Knox

by David Meyer

  The photos were a bit grainy and I realized Malware had used our own phones to take them. The background, a cold, moonlit sky, indicated she’d done so before we’d even entered 1199 Madison Avenue. She must’ve planned to put a price on our heads from the very beginning.

  “Damn paparazzi.” Graham pulled out his smartphone and made to ditch it. “At least she could’ve gotten my good side.”

  “What good side?” The seeds of a plan began to form in my brain. “And don’t get rid of that yet.”

  “But she can use them to track us.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  He frowned, clearly confused. But he stuffed the device into his pocket anyway.

  I grabbed Saul’s knife, edged out of the bedroom, and made my way into the adjoining corridor. Pausing, I perked my ears. I heard soft footfalls and barely perceptible shuffling movements. The rest of Saul’s gang sounded like they were a good distance away from us.

  We slipped into the exterior hallway. The footfalls and shuffling were louder now, but still distant.

  Escaping the floor wouldn’t be too difficult. But leaving the building would be much more challenging, especially since Saul had probably posted some people at the downstairs exit in case we doubled back. At the same time, I didn’t like the idea of hiding out in the building when Saul’s gang had two million reasons to find us.

  I hustled down the hallway, retracing my footsteps. Halting just short of the entrance hall, I snuck a peek. It was empty.

  For a moment, I pictured the exterior of 1199 Madison Avenue. I recalled its textured sides, the front doorway, the surrounding area.

  And the street.

  I hurried to the heaping pile of construction materials. Using Saul’s knife, I cut some large pieces of plastic tarp. Then I rummaged through the other items and found some duct tape along with several boxes of metal screws.

  I stuffed the items into my pockets and entered the stairwell. Then I began to climb the steps, taking care to make as little noise as possible.

  Graham picked up speed until he was walking next to me. “Where are we going?”

  “The roof.”

  “But there’s no fire escape. And the nearest building is at least twenty feet away.” He arched an eyebrow. “What are we going to do? Jump?”

  A solitary image of Dad falling to his death streaked through my mind, a brief interruption to my now-constant thoughts of Beverly. “Something like that.”

  We hurried up the steps and I opened a metal access door leading to the roof. Sounds of the riot poured into my eardrums. The odors—fire and soot, electricity, garbage, sweat, blood, and booze—wafted into my nostrils.

  Graham and I walked onto the roof and I closed the door behind us. I looked for a lock, but didn’t see one.

  I ran to the edge of the roof. The riot had thinned out a little and the authorities had retaken much of the street. As such, lines of armored cars rolled down both sides of the pavement with relative ease.

  Kneeling down, I removed the pieces of plastic tarp, the duct tape, and the boxes of screws from my pockets. Then I began wrapping one of the small boxes in plastic.

  “We’re definitely trapped.” Graham appeared at my side. “I hope you’ve got a plan rolling around that head of yours.”

  “Malware’s been pulling tricks on us for hours.” My lips curled into a cold grin. “It’s time we repaid the favor.”

  CHAPTER 30

  I stared down, far down. Twenty stories away, the parade of armored cars continued to drive down either side of Madison Avenue. The line of cars closest to us hugged the sidewalk.

  Lifting the wrapped box of screws, I took careful aim. “Bombs away,” I whispered as I released it.

  My aim was true. The package fell through the air, twisting slightly in the process. It struck a car and bounced onto the street. A moment later, a giant tire rode over the package and I heard a very soft crunching sound.

  “Oh, I see.” Graham’s one good eye brightened in realization. “You’re going to use her technology against her.”

  “That’s the idea.” I wrapped another box of screws with several layers of plastic and used strips of duct tape to secure it. Then I added a few additional strips of tape facing outward. “That should do it.”

  Leaning over the edge of the roof, I tossed the package. It struck a second car’s roof. The sticky tape reduced its bounce, but not quite enough. Moments later, the package struck the street and disappeared from sight.

  My plan was simple. Malware could track us via the GPS devices installed in our satphones. If we wanted to throw her off our trail, we needed to get rid of them. But not just by tossing them from the rooftop. We needed to get them as far away as possible and in one piece, ideally in a way that made it look like we’d escaped the building. Malware would then alert Saul to that new location and we could escape.

  Graham walked to the access door and planted his ear against the metal. Meanwhile, I picked up another box of screws and began to wrap it in duct tape.

  “Cy,” Graham hissed quietly. “We’ve got company.”

  So much for tests.

  I stuffed the package into my pocket and turned to the two phones. They were already wrapped separately in plastic and secured with duct tape. Swiftly, I added a few extra layers of duct tape to make them heavier. Then I peeled off more duct tape, stuck it together so that the sticky side faced outward, and added that tape to the phones as well.

  Graham retreated to the opposite side of the concrete structure enclosing the stairwell. I could hear footsteps now, along with angry whispers. Saul’s gang was getting close.

  Here goes nothing.

  Watching the cars carefully, I tossed both phones off the roof. Then I picked up the knife and scurried across the rooftop, joining Graham on the far side of the concrete structure.

  As I slipped into the shadows, I wondered about the phones. Had they stuck to one of the armored cars? Were they now setting forth across the city? Or were they lying on the pavement, smashed beyond recognition under the weight of those heavy tires?

  Metal smashed against metal and I felt the concrete structure vibrate gently against my back. Gravel crunched as several sets of shoes walked onto the roof. I steeled myself, ready for battle.

  “What the …?” The voice, angry and frustrated, belonged to Saul. “No!”

  “What’s wrong?” someone asked.

  “It’s Malware. She says those two pricks got outside. They’re heading down Madison Avenue.”

  “No way. Gerald and the others would’ve seen them.”

  “There must be another exit.” Saul exhaled. “That’s our two million, guys. Nobody’s taking it from us. Nobody. Come on.”

  Gravel crunched again. Then the door slammed shut. Seconds later, I heard faint footsteps as the rioters descended the stairwell.

  Then silence.

  Exhaling a deep breath, Graham slid to the ground. I did the same and we sat on the gravel-covered roof for a couple of minutes, surrounded by flashing lights and blaring sirens.

  “We can’t go home,” Graham said.

  “I know.”

  “And we can’t go to a hotel either, not without leaving an electronic footprint for Malware to track.” He looked thoughtful. “There is one place we could go …”

  A frown creased my visage as I realized what he was talking about. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You don’t have the keys?”

  “No, I have the keys. It’s just …”

  “It’s just what?” He gave me a piercing look. “You never go there. Hell, it’s not even in your name. There’s no way anyone could connect you to it.”

  He was right. Maybe I didn’t like it, but that didn’t really matter. At that moment, the multi-story brownstone was our best chance of surviving Malware’s wrath. “Fine,” I stood up. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The five-story brownstone towered before me, a painful reminder of all the losses experienced
by those who’d lived within its walls. Indeed, the building, more than anything else, embodied my family’s cursed name.

  Justin Reed had purchased the building shortly after the end of World War II. It was meant to serve as a home for him, his wife, and my dad. A short while later, he took a trip to the Appalachian Mountains with some old Army buddies. He never returned.

  Years later, Dad inherited the building. He married my mom and they gave birth to me. I spent my childhood in that brownstone, exploring all the curiosities it had to offer. But my pristine life was shattered by Dad’s suicide. Mom stuck around for a few more years before she took a page out of Justin’s playbook and disappeared as well.

  After that, I was alone. I’d moved out and taken up quarters with Dutch Graham. He was a family friend and the closest thing I had left to actual relatives. Still, he wasn’t family, a fact I was never able to forget.

  Life went on, but I never again set foot in that old brownstone. In fact, the property was still in my mom’s name. Not entirely legal, but I’d never been one to care too much about that sort of thing.

  I lingered outside for a moment, sweating profusely in my soiled and ripped tuxedo jacket and pants. Judging by the light, I guessed it was just after midnight, maybe 1:00 a.m. or so. The riot had largely ended, although I could still hear distant sirens and the faint sounds of rushing water and crackling flames.

  Images of Beverly, living and dead, floated through my mind as I hiked up the staircase. The building’s Triassic-Jurassic sandstone exterior looked immaculate. The windows were free of smudges. The flower boxes featured a variety of colorful daisies.

  “Looks well-kept,” Graham whispered. “Way better than I remember it.”

  “It’s my cleaning service. Costs a crapload, but it keeps the neighborhood association off my back.”

  I stopped outside the front door. Looking over both shoulders, I checked my surroundings. Then I pulled out my key. I had carried it with me for years, all over the world. Force of habit, I guess.

  I stuck the key into the lock and wiggled it, feeling the familiar stickiness. The key turned and the lock clicked.

  “Why do you still have this place?” Graham asked. “You could’ve sold it. Used the money to fund your excavations.”

  I struck my best uptight-snob-in-a-tuxedo pose. “Do I look like I need the money?”

  “Actually, yes.” He appraised my tattered and torn outfit. “I hope you’ve got insurance for that.”

  “Me too.”

  Truthfully, there was a good reason I hadn’t established ownership in the building or attempted to sell it. I wanted nothing to do with the place. It wasn’t mine.

  It was Dad’s.

  I turned the knob and opened the door. Darkness and hazy shadows greeted us. I hardly ever read the reports sent by my cleaning company, but I was pretty sure I remembered something about the lights running on timers.

  With a deep breath, I stepped into the foyer. Instantly, a cold wind washed over me, sucking the air right out of my lungs. Had the place always been this drafty? I couldn’t remember.

  Graham followed me inside and I shut and bolted the door. I walked to the wall and flipped a light switch. Soft light blazed overhead from a brass chandelier.

  A few feet away, I saw a small device. It featured an LCD display control screen and a keypad. Digits on the screen were counting down from sixty.

  Ah, an alarm system. The cleaning service had installed it after an attempted break-in. In fact, there were alarms at every entrance, all with different codes. I recalled some of the codes, but not all of them. Fortunately, my cleaning service had insisted on adding a very personal shortcut.

  I pressed my left thumb against a boxed-off portion of the screen. The area around my thumb turned yellow. Then green.

  “Okay, I think we’re good.” I yawned with such force I was compelled to stretch my arms out to either side.

  “I’m famished,” Graham said. “Say, you don’t suppose your cleaning crew keeps any food around here, do you?”

  I looked around, reacquainting myself with the place. A long hallway lay before me, leading to the dining room, family room, and kitchen. To my right, a gleaming circular staircase stretched up five floors, providing access to bedrooms, offices, and about a dozen closets.

  “Don’t know.” I nodded at the hallway. “But the kitchen’s that way.”

  Gleefully rubbing his hands together, Graham strode down the hallway and out of sight.

  I walked across the foyer to a cherry wood dresser. A couple of black-and-white photographs, encased in silver frames, sat upon its surface. I picked one up. It depicted my dad as a baby, being held by Justin. His eyes were closed and he looked peaceful enough. Justin, on the other hand, sported a toothy grin. Like he’d just won the lottery. Ah, simpler times. Before everything went wrong.

  I ran a finger across the glass. No dust. The dresser was dust-free as well. Looking around, I realized there wasn’t a single speck of dust in the entire foyer.

  Wow, those cleaning people are good.

  It was a far change from how I remembered it. In my youth, the foyer looked much the same as it did now. Yet, signs of life abounded, from the wet shoes lying on the doormat to the smell of Mom’s delicious baked bread to the ever-changing piles of real estate documents Dad kept at the foot of the stairs. Without those little touches, the place felt more like a hospital than a home, complete with the faint scent of disinfectant.

  I adjusted my footing and heard a slight squishing sound. Glancing down, I saw bits of mud poking out from under my tuxedo shoes. Shifting my gaze, I saw a line of soiled footprints on the rich red wall-to-wall carpeting. Once upon a time, Mom would’ve killed me for such a crime. The thought made me smile.

  I walked back to the door. Kicked off my shoes and placed them neatly on the doormat. As my sore toes sank into the cold, thick carpet, I eyed my handiwork.

  As a kid, I recalled flying in the front door every day, bouncing around like a stork on one leg and then the other while I removed my shoes. I recalled tossing them onto the mat and then racing off to somewhere else. Later, I’d come back and find my shoes in a general heap. They were always a mess, but somehow they looked like they belonged.

  My tuxedo shoes, in contrast, looked like props from a movie set. They didn’t seem to belong on that mat or anywhere else in the apartment.

  I nudged one of the shoes, tipping it over. That was a little better. Then I shrugged off the tuxedo jacket and tossed it over the banister, just like I’d done as a kid.

  My joints groaned as I scaled the spiral staircase. Upon reaching the fourth floor, I walked down a short hallway.

  I saw a series of doors, all wide open. I veered into the first one on my right, just as I had so many times before. Odd smells—mud, sweat, and blood—hit my nostrils and I ground to a halt. In the darkness, I saw my old dressers, posters, trinkets, toys, my queen-sized bed, and …

  What the …?

  I eyed the bed for a moment. Then I reached to the wall and hit the light switch. A lamp came to life and I saw a woman lying on the bed.

  She lay on her side, with her back to me, and tucked under a single sheet. Even so, I knew it was her. I could tell by her chestnut-colored hair. The curve of her torso. The length of her legs.

  I swallowed as I gazed upon her corpse. I couldn’t see the bullet hole, but she was clearly a mess. Her hair looked bedraggled and was damp with sweat. I noticed bloodstains and dirt through the thin sheet.

  Was this where she’d been all along? Or had Malware dumped her here as some kind of sick joke?

  Wait …

  I froze. Squinted at the bed.

  Was that …?

  Beverly’s lithe figure sagged toward me. Her eyes rolled open. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Hey lover,” she said in a sleepy voice. “How’d you find me?”

  CHAPTER 32

  “I have them,” Willow
said. “Not the originals, of course. But the photographs are excellent.”

  “Hang on a second.” A thrill shot down Ben’s spine as he peeked into the Roosevelt Room. A false skylight and numerous lamps provided an abundance of soft light. The sixteen-person conference table was empty.

  Ben strode into the room and closed the heavy wood door. The room was named after the two President Roosevelts and decorated accordingly. A landscape portrait of Teddy, depicting him atop a horse during his Rough Rider days, hung above the fireplace mantel. A painting of the other Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, hung on the south wall.

  Normally, the Roosevelt Room was used for staff meetings or as a prep space for large delegations. But due to the late hour, it now sat empty, making it the perfect place for a quick, clandestine conversation.

  He began to pace across the room, his heart pounding like a drum. This was it. This was the moment. The mystery that had destroyed his father’s life was finally going to be laid to rest. “What do they say?”

  “I’m working on it,” she replied.

  He inhaled a sharp breath. In 1949, ten specially-engineered dump trucks had vanished in a remote section of the Appalachian Mountains during the dead of winter. And not vanished as in they’d gotten lost on some obscure winding road. One moment, the trucks—commandeered by Justin Reed and his cohorts—were parked quietly in a snow-filled clearing. The next moment, they were gone, vanished into thin air.

  In a split-second, the Capitalist Curtain—along with Roy Marvin’s career—was forever derailed. Few events could truly be considered to have changed the course of world history. But that ultra-strange moment in the Appalachians was definitely one of them, despite the fact that few people would ever know about it.