“Women,” he said, coughing. “Life’s too short. Especially mine. Hey, let’s go sit by the fire.”
“Are you sure you feel strong enough?”
He nodded.
Brooke called her father in, and they helped Wyatt into the wheelchair.
“Maybe we could go jogging tomorrow,” Wyatt said into her ear as she steered him down the hall toward the family room. “I do four miles a day now,” he said, perfectly deadpan.
“I bet you do. I could chain this chair behind Dad’s car, and get you going about sixty-five.”
Wyatt laughed out loud and then coughed until he was gasping for air. Brooke suddenly felt horrible for making him laugh, but knew he needed as much laughter as he could get. Laughter wasn’t what ailed him.
She parked Wyatt catty-corner to the fire, where it would be warm, but not too warm. Then she sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. Within a minute or two, he was asleep, his chin against his chest. She walked over and sat beside her mother on the couch. They caught up on news of friends and relatives and neighbors, and Brooke talked about work and how Darla was driving her crazy.
“She sounds nice enough,” Mom said.
Brooke nodded. “She is. She’s just driven.”
Brooke had remembered to phone Darla about an hour after arriving in Syracuse. She phoned the office first, but did not leave a message on the voice mail. She then phoned Darla’s apartment, got the machine, and again decided against leaving a message. She was done leaving messages.
Her father was asleep in front of the TV, and her mother was mesmerized by the work in her lap. Brooke stood, and walked to the kitchen. She took the cordless from the wall mount and dialed Darla’s home number.
There was no answer, but the machine did not pick up.
Odd,she thought. Darla must have come home and turned off the machine, and had then either gone out again or just wasn’t answering. Perhaps she had turned the ringer off. She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. The party should still be going on.
She dialed the number again. But again, no answer and no machine.
Enough of this,she thought, returning the cordless to the wall mount.I’ll try her in the morning.
She leaned against the countertop, enjoying the dark and quiet of the kitchen. It smelled of her childhood. Above the sink, through the glass pane of the cabinet door, she spotted her favorite Christmas cocoa mug. Half of the painted-on snowman on the front had rubbed off, and the handle was chipped in two places, but she’d sworn to her mother that if she eventhought of throwing it out, she would commit her to an old folks’ home the first chance she had. One of those really bad ones, she’d promised, where they steal your money and won’t change your bedsheets.
Wyatt woke himself up, coughing.
Brooke checked his IV drip and offered him something to drink.
The wind had really picked up outside. It wasn’t snowing much, but it was ten degrees colder than in the city. She had arrived late in the afternoon, but in winter the sun went down around 4:30P .M., so she hadn’t gotten to see much of her hometown in daylight. Tomorrow maybe they’d get out and do a little shopping. But getting Wyatt in and out of the car was an ordeal. And if he got really sick while they were out, they’d have to rush back and put him to bed.
It was getting late, and she was tired. She asked Mom if Dad would need help getting Wyatt back into bed.
“You go on,” Mom said. “We’ll take care of that.”
Brooke gave her mom a hug.
“It’s good to have you home.”
“It’s good to be here.”
00:00:32…00:00:31…00:00:30…
For the past half an hour or more, Miss Landers had been absolutely positive she smelled gas. At first she ignored it, blaming her overactive imagination. Then her curiosity got the best of her, and she began sniffing around her apartment. She went straight to the kitchen, sticking her head in the oven and taking a big long whiff. She roamed from room to room. Curiously, the farther she moved from the front door, the weaker the smell got.
Miss Landers turned down the volume on the television, as if her sniffer might function better once immersed in silence. She raised her nose high in the air, a look of determination in her eyes. As she passed through her front room, the odor drew her toward her front door. She worked her way down into a kneeling position, putting her face as close as she could to the gap beneath the door. Here the odor was strongest. She frowned and went to find her shoes.
Outside her door, she stood in the hallway, catching the scent. Out here it was particularly strong. She walked a dozen paces to the right, and though the odor was still present and strong, the farther she walked the more it faded. She moved back toward her door, and the smell of fumes increased. It seemed to be heaviest just at the door to Darla Donovan’s apartment.
Miss Landers frowned. She started to knock on Darla’s door but hesitated. Was it her business to deal with a neighbor? Perhaps not. She went back inside her own apartment and shut the door. She picked up the phone and started dialing the super’s number. Again, she hesitated. Why get a third party involved? It was a simple matter of broaching the subject to her neighbor, and asking the woman if everything was in order. And if something needed to be fixed, Darla could then contact the super herself.
00:00:12…
Miss Landers approached her neighbor’s door. She and Darla were not cozy with each other, but were on good speaking terms, and often aided each other in various capacities when the need arose.
By now she’d grown quite dizzy from the fumes. She raised her thumb to the doorbell button, and for the fleetest of moments reconsidered phoning the super.
00:00:03…
Miss Landers frowned, nearly sick to her stomach because of fumes coming from beneath her neighbor’s door. She gathered her resolve, stood her ground, straight and tall, and jabbed the orange-glowing doorbell button with her thumb.
00:00:01…00:00:00…
The explosion rocked the city for a radius of about a half a mile. Ada Landers was flash-fried in the span of a nanosecond. Several apartments on either side, as well as above and below the epicenter of the explosion, were decimated. Glass and mortar and brick and steel showered down into the streets below. Cars and pedestrians were crushed by falling debris.
The shock waves set off hundreds of car alarms in the surrounding neighborhoods. Flying debris crashed through the windows of the bank directly across the street, setting off its alarm system. Fires burned big and bright in the enormous gash left in the side of the apartment building.
It would burn for most of the night.
The total number of dead would not be tallied for at least a day, maybe two.
The explosion happened too late for the evening news, but just in time to make the next day’s early editions. Photos of massive flames shooting up out of the gutted carcass of the apartment building would be splashed across the front page, and thirty-second snippets would run endlessly on CNN.
It would take weeks or months of investigation to decide upon the point of origin of the explosion, and only after another lengthy investigation would the gas line from a kitchen oven be blamed.
The seven victims of gunshot wounds had been incinerated in the blast.
They listened to it again.
“Hey, Darla. It’s Brooke. I’m still on the road. I, uh…I picked up your mail from the box yesterday…and completely forgot about getting it to you before I took off this morning. Ireallyapologize. I feel pretty stupid about it. Anyway, you’ve got three different items here. Two envelopes. Neither with a return address. One of them has a cheesy little sunflower design in the corner. And there’s a parcel wrapped in brown paper—looks and feels like a book or something. And it’s got the word Beaconjotted on it. If that stuff rings a bell, leave a message at the number I left with you. They’ll be happy to talk your ears off, believe me. Either way, I’ll give you a call as soon as I arrive. You can give me eighty lashes when I get back.
I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
Albertwood hunkered down in his wheelchair, snarling at the digital answering machine on the table. It was the one from Donovan’s apartment. He growled at Desmond, “Play it again—just the middle part.”
Desmond, who had been standing a few inches from the big round table, with his arms crossed over his chest, reached out a hand, briefly pressed the Rewind button, and then released it.
…two envelopes. Neither with a return address. One of them has a cheesy little sunflower design in the corner. And there’s a parcel wrapped in brown paper—looks and feels like a book or something. And it’s got the wordBeaconjotted on it…
“Again?” Desmond asked after he had pressed Pause.
Albertwood shook his head. “No.”
They were in Albertwood’s penthouse in Trump Tower. Albertwood had flown into New York on his Bell 430 helicopter, where he was met by Desmond. After the discovery of the phone message, Desmond had anxiously phoned Mr. Stott, to relay the news. Mr. Stott instructed him to contact Albertwood.
The two of them were alone in the room. Shelby was on the speakerphone.
“We’ve found it, gentlemen,” Shelby said from his office in Washington, D.C.
“It’s not good enough just tofind it,” Albertwood grunted. “We have topossess it. It must be in our hands. Nothing less will do.”
Desmond said, “The girl with the tape works for Donovan. That should make remedial work of finding her. We track her down, get the tape, kill her, and the crisis is resolved.”
“I agree,” Shelby said.
Albertwood nodded. He sat with his clawed hands groping the armrests of his wheelchair.
Clearly, they had made light-years of progress in the last hour. They knew who possessed the tape. Now all they had to do was get it in their hands.
“We know she has a package,” Desmond said. “But can we be absolutely certain it’s from Ettinger?”
“Yes,” Shelby said over the speaker mounted in the phone console. “In the message, she mentions the wordBeacon. That was the code name the Secret Service gave James Ettinger. I’m actually astonished that he used something so obvious.”
“The problem is that her message says she is out of town,” Shelby said. “So where is she? And for how long?”
“We know the girl’s name is Brooke, and that she works in the news division at NBC,” Desmond said. “I should have a New York address for her within the hour. But finding where she is at the moment is a different challenge.”
“She has to disappear,forever,” Albertwood said. “This all still has to do with Ettinger and his death. I want Belfast to finish the job he started.”
Over the phone line, Shelby said, “You said yourself that Belfast was going into retirement. You’ll never find him.”
Albertwood coughed hoarsely, then said, “I already have.”
“Oh?”
“He is here in New York, waiting to be paid. I’ve had him followed. He’s with a girl.”
“What if he refuses the job?”
“Then he doesn’t get paid,” Albertwood said.
“And if he doesn’t care about the money?”
“Then…” Albertwood began, “we are forced to conduct business on a more personal level.”
“Ah,” Shelby said. “We use the girl.”
“That is correct, Mr. Shelby,” Albertwood said. “If Belfast is difficult and refuses to cooperate, we use the girl.”
The president excused himself from a meeting to take the call. He could barely contain a smile.
“Have we got it?” the president asked.
“We’re close,” Shelby said. “We are doing all we can as fast as we can.”
President Yates lit a cigar, exhaled in relief, blowing smoke at the ceiling fan. He thought he’d held up pretty well after six-plus years in office, but the last seventy-two hours had cut him down to size. He had confronted one crisis after another during his administration. He could handle the Russians and their nuclear warheads. The oil-mongers over in Sand Land were a walk in the park. Even the Communists in the East hadn’t caused him nearly as much stress.
“What kind of timeline are we talking here, Glen?”
Glen Shelby hated that the president used his name over the phone. If things ever broke down somewhere along the line and worse came to worst, he could deny a lot of crap, but if any of this found its way onto tape, it would be a tough bullet to dodge. His skills as a lawyer could only carry him through so much, then he’d have to face the music with everybody else. But, with any luck, it would never come to that.
“I really couldn’t say, Mr. President.”
“Glen…”
“Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.” Shelby sighed, suddenly sweating out of every pore on his body.
“Less than two days?”
“Best-case scenario.”
“Call me the instant you hearanything,” the president said.
Shelby hung up the phone and sat for a long moment, just holding his breath. They were close. So close it was scary. If they managed to pull this off and cover their tracks, it would be a miracle. He thought about the assassin called Belfast. If anyone on the planet could find the girl with the tape and ensure its safe return, Belfast was the man.
He found his secret stash of Camels and lit one, hoping his wife was fast asleep and wouldn’t smell the smoke. The only light in the room came from an ornate lamp on his desk. He kicked his feet up on his desk and crossed them at the ankles. It was after midnight.
He thought of how far they’d been and how far they had yet to go. He thought about Yates and Albertwood and Desmond and Stott. But most of all his thoughts were of Belfast.
27
MORNING CREPT INTO THEWEAVER HOUSE.AS A FAMILY,they were generally early risers. But the cold made it hard to venture out from beneath the warm blankets. Dean Weaver headed straight for the woodpile at the back of the house. Gas prices were up again, so lately he had kept the fire blazing in an effort to ward off higher utility bills.
Brooke lay in bed awake for half an hour before she bundled herself in heavy socks and a robe, and went across the hall to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror, rubbing her bleary eyes. She washed her faced at the sink and patted herself dry with a hand towel hanging from a plastic ring on the wall.
Coffee was brewing in the kitchen. Brooke could smell it from the far end of the house. She returned to her old bedroom and slipped into a pair of sweat bottoms and one of Wyatt’s old baggy New York Islanders sweatshirts. She ducked her head inside Wyatt’s bedroom. He was fast asleep, facing away from the door.
Brooke stood with her back to the fireplace, soaking up the warmth of the fire and the aroma of brewing coffee.
“Ah, how are you feeling this morning, honey?” her mother said, rounding the corner from the kitchen.
“Like a spring chicken,” Brooke said.
Her mother pecked her on the cheek.
“Did Wyatt get through the night okay?” Brooke asked. She was a light sleeper but hadn’t heard much hacking or coughing coming from across the hall. Per her routine, Grace had made numerous checkups throughout the night, making sure that there were no complications.
“I think he slept just fine. Nights are always hardest for him, you know. He dreads them. But he needs the rest. I think the dark is what bothers him the most. It’s depressing. The sunshine keeps his spirits up a little better. He’s been so excited to know that you were coming up. He has missed his little sister a lot.”
“I know. I miss him, too.” Brooke rubbed her hands together behind her back. The back of her sweatshirt was now pretty warm to the touch. She scooched forward a few inches in her stocking feet. “It’s killed me not to be up here more, especially since he’s gotten worse.”
“Don’t let that bother you, honey. He knows you’ve got an important job and that you’re busy. He’s so proud of you. I’d say he brags on you even more than your father and I.” Grace put an arm
around her daughter’s shoulders. “And believe me, that’s saying something.”
“I’m proud of him too, Mom.”
There was a sound outside the front door. Through the window blinds, Brooke could see her father in his gum rubber boots, trudging up the sidewalk through the snow. He had retrieved the morning paper. She could see it in his left hand, bound in a clear-blue plastic bag and rubber bands. He stepped onto the front porch and stomped his boots on the doormat. The front door opened and he marched in, bending to unlace the boots on the tiled half-moon of the entryway. He looked up at her and smiled. His cheeks and nose were pink.
“Ahoy there!” he beamed.
“Ahoy, sailor!” Brooke laughed.
Her dad held the paper up proudly. “Come rain or shine, blizzard or drought,” he said, “I gots to have my paper.”
The few seconds he’d held the front door open had let in a cool draft. Brooke backed closer to the fire.
Grace poked her head around the corner. “French toast in five minutes.”
“You do still eat breakfast, right, city girl?” her father said, unfurling the morning paper.
Brooke shrugged. “Usually I only manage to choke down a half a raisin bagel with a tall cup of coffee.”
“Well, your mother won’t be satisfied unless you gain six or seven pounds during the holidays,” he said.
“I guess I’ll have to do calisthenics in front of the fireplace.”
She noticed movement down the hall and saw the door to Wyatt’s bedroom slowly swinging open. The chrome of his wheelchair gleamed in the morning light. “Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the bedroom.Thankyouverymuch,” he said as he patiently maneuvered down the hallway.
“Morning, Sunshine! I hope you’re hungry,” Brooke said, wheeling him toward the kitchen. “Mom’s frying up one of her famous artery-clogging breakfasts.”
“Only kind I’ll eat,” Wyatt said.
The Greater Good Page 16