“Part of the job.”
THEY TORE THROUGH THE YEARS of cheap construction as they fell: particleboard and asbestos tile, cardboard-thin plywood, water-damaged drywall, drop-ceiling frames held by old wire coat hangers.
Cade was grinning. He had his hands around the Boogeyman’s throat, right under the soiled yellow mask, and he was not letting go.
The Boogeyman thrashed wildly as they hit the floor and rolled. His blade bounced away from his hand. He punched, kicked and clawed at Cade. It did no good. Cade’s fingers were locked around his neck.
They rolled again, taking down the wall nearest them, scattering the resident’s plastic shopping bags filled with clothes and street debris.
The Boogeyman ended up on his back again. He looked around as much as he was able for a weapon. He saw that they had broken the framing of the wall. A broken two-by-four jutted from the floor only a few feet away, still nailed down at the bottom, but with a sharp point sticking straight up in the air.
That should do, he thought.
He put everything he had into rolling Cade to that side.
JERICHO HAD FINALLY stopped screaming. He accepted the cold lack of feeling in his body, as if the numbness had crept up and blanked out his panic as well. He knew that he was probably dying. He’d landed wrong when the vampire went up into the ceiling and he could see blood soaking through several spots on his clothes.
His arms still worked. He reached inside his jacket pocket and found his cigarettes. Only when he got one into his mouth did he realize he’d lost his lighter somewhere along the way. Of course.
For all his belief that nothing ever went as planned, he realized he still hadn’t seen this coming. He somehow believed he’d get out and get away. You can say you’re prepared to die, he thought. You can think you’re ready to go to Hell. But then Hell comes to you and it’s still a surprise.
Ah, fuck it, he thought. Whatever was on the Other Side was probably better than living in a wheelchair and shitting in a bag in a prison hospital.
He reached into his pocket again and came out with his phone. Thankfully, that was still zipped up tight where he’d left it. Jericho activated the screen, scrolled down to the last number under contacts, and hit “Call.”
CADE REALIZED the Boogeyman was going to flip him. He saw the broken two-by-four out of the corner of his eye just in time. To avoid being staked, he had to let go of the Boogeyman’s throat. He went with the momentum of the roll, flying over the tip of the wood with an inch to spare.
He landed in what was left of another room. The Boogeyman didn’t give him a second to get up. A foot kicked into his ribs, sending him crashing into the single bed, knocking it across the room.
Cade saw what was underneath. Stacked in neat chunks, with a wire of primer cord running around it: a block of the stolen C-4. But only one. The cord ran under the wall through a newly drilled hole.
The entire floor was wired to blow.
At that same instant, the sound came to him. Someone hitting a button on a cell phone.
Cade was fast, but not faster than a radio signal.
Everything around him exploded just as he leaped for the window.
ZACH AND BUTLER were interviewing the witnesses and planting the seeds of the cover story when the second floor of the YMCA disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke and noise.
The shock wave knocked them all flat.
Debris was still raining down as Zach’s eyes managed to focus. It was oddly familiar. He supposed you could get used to anything, even people trying to blow you up.
What remained of the building collapsed in on itself as he watched. It was all silent. He knew it would be a while before he’d hear anything.
He looked over at Butler and saw the agent already up and moving, checking the civilians and yelling orders his men couldn’t hear.
Zach saw movement on the street. One of the larger chunks of debris picked itself off the pavement and stood.
Cade. Smoldering around the edges, battered and bloody. But still on his feet.
Half of the fake tan on his face was gone, wiped away by blood and grime. It made him look half baked, half burnt.
It wasn’t that funny. But Zach couldn’t stop laughing anyway.
There are other Sons out there. God help the world.
—David Berkowitz, the “Son of Sam” killer
7:12 P.M., OCTOBER 26, 2012, PRESIDENT’S CAMPAIGN BUS, OUTSIDE McALISTER AUDITORIUM, TULANE UNIVERSITY, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISiANA
The cleanup crews found his blade.
Cade and Zach were not the only people who handled unusual tasks for the government. There was an entire team dedicated to collecting the evidence of things that weren’t supposed to exist. Smitty’s job description was fairly loose, but if a Roswell crash happened today, Smitty and his cleaning crew would be the ones in the desert throwing the debris into the back of a truck. Contrary to popular belief, however, these men didn’t wear black. Zach had a difficult time even picturing Smitty in a suit. Right now, he was covered in brick dust and soot. Along with the rest of his team, he’d spent all day going through the rubble of what they’d told the media was an unfortunate mix of drunken rednecks, bullets, and a leaky gas pipe.
For anyone who didn’t buy that, Zach had already planted the counterspin on the Net: he’d posted several angry messages on blogs and message boards calling it an al-Qaeda attack that the government was covering up. The stink of conspiracy theory would scare away any of the mainstream journalists covering the debate. It probably didn’t hurt that the story of an alcohol-fueled shoot-out fit right into the prejudices of the reporters. It was the kind of thing they could see happening in a crash pad for bums.
“No chance of getting any DNA off the blade,” Smitty said, his southern drawl turning “DNA” into a five-syllable word. “The metal was heated red-hot by the fire. But it’s still pretty sturdy. It’s definitely a U.S. Army surplus survival hatchet. More than that, I can’t tell you.”
They were in the back of Curtis’s campaign bus. It was swept for bugs daily and soundproof. It was as secure a spot as they could manage for the president’s debriefing before the event. The president sat behind his desk. Butler and his core team of agents were crowded in along with Zach and Cade and Smitty.
“Any identification of the bodies yet?” President Curtis asked.
“Yes, sir, we rushed the fingerprints and dental records where we could find them. Most of the men were known white supremacists with ties to the biker gangs. Arrests for meth, hate crimes, stalking, one conspiracy to commit murder, later dismissed for lack of evidence.” Butler read through the charges in a dull monotone. Zach doubted he’d slept in the past three days. “One of the bodies, however, had no prior arrests or convictions. But we were still able to get a partial match on the fingerprints.”
“He was a cop,” Zach said as it became clear to him. Police officers, like all law-enforcement personnel, were required to give their fingerprints when they were hired.
Butler nodded. “His name was Andrew Nolan. He used to be on the force in Lawrence, Kansas. He was fired—we’ve been trying to get the personnel records, but we’ll need a court order and we can’t get that until Monday. However, he went to work as a security guard after that. We checked with his employer. He hadn’t shown up for at least a week.”
“What do you think? Is it him?” the president asked.
He didn’t have to elaborate. They all wanted to know the same thing: was this the Boogeyman?
“Seems pretty obvious to me,” Butler said. “What was left of his face was covered in melted latex, just like that mask. And it would explain how the Boogeyman was able to get past security and gain victims’ trust. He could have been wearing his old police uniform, or even a security guard outfit. And even before he dropped out of sight, his boss said he’d been really unreliable lately, missing shifts, taking days off without permission, calling in sick. His personal hygiene went to shit. Other security guards didn�
��t want to be in the same patrol car with him.”
“Zach?” the president asked.
“It fits,” Zach said. “And we didn’t find any other bodies, right?”
“Well, parts of them,” Smitty said. “But we don’t know yet if they belong to the other bits we’ve already found. Nobody’s counted up all the limbs yet. It’s still a bit like a whole bunch of different jigsaw puzzles in the same box right now, only instead of cardboard, the puzzles are made of—”
“Thank you, Smitty, I get the picture,” the president said. “Cade. You were closest. You’ve had the most experience. Was it him?”
All eyes in the room turned to Cade. He had healed completely during his day in his coffin. The new flesh was a pale, stark contrast with the fake tan, which still colored patches of his body in dull brown.
“I can’t be certain,” Cade said.
There was a ripple of dissatisfaction—even anger—from the others in the room. The Secret Service agents were done. Zach could see it. Their jobs were difficult enough: they were on constant alert against all manner of human enemies of the president. They’d had enough of waiting for an inhuman threat. Zach had felt their relief when they found Nolan’s body and the blade; felt the mounting joy as the evidence against him piled up. He fit the profile. He had to be the Boogeyman.
And now Cade was pissing all over that campfire by expressing doubts.
“Cade,” the president said patiently. “I’m well aware by now that nothing is ever certain when it comes to… this sort of thing. What I want is your opinion of the evidence that’s been gathered. Do you think that Nolan was the Boogeyman?”
Cade waited. Zach could feel it, too. Everyone in the room, including the president, wanted this to be over with.
“I would be a cynic to say no,” Cade said, “and a fool to say yes.”
That didn’t satisfy Curtis. “Can you point to any reason—any evidence—that would say otherwise?”
“No, sir. I cannot.”
Curtis took a moment to think. It was time he didn’t have. The debate started in ninety minutes. He should have been backstage already, doing his final preparation.
“I think we’re going to have to say he’s gone,” the president said. “Cade, I know you wanted to find a permanent solution to this problem. But I don’t blame you for how it ended up. The explosion took it out of your hands.”
Cade was silent. Zach wondered what was going on behind the mask of his features.
The president stood. “Agent Butler—Cam—all of you. I know this has been unbelievably difficult. I know you have lost friends.” He looked at Butler again. “More than friends. If it were possible, I would give you all medals on the White House lawn. But as with so many of your efforts, the public is never going to know about this. I know my thanks will never be enough. But it’s all I can offer.”
“We’d take some paid vacation time,” Latham said.
“Done,” Curtis said, grinning. “Let’s just get through Election Day first.”
Laughter; the tension lifted. Even Butler grinned. The agents formed a cordon and switched their radios back on.
“Sinatra is coming through,” Butler said into the mike under his cuff. They walked the president out of the bus and through the portable plastic tunnel that stretched like an umbilical from the bus to the door of the auditorium.
Cade and Zach did not accompany them. Smitty said something about getting a beer and wandered into the bus’s kitchen area to rummage through the fridge.
“Well. I guess we’re done,” Zach said.
“Not quite. I want you to go to Nolan’s home. See what you can find. There was a connection with Holt. I’m not comfortable with the thought that she’s still operating.”
Zach thought of the basement of a federal building in Los Angeles. He thought of duct tape and a trained dog and scars that had yet to heal and the way his shoulder still hurt if he moved it the wrong way. “Yeah,” he said. “You and me both.”
“I would go myself, but—”
“Right,” Zach said. “You’re staying with the president.”
“There are still threats out there,” Cade said.
Zach still felt slightly unsettled. The president’s words had the feeling of a rehearsed speech. He wondered if they were doing the same thing little kids do when faced with the Boogeyman: hide their heads under the blanket and wish it away.
He assumed that was why Cade wanted him to check out Nolan’s home. Cade was a big believer in finality. He knew this had to bother him.
“You’ll get him next time,” Zach offered.
Cade’s lip curled. “We’ll see,” he said.
CANDACE WAITED FOR THEM outside the bus. More specifically, she was waiting for Zach.
“I’m leaving,” she said. No preamble. No softening of the blow. “I’m going back to Washington early with my mom and brother tomorrow. We’re going to make some appearances for Dad, then I’m going to California.”
“Oh” was all Zach could think to say.
Candace turned to Cade. “No offense, but I hope I never see you again.”
“None taken,” Cade said. To Zach’s surprise, he offered her his hand. She only hesitated a little before taking it.
Cade walked toward the staff bus. His box was already open, waiting by the cargo hold.
“So you’re leaving?” Zach said.
“I’ve got to get to my seat. The debate’s about to start.”
“I meant tomorrow.”
“I know. But tonight, I’m going to my hotel,” she said. “Hint, hint.”
“I’m on my way to the airport,” Zach said. “I need to look into this guy Nolan.”
“No rest for the hero.”
“I don’t see any heroes around here.”
Candace gave Zach a surprisingly chaste peck on the cheek. “I do,” she said.
“I have to go. Seems so anticlimactic somehow. So to speak.”
She walked away from him.
Zach felt a sense of loss settle into the pit of his stomach. Sometimes this was just how the work went, he supposed. It finished without the sharp resolution, the slicing of loose ends. Sometimes it was just a pause in the battle and that’s what they all had to accept.
He went to find his ride to the airport. He looked over at the buses, but Cade was already gone, coffin and all.
Something nagged at him, but he didn’t think much about it. It would only come to him much later.
Cade wasn’t carrying anything when he left.
CANDACE HAD NO IDEA how her father did this every day. She was exhausted. She thought she had endurance. After all, out in L.A., she’d regularly stayed up until dawn before hitting the gym and maintaining a 3.75 GPA. But that was nothing compared to the relentless schedule of the campaign trail.
All she wanted to do right now was fall down on the hotel room bed and sleep. She was going home—well, to the White House—tomorrow. She could rest a little. She only hoped she’d be able to get her bra and shoes off before she passed out.
Candace froze. Someone was in the room with her.
In an instant, all the fears she’d managed to keep at bay suddenly piled on her like a pack of wolves. It was the Boogeyman, come to get her. She opened her mouth to scream, knowing it would be useless, that it would probably only draw the Secret Service agents to their death.
Then she realized it was Cade.
“I apologize for startling you,” he said.
She went a little weak with—well, not exactly relief. Cade wasn’t a warm and friendly face. But he was better than the alternative.
“You don’t believe it,” Cade observed.
“What?”
“That the Boogeyman is dead.”
“You and Zach said he was.”
“No. I didn’t. I said that’s how it appeared. And that’s all that can be proven.”
“The building blew up. How was he supposed to walk away from that?”
“I did,” Cade
said.
Candace shuddered. She realized he was right. She didn’t buy it. Never had. Something still felt wrong. Maybe no one else noticed it. Maybe Zach was accustomed to living with it. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that her time in the trough of the nightmare wasn’t over.
“Why are you here, Cade?” she asked.
“I have to ask you something,” he said. “You should probably refuse. But I believe you need to have the choice yourself. I can’t justify my actions any other way.”
She listened carefully to him. Her anger flared up when she realized what he was asking. But he didn’t push. He simply stood quietly while she considered what he said.
“All right,” Candace said. “I’ll do it.”
Before he was president, Teddy Roosevelt once stopped in a saloon in North Dakota. One of the cowboys took one look at the bespectacled city slicker from the East Coast. He drew his guns and threatened to make Roosevelt dance.
Roosevelt took off his glasses, stood up, and knocked the cowboy out cold.
It’s hard to imagine any U.S. President in the last fifty years who’d be able to pull off that kind of bad-assery. Maybe LBJ, but everyone after him? Nixon would hide in the bathroom. Carter might offer some mealy-mouthed words of apology. Bush Senior would have the servants escort the rowdy away. And President Curtis? It’s hard to imagine him getting his impeccably pressed shirt-cuffs dirty. Fisticuffs somehow seem so beneath the Harvard-trained lawyer, something for the plebeian rabble.
Then again, sometimes there’s a hint of something a little more feral when Curtis is at the edge of losing his icy calm. Look at his eyes then, and you’ll see someone who’s about ready to do more than throw a punch—he looks like he’s about to cut a bitch.
Maybe it’s a good thing we’ve never seen President Curtis in a street fight. He might go all Sasquatch on us and then there would be bodies piled up on the floor.
Maybe, like Roosevelt, we should leave the city slicker alone.
—Mudslinger, a political blog
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