by Eric Bernt
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Lawrence’s hand shook even more severely. He started to look frustrated. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Caitlin. I wish I could remember. I really do.”
She felt bad, putting pressure on him like this. “I know, Dad. Don’t worry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I can come up with my own Alpha Reset Protocol.”
He immediately let go of her hand, looking at her curiously. “What did you say?”
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have—”
He interrupted her with a sudden intensity that hinted at the man’s former character. “What did you say?”
His ferocity didn’t scare her. In fact, she found it comforting to be reminded of the man who had raised her. “You called it the Alpha Reset Protocol. That’s all I ever knew.”
He turned toward the window, nodding almost imperceptibly. It was hard to tell if he’d just drifted off or might be remembering something. He repeated the words slowly and methodically. “Alpha Reset Protocol.”
A glimmer of hope flashed across Caitlin’s face. “Does that phrase mean something to you, Dad? Anything? If there’s anything at all you can remember, it would be a great help.”
He tried to answer but had difficulty forming the words. All he could get out was “I . . . can’t . . .” He struggled to raise his hand, as if to make a point, but it was shaking terribly.
“Dad, it’s okay.” She knew his infirmity embarrassed him. After all, the man had once wielded nearly unimaginable power. He usually tried to avoid the movements that made his weakened physical condition so apparent. She placed her hand on his to help him lower it.
“Stop.” He gave the command with absolute authority. She was taken aback by the edge in his voice and watched him slowly reach inside the collar of his shirt. It was not clear what he was trying to do until he revealed a necklace he was wearing. On the end of the necklace was a key. It looked like the key to a safety-deposit box. With considerable effort, he pulled the necklace up over his head and handed it to Caitlin. “Alpha Reset Protocol.”
She held the key tightly in her hand as she stared lovingly at what was left of the man who had been her role model. Her inspiration. And training instructor. She was among the very few who knew that he had been responsible for placing four United States presidents, five Supreme Court justices, and nineteen senators. It was a hell of a legacy, but one she intended to live up to.
Tears welled in her eyes as he stared back vacantly. She didn’t know what the key meant but knew where to start. Caitlin now had the clarity she had come for. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too.”
Caitlin left the nursing home but did not return to her Subaru Forester. She unlocked the car next to it, the Cutlass, and got inside. The car was still registered in her father’s name, although she had paid the annual registration fee for it since his arrival at this facility. He didn’t even know he still owned the car, or that it was parked anywhere near him. Every time she visited her father, Caitlin had taken the car for a spin around the neighborhood, gassing it up when necessary. She had always figured there was a strong likelihood that her Subaru had some kind of tracking device in it, and if she ever had to disappear, she would need an alternate vehicle.
The Cutlass was it. She put the key in the ignition, and the car started right up. She backed out of the parking space and pulled into the street, beginning a journey from which there was no returning. She had almost certainly seen her father for the last time.
Tears streamed down her face.
CHAPTER 13
RITTENHOUSE SQUARE
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
June 1, 2:22 p.m.
Butler McHenry parked his Chevy Tahoe in an alley several blocks away from Locust Street. The drive to Philadelphia had taken considerably less time than the usual hour and a half. But he had also never averaged ninety-three miles per hour on the route before. It had saved him a good twenty minutes. He paused before getting out of the car, making sure he really wanted to do this. It would place his entire fourteen-year career with the New York Police Department at risk. Hell, the truth was it could do a lot worse than that, but only if he was caught. He shook his head, realizing how much he was thinking like a criminal. No wonder so many crooks became cops, and vice versa.
He wasn’t a religious man, but there had been moments in his life that made him believe there was something bigger going on that he would never understand. There was the sniper’s bullet meant for him in Panama, which had missed killing him only because he had tripped over the decapitated body of a fallen comrade. There was the IED in Baghdad that should have blown up his entire team, but only threw off a few sparks because the would-be bomber hadn’t wired the pressure-sensitive detonator properly. And then last week, he happened to be in the immediate vicinity of the Christopher Street/Sheridan Square subway station when Skylar Drummond’s boyfriend, Jacob Hendrix, was thrown onto the train tracks in what was now believed to have been a murder and not a terrorist attack.
The question he often asked himself was Why? His friends in Alcoholics Anonymous often said that “coincidence” was merely a synonym for “God” with more syllables. While Butler might not go that far, it did seem that when he acted on what fell before him instead of fighting against it, things worked out for the better. Which was why he was here. His investigation into Jacob Hendrix’s murder had led him to Skylar, who then brought her patient, Edward Parks, and his echo box, to Butler. Yes, he was currently on suspension for helping them, but he’d felt like it was something he was supposed to do. Something he had to do.
It was the same feeling he had now. And if there was one thing Butler McHenry was not, it was a coward. If he felt he had to do something, he did it.
He got out of his SUV and walked around to the back. Opening the hatch, he folded down the left rear seat and removed the plastic cupholders, revealing a hidden compartment that contained a weathered backpack. Among former military specialists, it was known as “a bad-day bag.” Not unlike survivalists’ bugout bags, it contained all the required essentials for when the shit hit the fan. But where a bugout bag held merely tools for survival, a bad-day bag included equipment for conducting an offensive.
Removing the backpack, he checked the contents. The first item was a United States Army–issued bulletproof vest. It hadn’t been worn in almost fifteen years. The next two items were a generic black baseball cap and hoodie. Neither had a logo or any other writing on them. He put them on, along with the backpack, and started to walk the four blocks to the address the woman he knew only as Eleanor had given him.
He kept his head down, walking neither too fast nor too slow but at the pace of the other pedestrians, who all seemed to have pressing business of their own. As he spotted the address he’d been given, he could see a young woman through a plate-glass window packing up a coffee maker and other office items. The office had no signs in the windows, nor any other identifying features. If the temporary realty office was already being broken down, that meant Skylar might no longer be there. He could already be too late.
For all he knew, she was already dead.
Butler approached the office door, relieved to find it unlocked. He opened the door, startling the woman as she carried a cardboard box toward him. “Oh,” he said, “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I think I may have the wrong address. Is this 1737 Locust Street?” He checked his pockets, as if looking for notes he could no longer locate.
She responded sharply. “No, this is 1731. This is a private office, and you are trespassing.”
He looked around quickly, assessing the location. “Oh my goodness, well, don’t I feel as dumb as a doorknob. If I could trouble you to point me in the right direction, I’ll be leaving.”
The woman pointed south, to the left. “Seventeen thirty-seven is that way.” She reached into the cardboard box.
Butler shook his head. “Are you sure? I swear, I was just there and—” He never finished the st
atement because he slammed his elbow so hard into her temple that she lost consciousness immediately. He grabbed her and the cardboard box as she crumpled to the floor. Neither made a sound. As her hand fell from inside the box, her fingers still clenched a Ruger LC9 9 mm handgun. He no longer needed to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake. Butler quickly pried the weapon from her hand and checked the other contents of the box. Among the office supplies was a particular type of fighting knife called a SOG SEAL Pup fixed blade, which happened to be his favorite, so he kept it.
He checked out the windows to see if any passersby had caught the action, but there was no one in view. He removed his backpack and withdrew several items. The first were black leather driving gloves. They were worn from use, and not from driving. He put them on, then grabbed a couple of zip ties and used them to hog-tie the woman. Next was a Steyr M40-A1 handgun, which no longer had a serial number—it had been filed off when McHenry first prepared his bad-day bag. He’d known that if he ever needed to use this gun, he wouldn’t want to leave a trace.
He checked the weapon’s magazine. It contained twelve hollow points with the latest technology: OTF, or open-tip frangible, which created a wound channel five times the size of the bullet’s diameter. It was damn lethal. He also grabbed two extra magazines from the backpack, which contained at least six more, and put them in his front pockets. If he lost the upcoming battle, it would not be due to lack of ammunition. He pocketed several other items and put the backpack on.
McHenry moved down the hallway, stepping carefully. The right side was an exterior brick wall that lacked any type of decoration. The left side was a series of offices. He paused outside the first one. The door was ajar. The room was vacant. As he continued down the hall, he heard two male voices coming from the next office. One sounded older and menacing. The other he recognized instantly. It was Eddie Parks.
At least for the moment, he was still alive.
CHAPTER 14
HARMONY HOUSE
WOODBURY, NEW JERSEY
June 1, 2:58 p.m.
Locked inside his room, Eddie stared at the incredibly dense computer code that filled the screen of his laptop supercomputer. His fingers had stopped typing. The blood on the keys had dried and mostly flaked. His arms drooped at his sides. He was spent. “It’s fixed.”
The man in the Einstein mask, who appeared on the other computer screen, looked up from his iPhone, on which he was repeatedly swiping left. “Prove it.”
Eddie took a deep breath. “How would you like me to prove it?”
“Play something that includes your doctor’s voice.”
“Which doctor?”
“Which one do you think?” he asked sharply.
“Skylar Drummond, who I am fairly certain is still sitting next to you even though I cannot see her,” he said.
“You know, for a supposed genius, you’re a real idiot.”
Eddie turned to him defiantly. The mask allowed him to address the man directly. “I am on the autism spectrum, not an idiot. That is not a nice thing to say. Nice people don’t say things like that. Has anyone ever told you that you are not a nice person?”
“Yes, they have. And you know what, Edward? They’re right. And I will remind you how not nice I can be unless you prove to me your box is working right now.” He held up his knife directly in front of the camera lens, which made it look even larger and more menacing.
Eddie immediately clicked “Initiate” on his screen. The echo box sprang open, and the eight incredibly sensitive microsatellites started performing their synchronized dance as they acoustically mapped the room, recording the decayed and barely perceptible energy waves that had once been audible sound waves, still bouncing around the room. A three-dimensional acoustical map appeared on his screen as a “percent complete” counter started climbing to one hundred. Eddie turned his laptop so the man in the Einstein mask could see the progress. It took forty-five seconds for the process to finish.
Eddie scrolled through the timeline, looking for a particular date and time, which he located in short order. He hit “Play.” The only sounds were low-decibel HISSING and WARBLE.
Tristan shook his head. “I’m not impressed.”
Eddie reacted defensively. “That is because you don’t understand acoustic archeology or the basis for sound-wave retrieval.”
“That may be. But what you need to understand is that I’m going to kill her if I don’t hear her voice coming from that box of yours real soon.”
Eddie was about to ask how long “real soon” was but realized that asking the question would only further delay him. He worked his laptop as fast as he could, running the reconstructed waves through a harmonic filter. “Now listen.” The first voice to be heard was his own.
EDDIE: Dr. Drummond, why are you just sitting there?
Courtesy of the acoustic tiles Eddie had installed around his room, the reproduction of his voice was nearly perfect. It was astonishing.
SKYLAR: I’m actually doing far more than just sitting here.
EDDIE: What else are you doing?
SKYLAR: For one thing, I am nonverbally communicating with you.
Tristan was stunned, immediately recognizing Skylar’s voice—as well as the problem the device posed for him. Every sadistic act, every bit of torture, every cruel and unusual punishment he had ever inflicted upon his victims could now be replayed. The notion was unsettling. There would be no more plausible deniability. For anyone.
The reconstruction of the previously unrecorded conversation continued.
EDDIE: What are you communicating nonverbally?
SKYLAR: That I care about you and want you to know I’m here for you.
Tristan said, “That’s enough. Stop it.”
Eddie did so, looking confused. “I did what you asked. Let Skylar go.”
Tristan did not respond. He was distracted by a sound in the hallway. A creaking floorboard. He immediately thought how nice it was that these old Philadelphia office buildings always let you know when someone was coming. “Carla?” There was no response. The torturer quickly reached for something duct-taped beneath the table: a .357 Magnum. He clicked off the safety and aimed it toward the door.
Eddie stared angrily from the monitor. “We had an agreement, which is a type of promise. And a promise is a promise.”
“Edward, shut up.” Tristan kept his eyes trained on the door.
Eddie ignored his request. “You said it was up to me. And that was the truth, because I would have known if you were lying.” Eddie continued speaking but could no longer be heard because Tristan had muted the volume on the laptop. He was focused on the creaking in the hallway, which was coming toward him. Whoever was in the hallway stopped moving just outside the door. Tristan positioned himself behind Skylar, dropping to one knee, using her body as a shield. To shoot him, the trespasser would have to shoot her first.
The door slammed open abruptly, but no one came through. There was an unexpected moment of silence, which both Tristan and Skylar knew wouldn’t last long. Feeling his breath on the back of her neck as he aimed his weapon over her shoulder, Skylar leaned her head forward as if looking for something in her lap. She then snapped her head backward as hard as she could. Crack! The rubber Einstein mask gave him no protection whatsoever. The back of her head impacted Tristan’s nose, breaking it instantly.
The pain momentarily blinded him. He couldn’t see the stun grenade being rolled in through the door. The device was roughly the size of a can of beer and painted army green. Delay: 0.5 seconds was stenciled on its side. There were eight ten-millimeter holes drilled into it, through which an intense amount of sound and light was about to be released.
Skylar had seen enough television cop shows to know she should close her eyes as tightly as she could, but there was nothing that would protect her ears because her arms remained taped to the chair. The ammonium nitrate packed inside the canister ignited, producing a bang of 170 decibels. By comparison, listening to a jackhammer fr
om a distance of one inch produced only 130 decibels. The bang immediately ruptured her tympanic membrane, which regulated balance. If she hadn’t been bound to the chair, she would have fallen to the floor, just like Tristan did. For the moment, all she could hear was a constant ringing.
She was temporarily deaf.
The “flash” part of the device was caused by a subsonic deflagration of a magnesium-based pyrotechnic charge inside a thin aluminum case. It released a burst of light of over five million candela. The effect was temporarily blinding, eyes closed or not. Which meant Skylar neither saw nor heard what happened next.
Butler quickly stepped through the doorway, searching for his target in his gun sight. He first saw Skylar bound to the chair, looking terrified. Behind her, the kidnapper was writhing in pain on the floor. The man wearing a rubber Einstein mask clutched a Smith & Wesson, desperately trying to fire off a shot. Butler fired first. Twice, in fact. A double tap, hitting his target center mass like he’d been taught in Ranger School. Just like riding a bike was a refrain several of his former colleagues had repeated at their most recent reunion four years ago.
The ammunition performed exactly as promised in the manufacturer’s promotional brochures. The bullets expanded immediately upon impact and exploded out Tristan’s back. His heart and spinal cord were obliterated. Death was instantaneous.
Butler moved swiftly to Skylar. He took her hand in his and held it firmly. “It’s over. You’re okay.” He knew she couldn’t see or hear him, but it made him feel better saying it. She might not be able to recognize him, but at least she would know someone was there to help.
It was only now that Butler saw the video camera mounted on the tripod, its red light glowing. We’re being watched. Someone had witnessed him kill the man in the mask. Shit! Butler had seen a video setup like this when he took part in a bust at a Brooklyn pornography studio early in his career with the NYPD, when he could still be shocked at the depravity some people engaged in.