Keeper

by Greg Rucka

  DON’T MISS GREG RUCKA’S ATTICUS KODIAK NOVELS

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  Praise for Greg Rucka’s Keeper

  “A few top crime writers—Robert B. Parker in the Spenser series, for instance—have wandered into bodyguard territory. Rucka has the talent to make it his own.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A strong debut and a real contribution to the genre.

  Keeper combines compelling plot with right-now subtext. Greg Rucka is going to make his mark . . . stay tuned!”

  —Andrew Vachss

  Rucka tells a hell of a story . . . genuinely suspenseful and attention-holding . . . I’ll definitely be watching for Rucka #2.”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  “Both a thoughtful and thought-provoking debut . . . Well written, with a prickly character you can get to like. Try it, you’ll like it.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  A fast-paced thriller . . . Kodiak is a man for the ’90s. He’s young, he’s sensitive, and he’s politically astute. I like him.”

  —The Ottawa Citizen

  “Powerful.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Keep your eye on Rucka; he is a major talent.”

  —Statesman Journal, Salem, Oregon

  “Gritty debut novel as resonant as any NYPD Blue episode.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Rucka has combined the gumshoe style of the first-person crime-novel narrative with that of the intense pace of a good thriller.”

  —Copley News Service

  “Rucka’s descriptive narrative is realistic, compassionate and at times a little too vivid. ... A fascinating trip to a world seldom visited . . . Rucka is a man of the ’90s, a voice of the ’90s. There is hope.”

  —Pittsburgh City Paper

  “A truly mesmerizing novel that won’t easily be forgotten.”

  —Alta Vista Magazine

  “A moving story.”

  —The Bookwatch

  “If you like high-tension political novels and accept Rucka’s good guys/bad guys paradigm, this one is an exciting read.”

  —Wichita Eagle

  LOOK FOR GREG RUCKA’S OTHER NOVELS

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  This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  KEEPER

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY Bantam hardcover edition published July 1996 Bantam paperback edition / June 1997

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1996 by Greg Rucka.

  Cover art copyright © 1997 by Tom Hallman.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card number: 95-45751.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ISBN 0-553-57428-0 Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA OPM 10 9 8 7 6 5

  For Art and Bemie

  In the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire you remember the ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the husbands. Remember all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice, or representation.

  Abigail Adams, letter to John Adams, March 31, 1776

  Though this novel was inspired by actual incidents, it is a work of fiction and references to real people and organizations are included only to lend a sense of authenticity. All of the characters, whether central or peripheral, are wholly the product of the author’s imagination, as are their actions, motivations, thoughts and conversations, and neither the characters nor the situations which were invented for them are intended to depict real people or real events. In particular, Sword of the Silent and its members are not meant to portray a real pro-life group and any resemblance to an actual group or individual is purely coincidental.

  I am indebted to a number of people for their assistance and guidance, not only in the areas touched upon by this novel, but in all that was required to reach this point.

  At the Federal Bureau of Investigation: Special Agents John Weis, Bobbi Cotter, and Ernest J. Porter for their patient cooperation in assisting me with my research and keeping me informed as new information became available. Additional thanks to Special Agent Swanson D. Carter, Unit Chief, Office of Public and Congressional Affairs.

  Gerard “Jerry” V. Hennelly, President of Executive Security Protection International, Inc. (ESPI, Inc.), who provided guidance and insight into the profession of the “true” bodyguard. My newest old friend.

  Others who left their stamp on this work in a variety of ways: Officer William M. Conway, NYPD; N. Michael Rucka and Corrina Rucka; Elizabeth Rogers, NY EMS, Paramedic; Eric Lonergan, NY EMS, Paramedic; David Farschman; The Friday Mid-Day Coffee Klatch—Nic, Mike, and Mark; Daria “Or Should I Say Bridgett?” Penta; Casey Alenson Blaine; Kate Miciak; Peter Rubie; Sid, Frank, Peter, and Leslie.

  Special thanks to Nunzio Andrew DeFilippis. Jillian loves Teah almost as much as I love you. May Walter Matusek live forever.

  Finally, to Jennifer. She knows why.

  KEEPER

  Much as I wanted to, I didn’t break the guy’s nose.

  Instead, I kept both hands on Alison’s shoulders, using my body as a shield to get us through the crowd. At six feet and over one hundred and ninety pounds, I’m big enough to be intimidating, even wearing glasses. People normally get out of my way when I want them to.

  But the guy stuck with us, even going so far as to lean his face closer to mine. His teeth were the product of either good genes or expensive orthodontia, and the fire was hot in his eyes. He yelled, “Don’t let her murder your son!”

  Another man pushed a camera at us and snapped a quick photograph, reflecting us in the lens. Over the prayers of several people who pleaded with Jesus to save the soul of our unborn child, I could hear the photographer say, “We won’t forget you.” Whether that was directed at us or the fetus wasn’t clear.

  Alison said nothing, her head low and near my chest, one hand around my back, one on my arm. I’d never felt her hold me like that. It almost hurt.

  A young black man wearing a safety-orange vest over his T-shirt opened the glass door for us. As we went past he said, “Damn. We don’t usually get this.” He closed the door behind us, then turned and gave a nod to the uniformed security guard, who buzzed us through a second door, letting us into the ground-floor reception room.

  For a disorienting moment we stood there, on the neat checkers of linoleum, still clinging to one
another. New faces all around looked back, some embarrassed, some sad, some carefully blank. Eight women, waiting on chairs and couches, and only two of them looked obviously pregnant. One had a baby in her arms. Somehow the child could sleep through all the noise from outside.

  A nurse behind the desk said, “Your name?”

  Alison let go of me. “Alison Wallace.”

  The nurse checked a printout on the counter, then nodded. “You want the second floor. Through that door, down the hall, take the elevator or the stairs.” She smiled at Alison. “Check in at the counter there.” Then the nurse looked at me and asked, “You’ll be going up with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your name?”

  “It’s Atticus,” Alison told her. “Atticus Kodiak.”

  I took Alison’s hand. We went through the door and down a long hall, past a lounge and several examination rooms and offices. We passed a doctor in the hall and he gave us the same smile the nurse had.

  Alison wanted to take the stairs. “I’ll get to see the elevator after,” she said. She let go of my hand when we reached the second floor, stepping into another waiting room, almost identical to the one on the ground floor but with nicer furnishings. More couches and chairs, magazine racks, coffee tables, a coffeemaker, a television. The walls were painted light blue, with white detailing at the trim.

  At the opposite side of the room from the stairway was a glass partition where more nurses were controlling intake. There was a door beside the partition, and I figured it led to the procedure and recovery rooms. Another door on the wall to the right of that had a sign on it reading “Education and Services.”

  Alison told me to sit down, then went to the partition and checked in. We filled out her paperwork together, and I had to sign a waiver and a release form, not unlike the forms you fill out before getting your wisdom teeth pulled. Alison returned the completed paperwork, and we sat together for another forty-five minutes before the nurse called her name. I gave her a kiss on the cheek before she rose.

  “This is the right thing,” Alison said.

  “I know.”

  She returned my kiss with dry lips, then went with the nurse. She didn’t look back.

  Three hours later, and I was still sitting on the same couch, skimming magazines and watching people. Five women were filling out forms, two with men beside them. One of the men was absolutely silent, barely aware of his companion. Another six people were waiting, pretending to read or watch television. Most were Latino or black, but one of the couples filling out forms was white and I suspected they had come from Columbia University. Occasionally a nurse would open the door beside the partition and announce a name, then escort the chosen through the door after checking her clipboard. Many more people had come and gone. They left with paper bags full of educational literature, dental dams, condoms, and tubes of No-noxynal-9.

  Turnaround with the sex-ed crowd was a lot faster, it seemed.

  I stood and stretched, crossed to the window overlooking Amsterdam, trying to ease my nerves. This window had a grille over it, and I wondered why they didn’t use them on the ground floor, too. It’s harder to throw a brick through a grille, after all.

  Nearly forty people milled around across the street, held behind a police barricade line by NYPD uniforms. The Federal Access to Clinic Entrances Act of 1994 had been designed to solve this problem, but so far it hadn’t worked all that well. The law is considered by many to be unconstitutional, specifically in violation of the First Amendment, and challenges to it occur on a regular basis. As it was, protesters had positioned themselves at every approach to the clinic, and while they did not block access physically, they certainly created a daunting psychological gauntlet for a woman to run. There was no way to avoid them, as we had discovered the hard way. From the window, I saw placards and a couple of poles with dolls impaled on them. The dolls were naked and spattered with red paint. Several people held signs depicting a large cross draped in bloody barbed wire: “SOS” was painted in red in the upper right comer. Keeping well away from this group were other pro-lifers, more moderate contingents passing out pamphlets and singing hymns, their signs citing scripture, or stating, simply, “Stop Abortion Now.”

  Alison had chosen the clinic on recommendation from her OB/GYN. One of the deciding factors had been the assurance that the Women’s LifeCare Clinic rarely had trouble with demonstrators. When we had called the clinic that morning, before coming in, the person we spoke to said that there was a “minor” protest in progress, but that shouldn’t discourage us. It hadn’t sounded too bad.

  I had been willing to turn back when we saw the crowd, more concerned with Alison’s peace of mind than anything else. But she had gotten angry.

  “Hell with them,” she had said. “I’m not going to be scared off by these assholes.” Then she patted my arm and said, “Besides, I’ve got my bodyguard with me.”

  Her bodyguard, and the father of her child, I thought.

  Getting out was going to be worse than going in, because now they knew we had been inside, and for how long. We would come out to more of the same, perhaps worse, and knowing that Alison would be on the far side of a particularly painful operation didn’t help my mood. She had made her decision; she was the only person with the right to question it.

  I saw a sign with “Abortion is Murder” on it, and swore under my breath.

  “You’re swearing and that’s not nice. Don’t swear.”

  The voice came out of a short, chubby woman, with light brown skin and a face shaped by Down’s syndrome. She wore turquoise sweatpants stretched tight over her middle, tiny pink tennis shoes, and a hot-pink sweatshirt on which white cats chased each other around her body. She held a Walkman, but the headphones were off her head, and she was looking at me sternly.

  “Don’t swear.”

  “I apologize,” I said.

  She looked down at her pink tennis shoes and muttered something, then looked back to me and said, “It’s all right, you’re all right. My name is Katie.”

  “I’m Atticus.”

  “Atticus who?” She said it tentatively, pushing hard on the consonants.

  “Kodiak.”

  Katie repeated my last name, tripping it over her tongue. She had a lot of trouble with it, and finally said, “Can’t say it. Say it K, ’Cus K.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Atticus K.” Over her shoulder I tried to spot a parent or someone associated with her. No one was paying us any attention. Katie smiled and said carefully, “I’m very pleased to meet you, ’Cus.” She stuck out her hand and I took it. Her hand was small, warm, and moist. Her fingers barely made it out of my palm, but Katie shook my hand vigorously, then tugged me toward an empty couch.

  “Got to sit down, got to sit down and stay out of the way,” Katie said, but she didn’t say it to me; she said it to herself. Then she dropped her voice further and said, “Yes, you do, Katie. You know that.”

  We sat on the couch and Katie fumbled with her Walkman for a moment, but the headphone wires were tangled and she couldn’t straighten the cord.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  Katie thought about that, weighing the decision, then said, “Here, fix them.” She thrust both the Walkman and the headphones into my lap. The Walkman was a cheap model, functional and without frills, as were the headphones. Both had been dinged about, and the pads on the headphones were ripped, exposing the speakers. I untangled the cabling and plugged the jack into the player. A Madonna tape rested inside.

  I handed the player back to Katie and she put the headphones around her neck, then stared at me. Softly she said, “He has brown eyes,” and then, louder, “Thanks, thank you.” '

  “You’re welcome. You like Madonna, Katie?”

  “I like her a lot, ’Cus. She’s sexy. Do you like Madonna?”

  “Not particularly.”

  She laughed and pointed a finger at my chest and said, “You’re silly. You like Madonna.” She was smiling again, but
this smile seemed more honest than the one she had used to introduce herself, broad and even. Her teeth were small and yellowed.

  “All right. I like Madonna.”

  “I know! I know that. He’s silly. You’re silly.”

  “I think you’re silly.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I am not. Stop it. I am not silly.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, you’re not silly.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, ’Cus.” Katie played with the Walkman for a moment, opening and closing the cassette door, then said to herself, “Ask him. Ask him.”

  “Ask me what?”

  She jerked her head around to look at me, surprised, and said, “Uh-oh, he heard us.” She looked back down to her lap and poked the cassette player with her fingers for a few seconds. Then Katie said, “ ’Cus, do you have a, uh, a girlfriend?”

  I grinned. “Yes,” I told her. “Her name is Alison.”

  “Oh.” She toyed with the Walkman again, then said, “I have a boyfriend. His name is David and he’s strong and protects me. But when he gets angry he loses his temper and he gets very mad. He turns into a monster and he doesn’t like it, but he gets angry and can’t con-con-control himself.” She studied me and said, “David loves me a lot, though, he does. Is your girlfriend, is she here?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I knew that, I know.”

  From the street came a roar, voices rising together with glee. I went back to the window. Most of the crowd had converged around a white Cadillac parked on the opposite side of the street, their SOS signs waving.

  Katie peeked around my elbow, looking out the window. “Uh-oh,” she said. “Uh-oh.”

  “Do you know who that is?” I asked her.

  “Who is it? I don’t know who it is.”

  The Caddy’s front passenger door opened and a man got out, blond and short, though the angle made it hard to determine more than that. He began waving the crowd back. Then he opened one of the rear doors and another man emerged, this one a head taller, dressed in a neat summer suit. His hair was black, and he held a megaphone. Katie and I watched as the man in the suit climbed to the roof of his car.