Tess glanced away, trying to smother any visible signs of her dismay, when Reilly leaned in and continued. “Do I think there’s a possible link between the Templars and what happened at the Met?” He let it hang for a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly, before a faint smile crossed his lips. “I definitely think it’s worth looking into.”
Chapter 22
Gus Waldron was definitely not having one of his best days.
He remembered waking up a while ago. How long, he couldn’t tell. Hours, minutes—and then he’d drifted off again. Now he was back, a little more alert.
He knew he was in bad shape. He winced as he remembered the crash. His body felt like it had taken more pounding than a veal chop at Cipriani’s. And the irritating, incessant beeps from the monitors around him weren’t helping either.
He knew he was in a hospital—the beeping and the ambient noise were clear indications of that. He had to rely on his hearing, as he couldn’t see a goddamn thing. His eyes stung like hell. When he tried to move, he couldn’t. There was something around his chest. They’ve got me strapped to the bed. Not real tight, though. So the strap was there for hospital reasons, not cop reasons. Good. His hands moved over his face, feeling bandages and finding other things. They had him stuck full of tubes.
There was no point in fighting it, not right now. He had to know how bad he was hurt, and he would definitely need his eyes back if he was to get out of there. So until he knew the score, he would try to cut a deal with the cops. But what did he have to offer? He needed something big, because they wouldn’t like the fact that he’d chopped the head off that fucking guard. He really shouldn’t have done that. It was just that, riding up there, dressed like Prince-fucking-Valiant, he had gotten to wondering what it would be like to take a swing at some guy. And it had felt real good; there was no denying it.
What he could do was rat out Branko Petrovic. He was already pissed off at that dick for not telling him the name of the guy who had hired him, rambling on about how cool it was, this idea of blind cells. Now he saw why. He’d been hired by Petrovic, who’d been hired by someone else, who’d been hired by some other asshole. Who could tell how many blind fucking cells there were before you reached the guy the cops were out to nail?
The hospital sounds rose slightly for a moment, then fell again. The door must have opened and closed. He heard footsteps, squeaky on the floor, as someone approached his bed. Then whoever it was lifted Gus’s hand, fingertips resting on the inside of his wrist. Some doctor or nurse taking his pulse. No, a doctor. The fingers felt rougher, stronger than a nurse’s would. At least the kind of nurse he would fantasize about.
He needed to know how badly hurt he was. “Who’s that? Doc?”
Whoever was there didn’t answer. Now the fingers were lifting the bandages where they went around his head and over his ears.
Gus opened his mouth to ask a question but as he did so he felt a strong hand clamp down over his mouth and immediately there came a searingly painful jab in his neck. His whole body jerked against the restraint.
The hand covered his mouth tightly, turning Gus’s shouts into a muffled whine. There was a hot feeling spreading inside his neck, around his throat. Then, slowly, the hand pressing down on his mouth released its hold.
A man’s voice, very soft, whispered close to his ear. He could feel his hot breath on him.
“The doctors won’t allow anyone to question you for a while. But I can’t wait that long. I need to know who hired you.”
What the fuck…?
Gus tried to sit up, but the strap held his body and a hand pressed against his head kept him in place.
“Answer the question,” the voice said.
Who was that? It couldn’t be a cop. Some shithead trying to cut himself in on some of the stuff he’d taken from the museum? But then why ask about who’d hired him?
“Answer me.” The voice was still very quiet, but sharper now.
“Fuck you,” Gus said.
Except that, he didn’t say it. Not really. His mouth formed the words, and he heard them in his head. But no sound came out.
Where’s my fucking voice gone?
“Ah,” the voice whispered. “That’s the Lidocaine’s effect. Just a small dose. Enough to numb your vocal cords. It’s annoying in that you can’t talk. The upside of it is that, well, you can’t scream either.”
Scream?
The fingers that had felt so gently for his pulse landed on his left hip, right where the cop’s bullet had struck. They rested there for a moment before suddenly bursting alive and pressing in. Hard.
Pain seared through his body like he was being branded from the inside, and he screamed.
Silently.
Blackness threatened to overwhelm his brain before the pain receded slightly and saliva pooled at the back of his throat. He thought he was about to throw up. Then the man’s hands touched him again and he flinched, only this time the touch was gentle.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” the soft voice asked.
Gus was now sweating profusely. Right- or left-handed? What the fuck difference does that make? He lifted his right hand feebly, and soon felt something being placed between his fingers. A pencil.
“Just write the names down for me,” the voice told him, guiding the pencil toward what felt like a notepad.
His eyes bandaged shut and his voice gone, Gus felt completely cut off from the world and alone, more so than he’d ever imagined. Where is everybody? Where are the doctors, the nurses, the fucking cops, for chrissake?
The fingers seized the flesh around his wound and squeezed again, this time harder and for longer. An excruciating pain shot through him. Every nerve in his body seemed to ignite as he bucked against the strap, screaming in silent agony.
“This doesn’t have to take all night,” the man stated calmly. “Just give me the names.”
There was only one name he could write. Which he did.
“Branko…Petrovic?” the man asked softly.
Gus nodded hurriedly.
“And the others?”
Gus shook his head as best he could. That’s all I know, for fuck’s sake.
The fingers again.
Pressing in, harder, deeper. Squeezing.
The pain.
The silent screams.
Jesus fucking Christ. Gus lost track of time. He managed to write the name of a place where Branko worked. Other than that, all that he could do was shake his head and mouth, No.
Over and over and over again.
Eventually, thankfully, he felt the pencil being taken away from him. At last the man believed that he was telling the truth.
Now, Gus could hear small sounds he did not recognize, then he again felt the man’s fingers lift the edge of the bandage in the same place. He cringed, but this time he hardly felt the needle prick.
“Here’s some more painkiller for you,” the man whispered. “It’ll ease the pain that you’re feeling and help you sleep.”
Gus felt a slow, rising wave of dark weariness flow through his head and start down his body and with it came relief that the ordeal, the pain, was over. Then a terrifying realization descended on him: that the sleep into which he was helplessly plunging was one from which he would never awaken.
Desperate now, he tried to move but couldn’t, and after a moment it seemed as though he didn’t want to move. He relaxed. Wherever he was going, it just had to be a better place than the sewer in which he had spent his entire miserable life.
Chapter 23
Reilly climbed out of bed, pulled on a T-shirt and looked out the window from his fourth-floor apartment. Outside, the streets were deathly quiet. The city that never sleeps only seemed to apply to him.
He often didn’t sleep well for a number of reasons. One was simply his inability to let go. It was a problem he’d had more and more frequently over the last few years, this incessant mulling over leads and data relating to whatever case he was working on. He didn’t really ha
ve a problem falling asleep. Sheer exhaustion usually took care of that. But then he’d hit that dreaded four a.m. threshold and suddenly find himself wide awake, his brain churning away, sorting and analyzing, searching for the missing kernel of information that might save lives.
Sometimes, the workload was sufficiently intense to monopolize his thoughts. Occasionally though, his mind would segue into personal issues, straying into even darker territory than the underworld of his investigations, and unpleasant anxiety attacks would worm their way to the surface and take over.
A lot of it had to do with what happened to his dad, how he’d shot himself when Reilly was ten, how the young boy had come home from school and wandered into the study that day and found his father there, sitting in his favorite armchair as he always did except, this time, the back of his head was missing.
Either way, what followed was always a hugely frustrating couple of hours for him. Too tired to get out of bed and use the time to do something useful, but too wired to get back to sleep. He’d just lie there in the dark, his mind taking him to all kinds of desolate places. And he’d wait. Sleep usually came mercifully at around six or so, little comfort given that he’d have to be up again an hour later to go to work.
That night, the four a.m. wake-up came courtesy of a call from the night duty officer. It informed him that the man he’d chased across the streets of lower Manhattan had passed away. The duty officer mentioned something about internal bleeding and heart failure and failed efforts to resuscitate the dead man. Reilly had spent the next two hours, as was customary, reviewing the case, one which had now lost its most promising and only real lead given that he didn’t think Lucien Broussard would be able to tell them much, if and when he was actually able to speak again. But thinking about the case soon merged with other thoughts that were swirling around in his mind after leaving the hospital earlier that night. Thoughts mostly relating to Tess Chaykin.
Looking out the window, he thought about how the first thing he’d noticed about her when they’d sat down at the café was that she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, or any rings for that matter. Noticing things like that played an important role in his professional life. It was an instinctive attention to detail that came with years on the job.
Only this wasn’t work, and Tess wasn’t a suspect.
“HIS NAME WAS GUS WALDRON.”
Reilly listened intently, cradling a hot mug of coffee, as Aparo scoured the rap sheet with practiced eyes, cutting to the chase for the benefit of the assembled core team of federal agents.
“Clearly a pillar of the community who’ll be sorely missed,” Aparo continued. “Professional boxer, minor leagues, a wild man in and out of the ring, banned from fights in three states. Four counts of assault and armed robbery, both here and in Jersey. Couple of stints at Rikers”—he looked up and said pointedly—“including a cruise on the Vernon Bain.” The Vernon C. Bain, named after a well-liked warden who died in a car accident, was an eight-hundred-bed barge that housed medium- to maximum-security inmates. “Suspected of two homicides, both beatings. No indictments there. Compulsive gambler. Been running a losing streak for half his life.” Aparo looked up. “That’s about it.”
“Sounds like a guy who’s always in need of a fast buck,” Jansson observed. “Who does he hang out with?”
Aparo flicked a page and went down the list of Waldron’s known associates. “Josh Schlattmann, died last year…Reza Fardousi, a three-hundred-pound sack of shit—doubt any horse in the country could carry him.” His eyes scanned the names, editing the no-hopes. “Lonnie Morris, a small-time dealer currently on parole and living with and working for, if you believe this, his grandmother, who has a flower shop in Queens.” Then Aparo looked up again, this time with an expression on his face that Reilly knew spelled trouble. “Branko Petrovic,” he stated unhappily. “An ex-cop. And get this. He was with the NYPD’s mounted division.” He looked up at them. “Retired. And not by choice, if you get my drift.”
Amelia Gaines flicked a knowing glance at Reilly, then volunteered the question. “What’d he do?”
“Theft. Dipped his hand into the cookie jar at the precinct after a dope bust,” Aparo said. “Doesn’t look like he did any time. Discharged, loss of pension rights.”
Reilly frowned, not exactly pleased at the prospect. “Let’s talk to him. Find out how he makes a living these days.”
Chapter 24
No matter how hard he tried, Branko Petrovic couldn’t keep his mind on his work. Not that his job at the stables needed his undivided attention. Most days, he watered and fed the horses and shoveled horse-shit on autopilot, keeping his stocky body hard and fit. His brain was left free to work out angles, calculate odds, make plans. Usually, that was.
Today was different.
It had been his idea to hire Gus Waldron. He’d been asked to find someone big and tough who could ride a horse, so he’d thought of Gus. Okay, so he knew that Gus could be a wild man at times, but he didn’t expect him to go lopping off someone’s head with a sword. Christ, even the fucking Colombians didn’t pull stunts like that. Not in public anyway.
Something felt wrong. He’d tried calling Gus that morning and didn’t get an answer. He fingered an old scar on his forehead, feeling the ache that always came back when things went wrong. Don’t do anything that attracts attention, he’d been told, ordered even, and that’s what he’d told Gus. A lot of fucking use that had been. Right now, attracting attention was the least of his worries.
A sudden panic surged over him. He had to get the hell out of Dodge, while he still could.
He rushed across the stables and opened up one of the stalls where a frisky two-year-old flicked her tail at him. In a corner was a crimped-top tub packed with animal feed. Opening it, he thrust his hands inside, raking away the pellets, and pulled out a sack. He weighed it momentarily, then reached into it and pulled out a glimmering golden statuette of a rearing horse, gaudily encrusted with diamonds and rubies. He stared at it for a moment, then rummaged further and dug out a pendant of emeralds set in silver. The contents of the sack were nothing short of life changing. Carefully fenced, provided he took his time and did it carefully, he knew that the jeweled pieces in there were enough to buy him the condo down on the Gulf that he’d always promised himself and that, ever since he’d been dumped off the force, had looked as though it would never happen—and a whole lot more.
Closing the gate on the filly, he headed down the walkway between the stalls and was almost at the door when he heard one of the horses snicker and stomp restlessly, alarmed. Another horse followed suit, then another. Turning, he looked down the walkway, seeing nothing but hearing the racket as all the horses in the stable block had now joined in.
Then he saw it.
A tendril of smoke, drifting out of an empty stall at the farthermost end.
The nearest extinguisher was halfway along the walkway and when he reached it, he dropped the sack, yanked the cylinder out of its clamp, and headed for the empty stall. By now, the smoke was more than merely tendrils. Pulling open the gate, he saw that the fire was seated in a pile of straw in one corner. He pulled the pin off and squeezed the handle, quickly putting the fire out, when it suddenly occurred to him that he’d only finished working in that stall less than an hour earlier. There had been no pile, just the raked, level carpet of straw he’d spread himself.
Hastily, Branko stepped out of the stall, watchful now. No point in listening. Trying to hear anything but the frantic neighing of the horses, some of them also lashing out at the sides and gates of their stalls, was impossible.
He started back along the walkway, then saw more smoke, this time at the other end of the block. Damn it. There was someone in there with him. Then he remembered the sack. He had to go get it. His whole life’s plans depended on it.
Dumping the extinguisher, he ran for the sack, snatched it up, then stopped short.
The horses.
He couldn’t just run for it; he had to do so
mething about them.
Slamming open the bolt on the nearest stall, he leaped back as the horse cannoned out through the gate. Then the next bolt. Another horse shot out like a bullet, its hooves deafening in the enclosed space. There were only three more horses to release when an iron-hard forearm locked around his throat.
“Don’t struggle,” a voice said quietly, lips close to Branko’s ear. “I don’t want to have to cripple you.”
Branko froze. The grip was firm, professional. He didn’t doubt for a moment that the man was deadly serious.
He was quickly dragged back toward the stable door where he felt the man’s other hand at his wrist, then the bite of a hard plastic strip against his skin, and in a move faster than he could have managed on his best day on the force, his hand was cuffed to the stable’s huge sliding door. The man switched arms around his neck, repeated the procedure, and now Branko was spread-eagled across the doorway.
The three horses still trapped in their stalls were now whinnying and bucking wildly, kicking at the wooden partitions as the flames licked their way closer.
The man ducked beneath Branko’s right arm and, as he straightened up, he took Branko’s hand in his and quickly and without apparent effort, broke his thumb.
Branko screamed in pain, lashing out with both legs, but the man stepped swiftly aside. “What do you want?” the ex-cop yelped.
“Names,” the man said, his voice almost lost beneath the clamor of the horses. “And make it quick. We don’t have that much time.”
“What names?”
Branko saw a sudden flare of anger cross the man’s face as he reached out and grabbed his left hand. He didn’t go for a finger this time. He also grabbed his arm and, with a sudden twist of ferocious intensity, snapped Branko’s wrist. The excruciating pain shot straight through him, making him momentarily black out, his howl echoing above the furor of the frenzied horses.
The Last Templar Page 11