

  ‘There it is,’ he said, his voice muffled.

  Archer walked forward and dropping to one knee, peered inside. He saw one of those now familiar boxes, the lid askew and the remains of what had been the vial just visible, the glass cylinder cracked in two. Its terrible job had been accomplished.

  Rising, Archer turned and saw Josh walking towards him through the dim store. He was moving slowly, staring at the horrific scene around him, a gas mask over his face. He came to a halt beside Archer and the CRT specialist but didn’t say a word.

  With the darkness and thumping music, the grisly scene lit by flashing lights, it looked like something out of a nightmare.

  The three men stood there in silence.

  Surrounded by death.

  Josh had just called Shepherd to inform him of the situation but he needn’t have bothered. He and Rach had Fox News up on the screen and were watching the initial reports on the disaster.

  Breaking: Chemical Pipe ruptures in clothing store by Seaport, kills 59.

  The TV pictures were showing people being held back behind the cordoned-off area, some watching with ghoulish fascination, others who had family members unaccounted for being interviewed by reporters, desperate to be allowed inside to find their loved ones. But the ESU teams were continuing to keep them back. The front of the store had been tented off. Nothing was visible and no one was getting closer.

  ‘We were too late,’ Rach said quietly.

  Shepherd watched the screen for a few moments longer, his face expressionless.

  Then he turned to her.

  ‘The shot of the Macy’s bomber when he dumped his coat. Pull it up again.’

  She nodded, then started tapping away. The television shots disappeared, re
placed by the city camera feed. It took her less than thirty seconds to find the right camera and pause it at the moment the man appeared.

  ‘Play.’

  They watched as he moved out of the store, shrugging off the identifiable jacket then dumping it in a can. He raised his hand for a taxi but the vehicle was just out of shot.

  ‘Any cameras facing east or west?’

  Rach tapped and another box appeared. It was a camera from 34th and 7th, facing east.

  ‘Match the time,’ Shepherd said. Rach did and hit Pause. She then zoomed in, closer and closer. The shot was pixelated.

  ‘Render.’

  She hit Enter. There was a second’s delay, then the screen cleared.

  A series of numbers and letters were now as clear as crystal on the screen. The taxi’s licence plates.

  ‘Got you, you son of a bitch,’ Shepherd said, pulling his cell and moving to the door. He turned back to Rach as he walked. ‘Find that third bomber fast!’

  Across Queens, Donnie entered a run-down house off Ditmars Boulevard and shut the front door behind him. It had been their hideout last night but they were only occupying the ground floor. He walked down the corridor, passing a sitting room on his right and moved into the kitchen.

  He found Bleeker waiting in there anxiously, watching the midday news on the television. He was sitting on a stool and had a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun resting on the kitchen table within easy reach. Donnie looked at the screen and saw a Breaking News item from the Seaport.

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘They found mine,’ Bleeker said. ‘They didn’t find yours.’

  Looking at the screen, Donnie blinked. He smiled.