—
Molly the Mongoose was passing West Sixty-third Street.
Somehow Eli had managed to smile and wave his way down fourteen blocks. It was nothing short of a miracle. He felt like a damn beauty queen.
Molly the Mongoose flew high above, anchored in place by its fifty-five handlers plus Eli, all dressed in clown costumes. The Wholesome Minds float followed its famous mascot. And the commissioner was sitting next to Santa on the float right behind them.
Around him, the festivities made for quite a spectacle—picture perfect for the tourists. Lights were glittering, Broadway stars were singing, people were cheering.
And somewhere—a madman lurked.
So Eli smiled and waved, watched and waited. Ready to act when needed—clown suit and all.
—
Mace’s Ace CyberDog float approached Columbus Circle. The towers of the Time Warner Center shimmered high above. Significantly closer to the ground, the statue of Christopher himself presided over the ceremonies.
Mace was just watching the crowds. He had a great vantage point. He let his gaze zigzag the way it did when he played street ball. Survey the defense, figure out the weak spots that he could expose, and drive hard to the net.
Except in this case, the defense was an enormous crowd of young mothers with baby strollers; a hooded teenager with a skateboard; an elderly couple, hunched over with arthritis; a father with a newborn sleeping on his beer belly. Hordes of tourists wearing sweatshirts advertising their home states: University of South Dakota. Georgia Tech. UCLA.
Then he saw the shadow slipping among the tourists. A single figure. Dressed in fatigues.
Hands not visible.
Coming right toward the Ace float.
It was a moment of truth. Decision time: Live or die.
Mace radioed the Tactical unit on the ground. “My two o’clock,” he said. “Camouflage. Possible weapon. Now!”
—
Mace leaped from the Ace CyberDog float and ran to intercept the man in camouflage.
Several people screamed. Others ran. Someone yelled at the crowd to step back.
Mace and two tactical agents swarmed the camouflaged man. Mace couldn’t say who took him down to the ground; it was a team effort.
They hit him in the chest and at the knees. Then he was gang-tackled by another four SWAT officers.
His wrists were shackled. He was searched. His ID was scanned.
One minute, fifty seconds later, he was pronounced clean.
Michael Deans was a Vietnam War vet who always wore camouflage. Who occasionally had a panic attack when he was stuck in a crowd.
Mace jogged down Central Park South, racing to catch up to the Ace CyberDog float before it rolled too far down Sixth Avenue.
—
Meanwhile, the man who had kidnapped Allie watched from his seat along the parade route as the balloons and floats weaved through the crowds.
He watched as everyone cheered and waved—the crowds on the sidewalks, the marchers, the musicians, the performers.
So many people. All blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. How he was about to deliver an antidote—one designed to counteract the poison infecting them all.
How else could an ailing society get better?
Chapter 75
Inside the Security Tent, American Museum of Natural History
Eve brought Haddox a piping-hot cup of fresh coffee, handing it to him like it was a priceless artifact. “No Bushmills this time. Wouldn’t want you to end up like your dad, going to meetings.”
“You wound me, luv.” He passed her a full dossier on Allie’s kidnapper—a piece of cake for Haddox once he’d uncovered his IP address—and as she read, what had been gaps in a fractured picture came together.
Eve had built her career on one essential skill: being able to tell when someone was lying. But Allie’s kidnapper had played her. His lies had sounded like truths because he had told them in the guise of being helpful. There had been no sense that he was trying to deceive. Not even his unconscious responses had given any clue: His breathing and voice patterns had remained within normal parameters.
She had been convinced this man played no role in Allie’s disappearance. She’d thought he lacked any motive to hurt the commissioner.
She had been wrong.
“He was a good liar, luv,” Haddox said. “Think about how he took advantage of Jackie, preying on her emotional weakness to make her an accessory.”
It was supposed to make her feel better. It didn’t. There was an odd fluttering in her stomach; she felt queasy.
Haddox continued. “He’s fifty-four years old. Grew up in Alaska, went to the Anchorage campus of University of Alaska on an ROTC scholarship. His major was computer science—which helps explain the technological savvy. He served four years on active duty—and since several of his platoon buddies were on the force, when he returned to the states, he joined the NYPD.”
Haddox continued to explain the rest to Eve: how Allie’s kidnapper had met his wife through friends at a Yankees game; how they’d married seven months later; how their son Lucas had followed within two years. Then tragedy had struck. Lucas was diagnosed at age three with rhabdomyosarcoma, a cancerous tumor that developed in one of his legs. The tumor was removed in a nine-hour operation—but the cancer returned a year later, in his lung. They soon learned traditional treatments were not working, but there was hope that a new experimental treatment might help.
The problem was: It was crushingly expensive.
He was still on active duty with the NYPD—but their insurance wouldn’t cover it. His wife was employed by Wholesome Minds—the corporation behind Molly the Mongoose—but their insurance wouldn’t cover it, either.
“So he embezzled the money from an NYPD evidence locker and was caught—by the commissioner himself—who forced him to return the money,” Eve said aloud.
“Which is how the commissioner kept his sorry arse out of jail.” Haddox nodded. “The commissioner went to bat for him, arguing extenuating circumstances and family pressure. Even managed to let him save face with the NYPD, by resigning rather than getting fired.” He gazed beyond Eve to the passing parade. “Donovan definitely went above and beyond. Probably wanted the guy in his pocket.”
Eve raised her eyebrows. “Sounds to me like another example of how Donovan looks out for his own. Just because you don’t like him, don’t assume the worst.”
“Call it like I see it, luv.” He toggled to a different file on his computer. Opened it. “After the theft, our man’s son died. His wife committed suicide nineteen days later. Two tragedies within three weeks. Logan and Jill attended both funerals, on behalf of the NYPD.”
“Losing your entire family over the course of a matter of weeks would cause even the toughest man to grieve,” Eve pointed out. “But does this really explain why he kidnapped a child, killed our best Special Ops agent, and brought a chemical nerve gas to the Thanksgiving Day Parade?”
“There is no good explanation for that. Nothing more than a coincidence in his life history—that might explain the access to Soman. It seems Alaska was home to several nerve agent trials—all shrouded in secrecy, of course. But there are a few records. We can thank Congress, since they hauled the Army in for hearings to explain some lost chemical munitions—not to mention the mysterious deaths of fifty-four caribou in the vicinity of Blueberry Lake, where the munitions testing had occurred.”
“And our man had access to these weapons, we believe?”
“Aye.” Haddox nodded. “He was stationed near Blueberry Lake, at the same time the munitions disappeared.”
“And this was how many years ago?”
“Eight,” Haddox admitted. “He has a long history with the area. He’d done training near the incident. Grown up nearby. His father still lives there. It doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to say that he’d have had an opportunity to take something, store something. And here’s the main thing: Two months ago, he
took a little trip. Guess where he happened to visit?”
“Blueberry Lake,” Eve said.
“She shoots and she scores.” Haddox shot her a grin, but his eyes were pools of concern.
Chapter 76
Unknown Location Inside Central Park
When Allie woke up, she was alone.
Cotton-mouthed and parched—the monster must have drugged her again—but alone.
She ought to have been freezing—especially now that she was without her raincoat—but a huge rush of adrenaline fueled her.
She looked up and could see the city skyline. The San Remo’s twin towers sparkled with light, serving as a beacon. Yellow—the color of hope.
She was in a gazebo of sorts. Her hands cuffed in front of her with plastic ties. And this was interesting: She was next to an area where park fencing was piled up. The sort of simple wooden slats that were used for park races like the NYC Marathon a couple weeks ago. She began reaching for a loose stake. And got lucky: She found one with a slightly sharpened point.
She imagined herself, stake in her hand, making a stabbing motion. She didn’t feel exactly confident.
Then she pictured the way the Candlestick man had hurt the boy. The way he had lied to her. What she’d figured out about his plans for the parade.
She imagined herself again—and this time, she stabbed the air more easily.
She had a weapon; she played the scene over and over again in her head. Imagining how she could plant the stake somewhere vulnerable: His ear. His eye. His neck.
She had never done any violence to anybody, but she could make an exception for the Candlestick man. She would hurt him bad. Make him pay for what he’d done—and prevent everything he planned to do.
If she could just get out of these stupid zip-tie cuffs!
Chapter 77
Along the Parade Route
Donovan, on Santa’s Skyward float, was passing the stocky white building at 2 Columbus Circle.
“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas,” Santa continued to bellow as they made their way along the parade route.
Donovan waved, continuing to focus on the crowd.
“You have kids, Commish? Kids always love a parade.” Santa kept waving.
Suddenly, Donovan was furious. He was tired of having to deal with it all. The kidnapper with his cat-and-mouse games. Mo Kelly with her weakness and lies. His deputy, George, for his political greed. Even his own men and women in uniform—because as much as he appreciated the blind loyalty that led them to stand by his side, ultimately they were no better than he was. Helpless.
He really wanted to hit someone.
Not just someone. The man who’d taken Allie from him. The man who was threatening his city.
Time to end this now.
Suddenly he felt his left hand being yanked under the sleigh blanket. There was a click.
He reached with his right hand. It was too late. Metal clicked around that, too.
It was a trap—and it had been meticulously prepared.
“Don’t make a sound.” Santa’s smile never wavered. “Tell me, Commissioner, how do you like my third task so far?” He waved at the crowds.
Chapter 78
Somewhere Inside Central Park
Allie was free. Escaped, with the help of a makeshift friction saw.
Those fencing stakes had given her the idea. Because of the wire that held them together.
Last summer, she’d overheard Casey on her dad’s security detail talking about how a guy they’d arrested at a protest had used his shoelaces to make a friction saw and escape his zip ties. Casey couldn’t stop talking about it. That was why they never used zip ties on gangbangers or military survivalist types—but they’d thought they were safe with a shaggy-haired academic rabble-rouser from Vermont.
Allie had studied her own silver-and-blue Converse sneaker laces—and nearly wept.
But the fencing wire? That was a different story.
So she’d stretched her hands close—started rubbing back and forth—and…success!
Now she felt so happy she didn’t even care that she was lost.
She was pretty sure this was still Central Park, but it wasn’t an area she’d ever visited.
She took her weapon, peered across the open field toward the edge of the lake. There was a figure ahead, lying on the ground, with his head tilted onto a rock. A bandana was tied over his eyes.
He wasn’t moving.
Allie crept closer, breathing hard. The cuffs of her jeans and her sneakers were wet. She was starting to feel cold. Stopping about fifteen feet away, she called out. “Hey, mister!”
He didn’t respond.
She moved closer. Called out again, louder this time.
This was pretty stupid. Foolish. He was probably homeless or drunk or some pervert. She could hear her mom’s voice, saying “Just go tell an adult what you saw. Ask someone else for help.”
“Mister—are you awake?”
The man tried to lift his head—flinched. He’d heard her. Seemed to be in pain.
She ran to him. “I’m going to untie this, okay?” Her fingers untangled the knot of the bandana. Then lifted the mask from his eyes.
He blinked at her, struggling to focus. His eyes were wet with tears.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Last thing I remember was…walking in the park. I was right over there.” His hand indicated the walking path. “Somebody came up behind me…”
“Are you hurt? Can you walk?” Allie didn’t know her way out of the park, but maybe this guy did. Help couldn’t be far away—even if at the moment it seemed as distant as Mars.
“My legs…”
He was lying at an awkward angle. Injured badly. But that wasn’t what commanded her attention: It was what he was wearing.
A Santa suit.
Chapter 79
Along the Parade Route
My third task.
With the words, Santa dropped his act. His voice changed an entire pitch. Modulated its tone. Switched regional accent.
“Hello, Chief. Don’t you know me by now?”
Of course he did. Santa had put on a decent performance, but the voice—the natural voice—confirmed what he’d already determined to be true.
“Where’s Allie?” Donovan strained against the cuffs, trying to launch out of his seat.
Santa waved. “Easy does it. You’ve got a front-row seat for my final act. And, given that Allie’s still under my control, you’d better mind your manners. Lay a finger on me and you may never see her again. People will say the top cop can’t protect his own. I think you’ll agree: Your reputation can’t handle another crack in the armor.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I told you, but hotshots like you never listen.” His voice was laced with hatred. “I’ve created a situation to learn exactly how far you’ll go to save her. You didn’t show any consideration for my family. I’m curious if you care about your own—or if your power has corrupted you, and you’re really the heartless monster I think you are.”
“I kept you out of jail. I gave you a job.”
“You let my sick child die. All for money nobody would have missed. In my hands, it would’ve saved a life.”
“You broke the law.”
“And you haven’t? You’ve crossed the line so many times before. Took a few trips. Had a few affairs. Lost your temper and hurt the poor, the defenseless, the homeless. But when I crossed the line, did you lift a finger to help?”
“I did more than lift a finger.”
“No one helped enough. Not you. Not the NYPD. Not Wholesome Minds.”
The commissioner allowed his gaze to focus on the crowd. There were hundreds of faces. So many of them children.
“Our society is sick with apathy because there are too many people like you. Now, one way or another, I’m forcing you to pay. You have a choice: Let me deliver my antidote—or we can figure out, right now, exactly how far you’ll g
o to stop me. What will you sacrifice, Logan? The hundreds of innocents here today? Or your precious career?”
“You bastard!” Donovan roared so loud that even a few of the spectators heard him over the near deafening din of the parade itself. A child gasped.
Santa coughed in disapproval. “And we were having such a productive conversation.”
“I liked you better behind the wheel of my Lincoln Navigator, Sam. You should have stayed there.”
Chapter 80
A.P.B.
Eve issued an all-points bulletin for Samuel Heath, a white American male, six-one, fifty-four years old, approximately one hundred ninety pounds, dark eyes, with a bald head.
His picture was circulated among all law enforcement personnel.
He had significant military and police training.
The bulletin advised officers to consider him armed and extremely dangerous.
Chapter 81
Somewhere Inside Central Park
Still no bars.
Allie had left Santa with the promise of returning with help. She was also armed with his cellphone—which at the moment didn’t have any service.
Just her luck. She was in the middle of Manhattan, desperate for 911, and all she had was the equivalent of a high-tech brick. Was AT&T down? Was the parade interfering with cell traffic? Was the phone itself damaged? She guessed the problem didn’t matter. Only the solution.
She was still in the woods of the Ramble. She climbed higher and higher, hoping to get service. Every few seconds, she stopped and checked. A bar would appear—only to blink away and disappear entirely. No service always returned.
She kept following the path, up the hill, hiding behind a rock or a tree whenever she thought she heard something.
Finally, she saw a bar—and it held. One second. Then two, three, and four.
Hastily, she dialed 911.
An operator answered. “911 Operator number 638982. Where is your emergency?”
“I…I don’t know. I’m lost. Somewhere in Central Park.”
Whistleblower Page 28