The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

  “But I—” Grace tried to pipe in.

  “No, you’ve got to promise me. I know it’s hard, but please trust me…I know what I’m doing. And it’s agood thing I’m doing. I’ll explain later,” Brooke said, flashing them a hurried, loving grin, then dropping her hands from their shoulders.

  Dean put an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “You raised her to be tough,” he said, winking at Brooke. “She can take care of herself.”

  Grace shrugged, then nodded, but didn’t like it a bit.

  “Like I said,” Brooke added, “zip your lips.”

  The three of them—Grace, Dean, Wyatt—made zipping gestures across their mouths.

  Brooke smiled. “Good.” She grabbed her bag and said, “I’ve gotta go.”

  Her father hurried out ahead of her to back the car from the garage. Grace followed her daughter out the front door, and they headed along the cement walk toward the driveway.

  Halfway down the walk, Brooke paused, then turned back toward the house. Wyatt was parked at the threshold of the front door, watching her from his wheelchair. She flew back up the front steps and knelt in front of him.

  “I’ll be back in a flash,” she said, holding his hands in hers.

  “By Christmas?” he said, making an effort to smile.

  “I hope. More than anything in the world.”

  Wyatt nodded. He looked so frail.

  She kissed him on the forehead, and turned to go.

  Wyatt waited in the cold, watching as her car backed the length of the driveway to the street and accelerated past the mailbox, zooming beyond the fencerow and out of sight.

  34

  JOEL WAS IN CONTROL, BUT NOT BY MUCH.THEY HADdescended by the stairs, and on their way to an emergency exit, he had spotted some men at the end of a corridor carrying boxes of crated vegetables through a service entrance. This would be better, he thought. And it was.

  They came out in an alley, where a Volvo flatbed delivery truck was parked and piled high with crates. Joel pushed St. John forward. The cold hit them the moment they were out the door. It felt like the temperature had dropped.

  A shiver ran up Joel’s arms. He felt truly out of alignment with the universe. He was holding a man at gunpoint. It was absurd. Just the thought of it was absurd. He was scared to death. Scared and at wits end. This man, whoever he was, claimed to have a relationship with Megan. That, too, seemed absurd. But what if it were true? Where would that leave things? This man had ambushed him in bed, spiking a knee into his back and threatening him with the very gun Joel now held on him. If it was as he said, and Megan was being held against her will until a delivery was made, what kind of business was this guy in, and how had his sweet little baby girl become involved with him? All of it surged through his brain, creating a pressure that made his head want to explode.

  “What’s your name?” Joel asked over the howl of the easterly wind.

  St. John glanced over his shoulder, and had his mouth half open, when he hesitated, deciding which of his aliases he might choose for the occasion. He remembered the name he’d given to charter the flight out of JFK. Allan Price. It seemed as good as any.

  “Price,” he said into the wind.

  “What?”

  “Price. My name is Price.”

  Joel doubted it, but he had to call him something. If they were going to Syracuse, they’d need transportation. Holding a man at gunpoint made renting a car a difficult issue. It would be next to impossible to maintain the current state of things in crowded areas. Price had to be thinking that Joel would be hesitant to fire if there were witnesses around.

  A taxi was out of the question as well. He’d never he able to hold the gun on Price with a driver watching. They’d simply have to make do. They had a long drive ahead of them, and from the sound of it they were on a deadline.

  Joel was only a step behind him now.

  They were coming to the mouth of the alley, where it gave onto the sidewalk and the street. “Steady, man,” Joel said.

  “You know you can’t shoot me.”

  Joel ignored him, his face burning in the wind.

  “Without me you can’t find Megan. And without me, Megan will die.”

  Joel said through gritted teeth, “I’ve done a lot of things these past few days that I never dreamed I’d have the guts to do. Killing you might be the best thing I could do for her.”

  Joel jabbed the Glock into his back. St. John winced, the collar of his coat shuddering in an icy gust.

  They turned onto a sidewalk, both men thinking hard about the other. Joel said, “Can you wire a car?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “A man with your skills? Please.”

  St. John nodded. All things being equal, that was fine with him. It was simply too cold to walk much farther. And besides, killing this guy would be simpler in a confined space.

  The military cargo jet carrying the remains of James Ettinger received clearance from the tower at Andrews Air Force Base, then circled around and dipped into its final approach. The flight and its cargo were not public information, but word had leaked and members of the media had arrived, complete with camera equipment and microphones.

  Yates and Philbrick waited in the president’s limousine, along with a handful of advisors. Philbrick was all eyes and ears. This was to be his first official appearance as vice president.

  The president had canceled much of his schedule for the next three or four days. His announcement yesterday morning put him in the awkward position of having to deal with matters on his home turf rather than the scheduled engagements on foreign soil. The world would have to wait.

  Someone spoke up, then pointed at the sky, and most of the heads in the car turned to look. The day was cloudy and gray, and snow flurries whipped and swirled in brisk white waves. At first it was hard to spot, but as the cargo plane descended, it passed through the cloud cover and grew larger against the bleak background. The president didn’t look. He could have cared less. There’d been no word from Shelby. The president had slept little last night, then got up and had scotch for breakfast. Lunch had been with a visiting dignitary, an oil sheik, a hassle he couldn’t avoid. Oil prices would have to go up again. Big deal. In a week he might very well be in prison. If not, it would be business as usual for the leader of the free world. What a job.

  The cargo plane taxied onto an apron, rolling to a stop a few hundred feet from the massive hangar where government officials and the media had gathered. The nose of the plane opened and a group of uniformed soldiers marched out carrying Ettinger’s casket. At the front of the gathered crowd, the president and his new vice president looked on with somber faces. Cameramen recorded the event, flashes popping. A hearse was parked and waiting not far from where the cargo plane had come to rest. Its rear doors were open. Two men in dark suits spoke instructions and pointed as the soldiers approached with the casket. When the casket was loaded, the doors were shut, and the hearse headed off the apron and around one side of the hangar. The gathering disbanded, and within minutes the hangar was barren.

  The president’s limo headed back to Interstate 495.

  35

  THE SOUND OF BREAKING GLASS WAS MOSTLY MUFFLED BYthe wind and by the din of the traffic. The window hadn’t shattered, which was good. Joel had managed to make a hole using the Glock’s pistol grip. An alarm screamed at them. Careful not to shred his hand, he reached in and unlocked the back door. St. John was a step ahead of him, leaning against the driver-side door.

  Joel slipped inside and reached up to unlock both of the front doors. “Get in,” he said, keeping a cautious eye on his man.

  St. John lifted up on the handle and slid in behind the wheel of the Saab. He ducked his head beneath the dash, and in a matter of seconds the alarm was silenced. His hands working above his face, he sorted through a tangle of wiring.

  Joel rounded the front of the car, moving quickly but with discretion. He opened the passenger-side door and eased into the front seat, quickly s
hutting the door. He was finally free to pull the Glock from his coat pocket. He squirreled the silencer back onto the muzzle of the gun and touched it to St. John’s head. “Let’s go!”

  St. John’s breath came out in gray vaporous puffs. “One minute,” he said.

  Joel spotted a cop on the other side of the street, nearly parallel to them. “Come on!” He slouched down in the seat, his heart drumming in his chest.

  The wiring was a jumbled mess. He connected two wires, and the ignition fired. The engine began to purr. St. John sat up in the seat.

  Joel said, “Pull into traffic.”

  The Saab couldn’t have been more than a year old, and the engine hummed like a sweet strum on a Stratocaster. They were parallel parked along the curb, with a car in front and a small pickup behind. St. John shoved in the clutch and guided the stick into reverse. The car revved as he gave it a little gas. Joel kept his eye on the cop, who seemed to have nothing to do but have a good long look around. Joel could feel every muscle in his chest crunching into knots.

  R’mel hadn’t spotted them right off. The stranger’s face meant nothing to him, and he’d only caught sight of Belfast by chance as the two of them emerged from the alley and turned south on Park. He’d been working on a chocolate bar wrapped in foil and was crossing at a traffic light when he happened to glance toward the alley at a lucky moment, spotting Belfast being ushered onto the sidewalk by a man he couldn’t place. He’d followed Belfast from the subway station to the Waldorf and had been waiting for him to come out the main entrance.

  There was a split second of indecision as R’mel debated whether to pursue on foot or retrieve his bike. His fear was that if he headed around the corner he might lose them in the bedlam of traffic. There was no time for debate. He chose the bike.

  St. John cut the wheel, inching forward, then backing the same distance. Finally there was space enough to pull into the lane. He glanced at Joel, who held the gun steady. St. John figured he could have taken the guy at anytime, but he couldn’t afford a miscalculation. All he wanted was to get this guy out of the picture and get Megan to safety as quickly as possible. He certainly didn’t trust Albertwood to keep his word, but he couldn’t concern himself with that at the moment.

  They followed the southbound traffic down Park Avenue.

  “You know where you’re going?” Joel said.

  St. John nodded. Yes, he knew the way. But he had no intention of taking this schmuck with him. Sooner or later there’d be an opening, and the tables would turn. When the time came and he found an opportunity, he’d have to act with precision. He just had to hope the fool didn’t do something stupid between now and then, something they’d both regret.

  Joel had bitten off a bigger bite than he could chew. They were caught in a clog of midday traffic. The gun made him nervous beyond measure. The car sat low enough to the road that passing motorists could easily see in. If anyone reported him, that would be the end of it. Thinking this, he covered the Glock with the tail of his coat. The muzzle of the silencer protruded out from the fabric of the coat about three inches. If anyone could see that, he thought, they had too much time on their hands and much better eyes than he.

  St. John steered into a center lane, the turn signal arrow flashing among the dashboard gauges.

  Joel swelled with anxiety. Price was clearly a professional, and could regain control of the situation in the blink of an eye. And the more time he gave Price to think about it, the more likely it became that he’d get the better of him. But Joel had the gun. He simply had to focus and remain composed. Much of his concern now shifted to the drive ahead of them. Once the sun went down, it would be difficult to watch the man’s hands in the dark.

  They turned onto Park Avenue and St. John accelerated into a gap between cars, braking, then downshifting, cutting the wheel, then pounding into the next gear. Joel found himself switching hands with the gun, bracing himself against the dash with his right hand.

  St. John noticed this and smiled to himself. The gun was now in the weaker hand. If he caught the man off guard, he’d be slower to react, and his aim would be less accurate. He might even be able to reach him with a blow to the throat right now, but again, that was a big risk.

  They crossed an intersection, running a yellow light.

  “Watch it,” Joel said. “If you run a light, it won’t benefit either of us.”

  St. John downshifted, braked, and took a hard left, accelerating briskly.

  Suddenly agitated by their speed, as well as by his unfamiliarity with New York streets, Joel whipped his head back and forth in an attempt to get his bearings. “You’re sure you know the way?”

  St. John ignored him.

  Joel tried to relax, but the knots in his neck were tightening into rope. His fingernails bit into the dash. He turned his head and faced the rear window, on the lookout for police.

  It was while Joel’s attention was off of the road ahead of them that St. John was struck with inspiration. Up ahead, maybe thirty feet, a Mayflower moving van was stopped in traffic in the right-hand lane. The Saab was now going nearly forty miles an hour, and at that rate St. John had barely two seconds to react. He braced himself and jerked the wheel hard to the right.

  36

  THESAAB CLIPPED THEMAYFLOWER VAN, ITS RIGHT HEADLIGHTcatching under the van’s rear bumper. The impact crushed that side of the car, blowing out Joel’s window, spiderwebbing the shatterproof windshield, and activating both of the car’s air bags.

  Joel was pitched forward for a fraction of a second before the air bag inflated and sandwiched him against the seat. The Glock was gone. Simply gone. Perhaps it fell to the seat, perhaps to the floor. Perhaps it was sent flying out a window or into the rear of the car. Either way, for the first minute or so after impact, thought of the gun never entered Joel’s mind.

  The car spun out of control, freewheeling across lanes of traffic. St. John had prepared for impact but still had the breath knocked from his lungs by the wallop from the driver-side air bag. The car slid forward, its tail end careening around, slamming into a red Pontiac Sunbird, caving in the Pontiac’s rear passenger door. The force of this second collision reversed the rotation of the Saab, jerking it back toward the far-right lane. The driver of a transit bus braked hard, seeing the projectile hurtling toward him, but it was too late. He flashed a look of panic, but the Saab merely nicked the bus, only smashing a reflector panel attached along one side. The small rectangular reflector disintegrated, blowing out in a puff of red plastic.

  Joel was aware of the rush of cold air blowing in from behind him. The world spun around him—flashes of color and sound, carried on long blasts of arctic-cold wind. The grating racket of metal on metal rang in his ears. He felt sure he was either dead or soon would be. The blow and its immediate aftermath had come suddenly, unannounced, and seemingly out of nowhere.

  With no hands on its wheel and no feet on its pedals, the car was at the mercy of inertia. It skidded forward at an angle, finally coming to a full and complete stop with most of its front end in one lane of traffic and the rear end in another.

  St. John blinked his eyes open, shaking his head. The air bag felt like being kicked in the chest with a work boot. He’d read stories about young kids having their necks broken by air bags, and now he fully understood the concern. But his had worked like a charm. He fumbled at the door latch.

  The sudden squeal of clashing metal startled the ordinarily composed R’mel, nearly causing him to lose control of the Ducati and tip it over. He steadied the bike then flipped up the visor on his helmet. Up ahead, he could see a cloud of smoke rising from the Saab. Then one of the doors opened and someone got out.

  Joel was vaguely aware of activity from the seat, but when the dome light came on in the ceiling, he put two and two together and realized that the situation had begun to quickly unravel.The gun, he thought.The gun!

  The door had pushed open with only the normal amount of resistance, and St. John rolled out and landed on his
knees on the wet pavement. The accident had only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like the car had bounced around in traffic for an eternity. He hit the ground on all fours, sucking for air. Smoke was pouring from the rumpled hood of the Saab, and the horn was blaring. He lifted his face and saw that a few folks had gotten out of their cars, watching him and approaching cautiously.

  “You okay?” a voice off to one side asked.

  Something was wrong with Joel’s right arm, the one that had taken the full direct force of the air bag. Maybe it was broken. Maybe his shoulder had dislocated. Regardless, he couldn’t raise it beyond a forty-five-degree angle.

  He saw that the driver’s seat was empty and the door was open. Battling the fluffy bulge of the air bag, he hunted desperately for the Glock. The sound of the horn was deafening. Someone spoke through the window behind him.

  “Do you need an ambulance?”

  Joel ignored the voice. He couldn’t find the Glock, and there wasn’t time to dig around. The snub-nose .22 was in his coat pocket. It would have to do. His man was getting away.

  A hand came down on St. John’s shoulder. He looked up and saw a concerned face.

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  St. John got to his feet and staggered between two vehicles stopped in traffic. He stumbled, his feet going willy-nilly on the slick roadway. He put a hand on the trunk of a car in front of him to keep from going down on his face. When he’d made it past the second row of cars, he stopped and looked back the way he’d come. The man was still in the car, struggling to get out of the wreckage. St. John had no way of knowing if the Glock had been flung free; he’d not seen it. But this was his window of opportunity. He was confident that even if the guy got out with the gun, he could lose him in the streets.