“Jesus, they’ve got the old sack of shit dead to rights,” Rossetti said. “Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”
“It gets worse.” Cough. “Keep—” Cough. “Watching.”
“Really?” Rossetti took another bite of his sandwich. He was so absorbed with the story that Faciamano’s coughing became little more than background noise.
Sam Quarry was back on the screen. “Spanner said that his office would be investigating Benzino and his company, Beacon Hill Partners. It’s believed that Beacon Hill may have illegally dumped contaminated debris in other locations around Long Island as well. Check our web site for more information on this story.”
Rossetti had just swallowed his food. His eyes bulged as food got stuck in his throat. He had to wash it down with beer before he could articulate his panic. He hadn’t worked for Benzino for several years and figured that he had gotten out of the dirty business cleanly. He now knew differently, very differently. “Oh shit!” he blurted and felt his heart begin to race. “Shit, you couldn’t have just told me? Fuck! The DA will come after each and every one of us.”
Silence.
“Nunzio? Hey, Nunzio.” Rossetti listened for a reply, but all he heard was a weak gurgling sound and a wheeze followed by the dial tone.
Chapter 3
Milosh Wrga’s skin burned as if it were on fire. He tore open his white long-sleeve shirt and in his rush sprayed buttons all over the bathroom counter. He then yanked off his UV-treated cap and turned so that he could clearly see himself in the large mirror. Sizable blisters had already risen on the back of his neck, his ears, and the backs of his hands. “Idiot,” he swore aloud. He had waited outside Nunzio Faciamano’s for him to return home for more than an hour on a day when the sun index was close to 9, far longer than he knew his delicate skin condition would tolerate. Even the covered areas of his body were raw to the touch. The noontime sun had seared his delicate skin right through his shirt.
He opened the cold-water spigot in the bathtub until icy water blasted out of the faucet with fire-hose pressure, then raced down to the basement where he kept a commercial ice machine and a large bucket.
He undressed while his bath was filling and sat naked on the edge of the tub, examining the texture of the mottled skin on his upper leg, a mosaic of blotches and scars that chronicled the history of blisters he had endured over the course of his life, a mélange of tan, brown, and white spots that resembled the camouflaged skin on a flounder born to blend in with the sandy ocean bottom.
He placed his equipment on the tub ledge and eased into the water. His teeth immediately began to chatter but stopped within mere seconds. He was no stranger to this manner of self-prescribed triage and quickly adjusted to the frigid water temperature. He sat for minutes allowing the cold to numb his inflamed skin and then reached for his rubber tourniquet strap. Using his teeth, he tightened it around his arm, then swabbed the thick protruding vein that descended from his upper arm and ran along his forearm. He inserted the winged venipuncture needle into his vein and secured it with a premeasured strip of sterile tape before attaching the transfer fitting to a sixty-milliliter evacuated tube. He took a deep breath, pushed the tube into the fitting, and pressed his eyes shut for a moment so that he wouldn’t see his blood, which was being drawn into the collection tube by vacuum pressure, loop through the clear tubing.
A rolled towel supported his neck while the overabundance of iron was temporarily withdrawn from his blood. The cold water lowered his heart rate and the phlebotomy lowered his blood pressure. For the first time in hours Wrga was finally comfortable enough to relax. He rested the blood collection tube on the tub ledge, closed his eyes, and reveled in a tranquil stupor.
He had lived with porphyria his entire life, a rare enzyme deficiency that had turned his skin into a photosensitive nightmare. The ice-water bath only treated his discomfort. It was the bloodletting that drew iron out of his system and calmed his hypersensitive skin. The blisters would take weeks to heal, but at least for now the dire inferno had been extinguished.
His hepatologist had repeatedly warned him not to perform phlebotomy while submersed in ice water because the sudden drop in blood pressure and pulse rate might be dangerous, but he found the combination pure ecstasy, and he thoroughly enjoyed living on the edge. The word phlebotomy irritated him—he enjoyed the antiquated term better. “Begin the bloodletting,” he’d chant aloud in a haunting manner as if he were performing a pagan ritual that would restore his tortured body to normalcy. But the word normal was not one he had ever embraced. He’d always been different, removed from friends and lovers because of his odd appearance. They saw only his condition and shrank before him, incorrectly assuming that it was contagious. Words like eew and yuck preceded him throughout his life. Isolation became his normal state of being, and in that space, alone and by himself, his thinking grew aberrant.
The phone rang several times before he became cognizant of it and retrieved it from the pocket in his slacks, which lay on the tile floor next to the tub. The display read Caller Unknown. Wrga suspected who the caller might be. He picked up the call but remained silent and waited for the caller to identify himself.
“You there, Dracula?” a humming electronically altered voice asked in a careless manner.
Screw you! “Yes. I’m here,” he said in his heavy Slavic accent.
“I figured I’d better get an update before you crawled back into your coffin. So? I’m on pins and needles; talk to me.”
“You’re a real pain in my ass. Can we get through a conversation without the sarcasm?”
Silence.
Piece of shit. “Faciamano is dead, and he hung on just long enough to call the next one on the list. I told him I was going to let him live, but of course, that wasn’t going to happen. ”
“You drink his blood?” The caller snorted and then laughed heartily, the sound of the voice unnerving through the voice changer.
“You know that’s not very funny.”
“No? I thought it was goddamn hysterical. Where’s your sense of humor, Vlad? Ha. Ha. Ha.” The menacing laugh boomed in his ear. “How many mercenaries burst into flames the moment they’re exposed to the sun?”
“Eat shit! It’s a lousy goddamn condition to live with.” I wish it on you.
“So touchy. Take it easy. I was just making a joke.”
“I’ll trace the phone number Faciamano called to get the next address I need,” Wrga said, deliberately changing the subject in the hope of bringing an end to his patron’s cruel tirade. “That good with you?” The large blood collection tube was full. He detached it and snapped a fresh one into place. His core temperature was dropping from prolonged submersion in the ice water. A shiver ran through him.
“Did he tell you what we needed to know?”
“Yes and no.”
“What do you mean yes and no? Either he did or he didn’t,” the voice snapped.
“Then he didn’t, all right? He didn’t know any specifics.”
“Are you sure? Did you try beating it out of him?”
“Yes.” You ignoramus. You think I painted his toenails? “Faciamano just did three years in federal prison. A man like that’s not easy to intimidate.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Still …” the voice continued soberly. “I’m paying you for results and to this point … How soon before you call on the next one?”
“Tonight.”
“Then I guess I’ll hear from you after the sun goes down and it’s safe for the undead to walk the earth.”
“You’ll hear from me when it’s done,” he snapped. And if we were face to face … He squeezed his hands into fists. You condescending son of a bitch.
“Yes, all right. Don’t keep me waiting, Wrga. I’m not very patient.”
Now there’s a surprise. “I’ve got to go,” he said and quickly ended the call. He felt blisters sprouting on his chin and right cheek. Shit! I should’ve dunked my face. He splashed cold water on his face to
quench the fire. The second tube of blood was full. He detached it and snapped an empty one into place before standing and getting out of the tub. He had medication that helped with the blistering and was in a hurry to take it.
Cold water dripped from his pale body as he turned to face himself in the mirror. He had only felt blisters in a few spots, but the mirror revealed that his face was bright red with welts rising on his forehead and under his eyes. His chest and trunk were pale white, and though they contrasted sharply with his red face and neck, they were nonetheless stippled in the areas where old blisters had healed. The large blood collection tube was still dangling from his arm half-full as droplets of water ran downward and dripped on the floor. He was part man, part killer, and also something much worse. His eyes grew wide as he took in his reflection. He accepted the spectacle and was quick to put a name on the abomination he saw in the mirror. He sneered in an intimidating manner as he imagined he would if he came face to face with the insensitive lout he’d just spoken with. “Freak!” he called himself all the while reveling in how he’d make the inconsiderate bastard cower just before he took his life.
Chapter 4
While staring out the hospital window, I absentmindedly squeezed the call button so hard that it cracked. I felt angry and despondent, but not about Sand. Screw Sand. A man like that couldn’t hide out for long. His underground lair had been discovered, and his assets were about to be frozen. In addition, he had that one-in-a-million face, the kind that couldn’t be disguised with a wig or makeup, or even with surgery. I pictured him being chased through a dark alley like the werewolf of London disappearing into the fog as bobbies blew their whistles and followed in hot pursuit, hounds yelping as they closed in on the beast. Unlike the werewolf, Sand’s appearance would not return to normal with the coming of day. He’d remain the creature he’d made himself, frightening to gaze upon, until the day his breath would be stilled forever.
He’d fled after the gun battle on 43rd Street in Manhattan and had somehow made it down Broadway on foot, where he was seen ducking into the 42nd Street subway entrance. It’s one of the busiest stations in the city with eleven subway lines running through it twenty-four hours a day. A pretty confusing maze one might say, but how on God’s green earth had no one come forward to report a giant deformed black man in Stormtrooper gear running for his life? Now you understand why I’m so goddamned pissed off.
Bill Wallace was dead. It was a conclusion I didn’t want to accept, refused to accept, but could do nothing to change. The ache in the pit of my stomach was far worse than the ache caused by my gunshot wound, and would heal far more slowly.
I’d hit Sand dead center in the chest but never saw blood gush from his armor. Such had not been the case with the others who had been shot and killed. The battle armor the others wore were no more than costumes that provided no tactical benefit. Sand’s conspirators proved to be no match for trained federal agents with guns in their hands fighting to save their own lives. But Sand … He was smarter than the rest. He must’ve been wearing Kevlar beneath the futuristic battle armor.
And Bill Wallace was dead.
My throat tightened as I visualized his face. The man was at times a giant pain in the ass and a tad too overly ambitious, but that meant nothing now. He had always been a hardworking and patriotic federal officer with a wife and kids, a man I had worked with for years, admired, and respected.
I heard a knock on the door and saw Cabrera standing there. My funny clown was now a sad clown. He gazed at me for a moment, appearing unsure about whether he was welcome, seemingly lost in space, like an astronaut floating outside a space station unaware if NASA was hearing his SOS transmission. “Mather in this blind, this is Agent Cabrera. I need instructions. Come in, Mather.”
Your signal is being received, Cabrera. I invited him in with a pat on the bed, removing any doubt whether his signal was being received and responded to.
There was something behind his back. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that it wasn’t an astronaut life-support pack. He was hiding a bouquet of flowers, which he finally presented, looking of all things bashful. The guy standing before me seemed nothing like the Cabrera I knew and loved, who was normally loud, bold, and unfiltered, a guy who came at you whirling at full speed like Taz, the Tasmanian Devil. I figured I’d better say something to flip his switch. “I was really hoping for a squirting carnation or a palm buzzer. Flowers? Cabrera, you’re getting soft.”
He pushed out his lips and pouted. “I’m sorry, Gumdrop, I just don’t know what to say.”
I smirked. “You, at a loss for words? Who are you trying to kid?”
“I mean it. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out.”
I sighed heavy heartedly. “I know. This really sucks, but the flowers are beautiful,” I said as I accepted the bouquet with my right hand because my left arm was fixed in a sling. I sniffed the flowers. “You couldn’t have brought me poppies?”
“Poppies?” He seemed confused.
“You know, poppies? Smack? Junk? Horse? For the pain, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh yeah. My head’s a mess,” he confessed. “My, but you’re on top of your heroin slang.”
A smile came to me slowly. “Hey, do you remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine makes out with her coworker, Zack, and Peterman wants her to nurse Zack while he goes cold turkey on heroin?”
He grimaced. “I think they’ve given you too much painkiller.”
I recalled the line and took a stab at imitating J. Peterman. ‘“He’s back on the horse, Elaine. Smack. White palace. The Chinaman’s nightcap.’”
Cabrera snorted. “Yeah. I remember that one.”
“And Elaine said, ‘Look, uh, Mr. Peterman, the fact is that I was planning on breaking up with Zach anyway. He was cheating on me!’”
Cabrera chuckled. ‘“Damn it, Elaine,’” he said in Peterman’s voice. ‘“That wasn’t Zach. That was the yam-yam.’”
“You do a mean Peterman. Feeling any better?”
He shook his head.
“Nah. Me neither,” I said solemnly and opened my arms. “Come here, you big lug. I think we need a hug.”
We embraced and then I stuffed the bouquet into an empty vase on the side table.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Where’s your mom and Liam?”
“They were here all night. I sent them home to get some sleep. God knows I didn’t get any—with all the poking and prodding and checking … All the attention,” I quipped. “It’s enough to make a person sick.”
“Nah. I didn’t sleep either.” I could see his throat tighten, and then he shook his head woefully. “Man, this is really bad.”
We didn’t yet know who had fired the bullet that killed Wallace. I had only learned after surgery that the other masked Stormtroopers were all dead, and that all of them, like Sand, were individuals with severe facial deformities. On Sand’s orders they must’ve all come to murder me and had lost their lives, falsely believing that they’d be saving Sand from the gallows.
“If only …” I quickly grabbed a tissue and blotted my tears.
“Now don’t do that, Gumdrop. You were the only one that saw the attack coming. Your quick thinking probably saved my life and Stone’s.”
“But not Wallace’s.”
“Yeah, I get that, and I know that must hurt like hell, but there wasn’t anything you could’ve done about it. How could you know that Sand had four psychopathic accomplices disguised as Star Wars characters? Thank God you figured it out when you did. Gun magazines on their blasters, huh? That was a pretty sharp observation, Gumdrop. No one else noticed that those toy guns were actually semiautomatic weapons.” He raised his eyebrows. “I never realized you were such a sci-fi geek. I’m more of a Lord of the Rings kind of guy myself.” He managed a weak smile. “I just remembered—you didn’t see the other faces, did you?”
“No. I only heard … so they were all deformed?”
“Mather, it was surrea
l. The police yanked off their helmets and … it was like a goddamn nightmare. They were monsters inside and out. This has to go down as one of the most bizarre gun battles of all time.”
But Wallace was still dead.
“They were there to kill me, Dom. Wallace was collateral damage.”
“You don’t know that for sure. This guy Sand has to be insane. Did he really think your death would save him from arrest and prosecution? No one in their right mind would believe that. If anything, he turned the heat up on himself. Sand made himself public enemy number one.” He patted my arm. “Look, all we can do is get even. We’ll catch this son of a bitch Sand and string him up by his balls.”
“That sounds like a good start.”
“When did the doctors say you could get out of here?”
“A few days. The bullet just tore up some muscle. I’ll be back on the streets PDQ if I have anything to say about it.”
“Yeah, well, fortunately you don’t. I know you’re a tough-as-nails ex-marine but this isn’t the kind of wound you just rub a little dirt on. Listen to the doctors and take it slow. We’ll catch this slug. Half the cops in the city are after him, and Stone has set up a special taskforce just to take this guy down. A few days of rest won’t make any difference. Listen to me. Get your strength back and let the rest of us do the heavy lifting.”
“That’s not the way I do things.”
Cabrera’s eyes grew large. “Really? No kidding? You?” He grimaced. “I always had you pegged as a slacker.” He reached for the call button. “More morphine, please,” he called out. “Someone needs to chill the fuck out.”
I sighed. “Do they have a date for Wallace’s funeral yet?”
“Nah. You kidding? His body is still in the morgue.”
“I don’t expect it will be there very long.”
“No,” Cabrera said in a solemn voice. “Not very long.” He stood up. “I have to go, Gumdrop. Some of us actually have to work for a living.” He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t treating the hospital staff like enemy combatants.”
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