Airtight

by David Rosenfelt

  I haven’t thought about it in ten years. It’s amazing how old memories come back when you think you’ll never again make new ones.

  That’s it for now … power on the computer is getting low.

  Make Gallagher understand. Please.

  Chris Gallagher spent almost two hours gauging the level of security.

  It wasn’t so much that he was concerned that he couldn’t handle whatever was presented. He had entered Taliban strongholds undetected; getting into Richard Carlton’s house would be a comparative piece of cake, no matter how many guards he employed to protect himself.

  What Gallagher learned in two hours he could have learned in ten minutes. There was no outside security in place, other than motion detector floodlights, which he could easily elude.

  The wreckage of the guesthouse had been mostly cleared away, and Gallagher could see the foundation with his night vision goggles. It just added to the question that had already formed in Gallagher’s mind; why would someone like Carlton, already the victim of violence, not have more security?

  It certainly couldn’t be financial; just based on the house, and the money Carlton was getting from Hanson, he could have hired an entire army division to protect him. And with his guesthouse destroyed, and a Hanson employee already dead, surely Carlton couldn’t be oblivious to the danger.

  People like Carlton did not react to physical danger well. Things like that happened to other people, not them. So they overreacted, spending whatever it might take to shield themselves from that world.

  Yet Carlton didn’t even have his curtains drawn; Gallagher could see him sitting serenely in what looked like his study, on the main floor, reading.

  So the question answered itself beyond any doubt in Gallagher’s mind. Carlton was not afraid, because Carlton was behind the violence. It was why he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of.

  But he was about to find out otherwise.

  Gallagher could only see one other person in the house; he looked like he could be a security guard, but there was no way to be sure of that. The challenge was going to be putting him out of commission while not giving Carlton enough warning or time to call 911.

  So he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  Carlton didn’t move, showing no concern whatsoever. Through the glass window at the top of the door, Gallagher could see the other man in the house walk towards the front door. As he approached, while his momentum was still going forward, Gallagher kicked in the door. It was a sudden, violent move that he had perfected long ago.

  The door smashed the man in the face, probably rendering Gallagher’s blow to his head unnecessary. He was not dead, Gallagher saw no reason to go that far, but he would not be waking up for a while.

  For Gallagher, it represented the final crossing of a line. His life was essentially over; he recognized that and was comfortable with it. After tonight he would either soon be dead or live on as a fugitive. But he was positive that the answer to Steven’s death was in this house, and he wasn’t leaving until he had it.

  Gallagher raced to the study, just as Carlton was getting to his feet in response to the crashing noise. When he saw Gallagher coming towards him, he looked towards the phone, but even in his panicked state he knew there was no chance of that.

  Gallagher grabbed him at the front of his throat and pushed him against the wall. Choking, Carlton tried to strain upwards and away, but Gallagher just pushed him higher, cutting off his air supply. But Gallagher was not there to kill; he was there to get information.

  Maybe fifteen seconds before Carlton would have passed out, Gallagher released his grip and pushed him into a chair. He waited until Carlton could speak his first words: “Who are you?”

  “I am Steven Gallagher’s brother.”

  “Who is that?”

  “He is the person you framed after you had Judge Brennan killed.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “You don’t know me, but I am telling you this. Right now I control you, I control your pain, and I control your life. Do not lie to me.”

  “I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”

  Gallagher was surprised by the statement. Carlton was petrified; there was no question about that. Gallagher would have guessed he would have caved by then; perhaps the man was tougher than he thought.

  So Gallagher tried another approach.

  He broke Carlton’s arm.

  He did it like one would snap a twig, only arms make a louder cracking noise than twigs. Carlton screamed in agony, an appropriate response considering the circumstance, and then started to mix in sobs with the screams.

  “Why did you kill Brennan?” asked Gallagher in a calm voice, stepping back.

  “NO, NO…”

  “Why did you frame my brother?”

  “NO, PLEASE … I DIDN’T … I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT.”

  Gallagher started walking back towards him, and saw the total panic in his eyes. The fact that Carlton was not caving was a major surprise to him, and he was not often surprised.

  It was a dilemma, in that inflicting more pain would get Carlton to confess to anything; Gallagher could have him admit to killing Kennedy. But Gallagher didn’t want a confession that way; he wanted the truth.

  “You’re lying.”

  By now Carlton was whimpering. “I swear, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Then tell me what you do know.”

  And Carlton did exactly that.

  I should have done it long ago, even though it had little chance of success.

  I hadn’t wanted to spook Gallagher in the process, but I could no longer worry about that. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost thirty-six hours, and in any event I couldn’t be confident that I would be able to convince him to give Bryan more time.

  I needed Barone’s help, and wasn’t positive I could get it, at least not on my terms. But I was waiting in his office to make my pitch when he got in.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, when he saw me. Then, “Let’s hear it, fast. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I thought that’s what you’ve been getting.”

  I nodded. “And I continue to appreciate it. But we’ve got to elevate it a notch.”

  “I’m listening. Reluctantly, but I’m listening.”

  “We’ve got to go wide with this.” In our parlance, that meant I was saying that so far the investigation had been limited to the officers in our precinct. Going wide would mean bringing in other precincts.

  “How would that help?” he asked.

  “I believe he’s in a bomb shelter in one of three counties. I need every cop that can walk going door-to-door, asking people if they know of bomb shelters in their area, so we can check them out. I also got a list of abandoned missile silos from the Defense Department, which we can do as a follow-up if this doesn’t pay off.”

  “You know what the odds are of this working?”

  “Very slim,” I said.

  “What about Gallagher?”

  “I want to leave him out of this, for now. I can’t afford to burn that bridge, not while there’s a chance of him seeing the light and letting Bryan go. Or at least extending the deadline.”

  “So I’m going to call in the troops, sending them on a wild-goose chase, and conceal information crucial to the investigation? When the commissioner finds out he’ll turn me into a school crossing guard, with a defective whistle.”

  “It’s on me,” I said. “If it goes south, you only knew what your people told you, and I withheld the crucial facts. I’ll take the bullet.”

  What I was saying was true to a point, but much was left unsaid. Barone would look bad in the process, and he had to know that.

  “This is a big ask,” he said.

  “Captain, my brother is going to die if we don’t do this, and maybe even if we do. I am asking you to do whatever you can to prevent that from happening, whatever the blowback might
be.”

  “You know which precincts we’re talking about?”

  “I do.” I took a piece of paper out of my jacket pocket, and handed it to him.

  He looked at it, and said, “This has to go through the chief.”

  I nodded. “He’ll go with your recommendation, as long as you tell him it’s life-and-death.”

  “Which is what you’re telling me,” he said, pointedly.

  I nodded again. “Which is what I’m telling you.”

  He thought for a moment, then went to his desk and picked up the phone, asking his assistant to get the chief on the phone for him. “If he’s not there, find him,” Barone said. “This is Grade One.”

  Within twenty minutes we had the authorization we needed and I was on the way out there to organize the operation, which had almost no chance for success.

  * * *

  I was almost there when my cell phone rang. It showed up as “caller unknown,” which gave me hope that it was Gallagher.

  It was.

  “Stay near this phone,” Gallagher said, instead of “hello.”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “I may have information you’ll want to hear.”

  “Good, but when?” I asked. “Time is running out.”

  “I know the timing better than you,” he said. “I just need to confirm something, and maybe save some lives in the process. You’ll be a goddamn hero.”

  “I just want my brother alive,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “Then hang tight.”

  “I will.”

  He was quiet for a while, and I thought he might have hung up. “Hello?” I said.

  “I needed to know that Steven hadn’t done anything,” he said. Again there was a long period of silence. Then, “I knew, but I needed to know.”

  “Please tell me where Bryan is,” I said, but Gallagher ignored my plea.

  Instead he said, “Have you ever crossed the line?”

  I knew exactly what he meant. “No, I’ve gone to the edge a few times, but never crossed it.”

  “Think long and hard before you do,” he said. “Because there is no way back.”

  Bryan … we’re making great progress. I just had a conversation with Gallagher that was very promising. He said he was soon going to be telling me information that I’d “want to hear.”

  You would have made a great cop, and it’s not too late. All you have to do is give up any hope of ever having a decent house or car, but the upside is that you’ll start getting shot at.

  You’re handling this amazingly well, Bryan, and I’m proud of you. You’ve always been miscast as the younger brother, because I’ve always looked up to you.

  See you soon …

  “What the hell happened here?”

  It was the question Tommy Rhodes asked as soon as he walked in, but he had a pretty good idea already. He had seen the car leaving, and gotten a look at the driver.

  The door to Carlton’s house had been ajar when Rhodes came in, and the scene was fairly chaotic. William, who had been assisting Carlton throughout this operation, was bleeding slightly from the mouth, and had obviously come in second place in a two-person encounter.

  Carlton was doing quite a bit worse. He was screaming in pain, yelling at William to get the car, and holding his arm at an awkward angle. It was obviously broken, and Rhodes saw it as a good bet that the driver who had just left was the source of the break.

  “I’ve got a broken arm, that’s what happened.” Then, to William, “Let’s go.”

  “Where are you going?” Rhodes asked.

  “The hospital, where do you think?”

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “That I fell, that I slipped, what the hell is the difference? If you got here on time, maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

  He started moving towards the door, but Rhodes closed it.

  “What are you doing?” Carlton asked.

  “I’m trying to find out what that guy wanted, and what you told him.”

  For a brief instant, Carlton’s face reflected some worry along with the pain, but he recovered quickly. “He thought I had Brennan killed.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I didn’t, what do you think I said? Damn idiot, he didn’t even know the cops shot the killer.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know,” Carlton lied. He wanted Rhodes in the dark as much as possible; he didn’t trust him.

  “What else did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. This hurts like hell, you understand? If they don’t operate on it right away, it won’t heal right.”

  “Carlton, you’re not in this alone, OK? Tell me what else you told this guy.”

  “For the last time, Rhodes, I didn’t tell the guy anything. Now get the hell out of the way.”

  But Rhodes was no longer looking at Carlton; he had nothing more to say to him. Instead he turned to William, making eye contact without saying anything.

  William understood the unspoken question, and slowly shook his head from side to side. Carlton didn’t notice the connection between the two of them; he was already heading for the door.

  He got his hand to the doorknob when the three bullets hit him in the back, pushing him into the door, before he slumped to the floor.

  “Leave him right here; I want him found,” Rhodes said to William.

  “He will be.”

  “Just the latest victim of the outraged citizens of Brayton.”

  William smiled. “They’re out of control.”

  Barone had done an impressive job.

  Whatever he had said to his counterparts in the three northwest New Jersey counties had certainly motivated them. By the time I got to state police headquarters, officers from all three counties had gathered there. There were probably sixty in total, more than I would have expected could have been spared from other work.

  “We’re looking for someone who has been kidnapped and is being held in what we believe is an underground room. Our assumption is that it is a bomb shelter, though we cannot be absolutely positive about that.”

  One of the officers asked what made me think it was a bomb shelter, and I said, “The room seems to be soundproof, and fits the design typical of shelters in the sixties. C rations were also found in a metal cabinet, though they have apparently expired.

  “We have reason to believe that the shelter has been occupied recently, as there is a satellite television hookup that is operable and in use.”

  I showed them pictures of Bryan; I didn’t mention that he was my brother, but it’s likely that some of them made the connection because of the name, and the rather slight resemblance between us.

  “There is a complicating factor,” I said. “A major complicating factor. There is a limited air supply, scheduled to run out soon. So there is no time to lose.”

  “What’s the plan?” an officer asked.

  “The plan is to go door-to-door, asking everyone if they have or, more importantly, know of bomb shelters in their area. We can then cross-check that against our list of homes with satellites.

  “Every single possibility must be followed up on immediately, and if we need more manpower, I’ll make sure that we get it. I am aware that this is a difficult assignment, but we are one knock on a door away from solving it, and saving Bryan Somers.

  “There is no time to lose, ladies and gentlemen. This situation defines ‘life-and-death.’”

  Lucas … I am very, very anxious to hear more about your progress with Gallagher. I don’t have to tell you that time is running short.

  I keep imagining that I’m having trouble breathing, that the air is running out prematurely. But I’m still alive, so clearly I’ve been mistaken. So far …

  Hoping that someone gets me out of here before I run out of air is definitely the textbook definition of “waiting with bated breath.”

  Hurry …

  Alex Hutchison was gratified, but not surprised, at the r
esponse.

  People were scared, and they were frustrated, and they were looking for someone to help them find a solution. Alex was providing, if not a solution, then at least a plan of attack. No one had a better idea, so they followed her.

  People had started showing up the day before, bringing their tents and sleeping bags with them. Underneath them was the natural gas that Hanson was planning to bring up, in Alex’s mind destroying the environment in the process.

  But no one would be able to drill while the land was inhabited by so many people, and it was Alex’s intention to keep a good number of protesters there 24/7.

  Alex had confidence that the Brayton police would not attempt to evict them; those officers were the friends of the protesters. Their children went to the same schools, breathed the same air, and drank the same water. They would not turn on the protesters and do Hanson’s bidding.

  Alex spent as much time as she could at the site, keeping morale up, and making sure as best she could that everyone was well behaved. Logical speculation was rampant that the recent violence was committed by protesters, so Alex wanted to keep these demonstrations as peaceful and law-abiding as possible.

  But Alex instinctively understood that demonstrations could only be effective if there was someone to demonstrate to. Hanson Oil and Gas had paid a fortune for that land, and they were not about to pack up their drills and go home because there were people camping out on it.

  Even if the Brayton police were reluctant to do their bidding, Hanson would undoubtedly get a court order, and then some police organization, local, state, or Federal, would be forced to act on it. Alex needed to make it as painful as possible for Hanson to try and do that.

  The only chance to accomplish the goal was to win the public relations battle. That was why she had called a huge rally for Saturday evening. Her hope was to get at least ninety percent of the citizens of Brayton, plus many supporters from nearby towns, to descend on the contested land.

  By publicizing the rally as much as possible, she hoped to get the media out in force. Interviews with worried parents, their children by their sides, would send a powerful message.