“How’s Jack doing?” Jimmy asked, the question seeming odd in the middle of a murder scene.
“He’s good, thanks.”
“When did you see him last?”
“What?” Mia asked, confusion filling her voice. “Late last night. He got home late. I left before he was even awake.”
“Did you talk to him today?”
“What’s going on, Jimmy? You’re scaring me.”
“Just answer me. When did you speak to him last?”
“Dammit, Jimmy. Ten minutes ago.”
“And he’s OK?”
Mia glared at him, pissed.
“Is he working any crazy cases lately?”
Mia glared at Jimmy.
“Listen, Mia, I found something. It’s real disturbing. And as much as I’d like to spare you the shock, you need to see it.”
“Drop the preface, and show me. I hate when people do that. Everyone has to build the drama.”
Jimmy pulled out two eight-by-eleven sheets of paper, each with an intricate, lifelike drawing on it, and handed them to her.
As shocked as Mia was by the body on the bed and the names in the book, these images shook her to her core, lifelike in every respect. Her knees nearly buckled as she realized who they were of and what they represented. Without a further glance, she stuffed them into the black metal case and slammed the lid closed.
A S J ACK SAT in the deli listening intently to Jimmy’s every word, he leaned forward. “What were the images of?”
“I can’t say,” Jimmy said.
“Why?”
“Because I promised your wife I would tell no one of their existence, especially you.”
“Bullshit!” Jack’s arm shot out and grabbed Jimmy by the shirt. “You tell me, and you tell me now, what were they of, and why did they scare her so much?”
“Jack, they are too difficult to explain. When you get the box, you will see them for yourself, and then you will understand why I can’t speak of them and why they frightened Mia.”
Jack glared at Jimmy, finally releasing him. He glanced over at the two men behind the counter and saw them staring back. “Tell me the names in the book.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I promised Mia for a reason. I know she is your wife, but whether you know the names will not affect your getting that metal case. Jack,” Jimmy said as he stood up, “you have to get the box. I know the Tombs is under lockdown, but the people who tried to kill you are going to try to get there first. I don’t know how many are coming, but if they get that case, Mia is dead.”
Jimmy turned to leave but suddenly turned back.
“One other thing,” he said. “The body of the priest… it was stolen from the morgue last night.”
As baffled as Jack was by Jimmy’s last comment, he brushed it off. He couldn’t imagine who would steal a body. Instead, his mind focused on Mia. He couldn’t fathom how he would get the case, how he would possibly penetrate the depths of the Tombs. And if he couldn’t…
Jack buried his head in his hands, drawing them down his face as if the action would somehow wash away his nightmare.
He finally looked up… Jimmy was gone.
CHAPTER 22
FRIDAY, 3:30 P.M.
Frank parked several streets away from Jack’s house, on Sniffen Road, only three hundred yards through the woods to Jack’s backyard. He had dropped Joy off at her office to see if she could uncover anything in Jack’s files that could lead them to Mia and picked his friend up on the corner of Broadway and John Street. Jack made no mention of his conversation with Jimmy Griffin, as Frank was already all over him for being spotted and racing off into the subway tunnels of Manhattan to get nearly killed. And besides, there was something about Jimmy that Jack couldn’t put his finger on. While he gave him some insight into Mia’s fear of the case and clues to what it held, he offered no further information that would really help him find her.
Against Frank’s opinion, they headed back to Byram Hills, circling Jack’s house to make sure there was no one there before parking on the other side of the neighborhood. Jack had a suspicion, which he wouldn’t voice until he could get his hands on a file in his study. As pissed as Frank was, it was the only direction they could take at the moment, and everything aside, he trusted Jack’s instinct.
They ran at a fast clip along the old logging paths that had become the haven of hikers and kids on minibikes. There were no houses along the path, and with the summertime tree canopy, the chance of being seen was minimal. They came to Jack’s backyard and remained in the heavy shadow of the woods as they looked around, listening, seeing if there was any other presence beyond their own.
They both feared the FBI or worse descending on the house at any moment, if they weren’t already inside.
They looked at each other and in unspoken agreement sprinted across the backyard to the rear door of Jack’s workshop. They drew their pistols, quietly counted to three, and slipped through the doorway.
Jack’s shop had been turned upside down. What was once an impeccably organized workshop now looked like the twisted wreckage of a junkyard-tools everywhere, cabinets turned upside down. Handmade chairs were now splintered wood scattered across the floor; the tall doors of a dark cherry armoire hung wide open, revealing an empty interior.
The small workshop off his garage was Jack’s haven, his sanctuary. When the days became too much and the house full of females left him feeling outnumbered, he’d fire up the power tools and build himself a bookshelf, a stool, a puzzle box, whatever it took to clear his mind. Some people found peace through yoga or golf; he found it through Craftsman and Dewalt power tools, knotty pieces of pine, and brass hammers.
The three-inch-thick steel door on the five-foot-tall gun case was ajar, its lock drilled out. Jack pulled back the heavy door and glanced inside. The guns still lay there in their racks, the ammunition drawers sat wide open, yet nothing was missing.
Frank laid his finger on his lips and held his gun high. He and Frank bisected the door into the house. Jack gripped his pistol as he wrapped his other hand about the knob and slowly turned it pulling open the door.
Peering into the kitchen, he could see every cabinet open, food and debris scattered across the floor. Before Jack could make a move, Frank rolled into the kitchen, gun at the ready. He spun around, backing himself through the room. Jack came in close behind, his gun held high, his finger on the trigger.
Jack’s eyes were drawn to the picture on the floor, the one of Mia and the girls at the beach, honest smiles on their faces. He remembered that summer day last year as if it had just happened. He could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the smell of the ocean as its breeze tousled the girls’ hair. He remembered it all so well.
“Hey,” Frank whispered.
Jack snapped back to the moment to see Frank pointing his gun at the pantry door. He motioned Jack to take up a low position as he angled himself to the right of the doorjamb and, without warning, ripped open the door.
Fruck charged out. Frank leaped back, shocked, as the 150-pound dog nearly bowled him over before running straight to Jack.
“Jesus, you didn’t tell me you got a dog,” Frank said as he lowered his gun.
Jack opened the back door, hustled the dog outside, and closed the door behind him. “Sorry about that.”
Jack and Frank worked their way through the house, sweeping through the rooms: master bedroom, living room, study, basement. They were all ransacked.
“Whoever it was is long gone,” Jack said.
“What were they looking for?”
“The case. I’m sure they were pissed when they found out they snagged an empty one from the back of our car. Or maybe something of Mia’s that might point them in the right direction.”
Jack walked into the study and found that both his and Mia’s computers were missing, no doubt taken by the intruders, but he wasn’t too worried about that. The drawers were upended, the shelves swept clean of their pictures, books and
mementos strewn on the floor. Jack leaned down and picked up the file labeled Keeler that the intruder had tried to steal several hours ago before hurling himself in front of a tractor-trailer. It was a medical file, with X-rays, MRIs, and information packets on death. He picked up the center drawer, inserted it back into the desk, and tucked the file away, keeping it from Frank’s sight.
“Is that the file from this morning?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, it’s just my boring health records and physical. Whoever came here second didn’t seem to want it.”
“Then what were they looking for?”
Jack turned to a tall cherry-wood armoire, its twin doors wide open, its contents of books, papers, and trinkets on the floor, leaving nothing inside. The joints were smooth and pure; the dark cherry finish was his favorite and had taken almost a month to bring to its current gloss. Jack closed the left door, latching it up while leaving the right door wide open. He stuck his hands inside, and, placing them along the back seam in just the right spot, he gave a slight push. The lock sank, and the floor panel of the case popped up, revealing a hidden compartment. Like a magic box where the magician’s assistant disappears only to come back moments later, it was a trick box, a puzzle case, the kind of thing he was fond of building. Mia always mocked him. “Why build a box when you can build a magic box? Why build a chair when you can build a trick chair?”
He lifted the lid to reveal a host of files. He thumbed through them and finally found what he was looking for. The file was thick with his personal notes and research that he had gathered on a case eighteen months ago. The file was, in fact, a duplicate file, the original remaining in his city office, but he wasn’t about to go near there. The files were not of a secret nature requiring lock and key, but he preferred to tuck away anything that might frighten the eyes of curious children who loved to rummage through Dad’s things when he wasn’t looking.
Jack looked at the small sliver of tattoo protruding from his left sleeve, written in an obscure language, from a culture not many had heard of. In all honesty, when Professor Adoy had looked at his arm and mentioned the foreign tongue earlier that day, it wasn’t the first time Jack had heard of the Cotis people. He had, in fact, prosecuted and won a conviction against one of them for triple homicide and had watched as that man was executed last fall.
In the file, there was a book on the Cotis people and the history of their small Asian country. He had read it through, trying to gain insight into the man he was prosecuting, but found the book to be filled with legends, mysteries, and myths, none of which helped him in his prosecution. There was the one-page dossier on the accused, whom they never could uncover background on and, most important, the detailed evidence that damned him to death by chemical injection.
Jack closed the file, the hidden door, and the armoire. He tucked the file under his arm and walked back into the kitchen.
“You got it?’
“Yeah.”
“You going to tell me what you got?”
“I think Mia’s kidnapping may be connected to a case I handled a while back.”
“Yeah, how do you know?”
Jack put the thick file on the counter, pulled out and opened the book on the Cotis people, specifically to a page of their language. He rolled up his sleeve and laid his arm next to it. While the lettering was on a different scale and in different coloring, there was no question: it was similar.
“And you didn’t mention this before because-”
“I wanted to be sure.”
“Bullshit.” Frank was pissed. “You better start sharing everything that you know if you want my help. That’s what partners do, remember?”
Jack nodded. “Of course, I remember.”
“I’m going to get the car.”
“All right, let’s go-”
“No. I’ll pick you up in five minutes. I need to clear my head now, thank you very much.”
As Jack watched Frank angrily walk out the side door, he closed the Cotis file. He looked again at his arm, the brown intricate writing continuous around his skin from elbow to wrist.
He thought himself insane for not remembering where it came from, how something so intricate could be applied, yet he had no memory of it. And as he continued to stare, he wondered whether Professor Adoy’s translation was accurate. Maybe there was more to what was written than either of them realized.
Jack loved Greek mythology but was obsessed with puzzles and mysteries. It was what inspired him in his job, trying to unwrap the unknown, piecing together evidence into a coherent story, into the truth. Now he was the mystery.
He had been intrigued by puzzles since he was a child and started creating his own around the age of seventeen. It started out with word problems, progressed to numeric puzzles and then on to mechanical puzzles, those impossible metal knots. He would build wooden cubes of twenty pieces that fit together like a glove, his work progressing into hidden compartments in the furniture he crafted, puzzle boxes for his children to solve, where once they found the secret drawer, a gift would be waiting inside.
As Jack stared at his arm, he realized that he was within one of his own puzzles, trying to find his way out. While he remembered images of the man on the riverbank the night before, nothing else was forthcoming. He still had no idea how he was stitched up, how he got home.
And his senses… he felt as if he was in a hyperreality. Everything he looked at seemed brighter, richer; all of the sounds, no matter how far away, were clearer, the birds outside, Fruck panting as he ran around the yard. But with every hour, Jack felt as if his mind was failing him more and more.
He heard a noise at the side door. He quickly rolled down his sleeve and grabbed his gun off the counter.
As he spun around, he was faced with the last person he thought he would see.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” Jack said.
His father stood there in the doorway. A moment passed as father and son looked at each other.
Jack and his father had never really gotten along, sometimes going almost a year without speaking. And it was something everyone was well aware of. Their friends and family had grown used to their constant fighting and intermittent estrangements and had tried to mediate between the two on too many occasions, finally leaving them to their own arguments, devices, and silence.
But this moment was different, his father’s eyes holding a hint of uncharacteristic warmth.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” Jack said.
David Keeler stared at him, the moment hanging there like a death knell, before he finally shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
Jack’s father walked into the kitchen and stood across the counter from him.
As much as his father denied it, Jack could feel his mind unhinging. “I’ve always had the best memory. I can remember back to the womb, for Christ’s sake.” Jack paused, pulling up his sleeve. “Look at this. I can’t remember getting it; I can’t remember what happened after the accident. What is happening to me?”
David reached across the table and gently took his son’s arm, turning it over, studying the tattoo before shaking his head. “I don’t know. But I can tell you there is so much in this world that doesn’t make sense and probably never will.”
The two looked at each other. His father still held his arm. Jack could feel the warmth from him, something he hadn’t felt since he was a child.
“So, any word on Mia?” David asked as he finally released Jack’s arm.
“No.” Jack looked at the file on the counter. “And I can’t help thinking this is my fault.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Stop feeling guilty and sorry for yourself.”
“Sorry for myself?” Jack snapped.
“Yeah, the more time you sit wallowing in self-pity, the less time you have to save your wife.” David paused. “How are you feeling?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m your father; I see it in your eyes.”
“I’m
worried for my wife.”
“How sick are you?” David asked, in a tone of concern that Jack didn’t remember ever hearing in his father’s voice. “Your mother noticed it this morning, but she’s always been one to avoid difficult conversations.”
“Unlike you, who can’t allow a thought not to pass your lips?”
“You know I don’t dance around tough topics.”
“The more time we sit around talking about that, the less time I’ll have to save Mia.”
David stared at his son.
“With this hole in my memory… I think I’m losing my grip on reality-”
“Reality is all a matter of perspective, Jack. There’s the reality of history books, which both you and I know is always fine-tuned. There is the individual reality that we each experience when observing an incident. Think of how often you get a reliable witness on the stand who tells an entirely different story from your star witness, even though both individuals were standing in the same room and both are sure of what they’ve seen.”
Jack absorbed his father’s words, looking closer at the man he hadn’t seen in six months. “Why did you come back?”
“It was shouted to the world this morning that you and Mia were dead. Turns out she’s missing, you’re sick-though you don’t want to admit it-and we both know that if someone killed you once and failed, they’ll be trying again. You need me,” his father said simply.
“Why?”
“Who else tells you when you’re screwing up, tells you when you’re wrong? I’m here to set your head straight, tell you that you can do this, and watch over your girls.”
“Yeah, and if you came back to watch over them, why are you here talking to me?”
“Your mother is capable, and the man at the end of our driveway, the guy Frank sent, has an eye on them. And with respect to why I’m here-because you’re my son, and as I’ve heard it, some fathers and sons talk.”
“Look.” Jack felt his guilt building. “I said some things…”
“Yeah, you sure did,” David said. Jack waited for him to admit some culpability, but that wasn’t forthcoming. “We’re not going to waste time on those issues. Let’s stay focused on getting Mia. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, the fear, the worry and anxiety, but remember, this is where you thrive. No one thinks clearer under stress than you. When you were a kid, you were so good under pressure; it’s what made you such a strong goalie. With games riding on your shoulders, no one was better at protecting the net, no matter how many shots were fired at you. You carried that talent into every aspect of your life.
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