by Eric Bernt
To the National League East fans, this only meant one thing: their boat was going to be paid off a lot sooner than they had anticipated. And if they got lucky, they would still make it to Citizens Bank Park the following day to watch their favorite teams battle each other for divisional supremacy.
CHAPTER 84
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 27, 10:15 p.m.
Realizing how long this night was about to become, Stenson was thankful he had taken the time to play doubles and get a massage earlier that day. It took serious conditioning to stay sharp and alert for twenty-four continuous hours, and sometimes much longer. Such marathons were rare, but they arose without warning. Any given day could turn into one, which was both an exciting part of working at the American Heritage Foundation and a frustrating one.
Foundation employees were on call 24/7/365. They were emergency-room doctors. The world was their patient. One who could go into cardiac arrest at any moment. Or suffer a cerebral hemorrhage. Or think it had when it had merely bumped its forehead. Most patients had no idea what they really needed, and the same was true for the world.
At least, that’s how Bob Stenson saw it.
He had been administering critical care to a patient on and off life support for the greater part of three decades. The patient was far better off now than when their unique program of intervention began operations, and that was all the proof Stenson needed to validate his efforts.
He keenly watched the infrared images on his computer screen as the National League East fans discussed the specifics of the new assignment they had just been offered. Stenson had transmitted the subject’s name (Michael Barnes), along with his relationship to the subjects of the just-completed assignment (their superior), and highlights of his military and civilian record (the list was long and impressive). The baseball fans needed to know exactly who and what they would be going up against.
They were taking considerably longer than usual to arrive at a price, which Stenson had expected. He had never tasked them with going after such a well-trained subject. By now, Barnes had certainly realized his two-man team was gone. Which meant someone had eliminated them. Whoever did the deed had recognized what Barnes’s next move would be, and preempted it. Barnes would now be on the alert for an attack. This assignment required outthinking one of the best in the game, and success was by no means guaranteed.
“Five hundred thousand.” The number hung in the air, both over in the boat 5.3 miles off the New Jersey coast, and inside Stenson’s office in Alexandria, Virginia. It was ten times their standard rate. Twice what they had charged for Senator Townsend.
Stenson didn’t reply for a good twenty seconds. He had decided before he made the call not to respond right away no matter what figure was quoted. He wanted his killers to sweat a little.
He had doubted they knew just how big a number he was comfortable with, and their price was a reflection of that. It was half. One million dollars would not have made him flinch. Perhaps they wanted him to think they were giving him another bargain. Or perhaps it was because Stenson was more familiar with Barnes and what he was capable of. Barnes had been a thorn in the side of the American Heritage Foundation for too long, and Stenson was prepared to pay greatly for that thorn to be removed.
“The terms are acceptable.” Stenson hung up the phone and watched on-screen as Giles delivered the news to his partner. They high-fived, then began chopping up what was left of the two bodies as quickly as they could. They had a lot of preparations to make.
CHAPTER 85
Secaucus Junction, Secaucus, New Jersey, May 27, 10:20 p.m.
It took Eddie another 317 steps to reach the Philadelphia-bound train, which brought the total to 552. This number included two flights of stairs, which contained thirty-two steps each. Eddie had remarked after descending each staircase that thirty-two steps was an unusually high number for one flight of stairs, but perhaps not for train stations, which Eddie could not comment on because Secaucus Junction was the first one he had ever been inside.
Skylar led him into the car farthest from the stairs, which happened to be the first car, the one directly behind the locomotive. They sat at the rear of the car, because no one standing on the platform could see them, and it gave them a tactical vantage point on the car doors. They would see anyone entering the car before they saw Skylar or Eddie.
Settling into their seats, Eddie immediately took off his Mets jersey and handed it to Skylar. “You said I only had to wear it until we got on the train.”
“Yes, I did.” She smiled warmly as Eddie closed his eyes, rotating his head back and forth to familiarize himself with the SOUNDS of the train car. Skylar did her version of the same, turning her attention to the other passengers. There were seven: two couples, one threesome. One couple was elderly and spoke in either Swedish or Norwegian; Skylar couldn’t be sure. The other was a married couple in their thirties, energetically discussing a performance they had just seen. Whatever it was, the wife thought the show was revelatory. The husband, however, had hated it, and said he would prefer to pay for the privilege of never having to sit through such garbage again. The threesome was a father and two teenage sons decked out in Mets garb, only their jerseys were well worn compared to Skylar’s and Eddie’s. They were genuine fans on their way to the Greatest Show on Earth.
None of the other passengers was cause for concern. Thank God. Skylar paused to catch her breath as the doors closed and the train started to move. They had made it out of Secaucus Junction, thanks to a little luck and the kindness of a stranger. She glanced around at the other passengers again, making sure she had properly assessed them the first time.
It only now occurred to her that she was thinking like a fugitive, and not like someone grieving the loss of a loved one. Skylar hadn’t thought of Jacob in several hours. She knew she had more grieving to do, but it would have to wait. And for that, she was grateful. Skylar removed one of the granola bars she had taken from Rupert Kreitenberg’s glove compartment and offered it to Eddie. “Hungry?”
Eddie did not respond. Because he didn’t hear her. His fingers were flying across the keyboard of his laptop supercomputer. He must have turned it on while she was surveying the other passengers.
“Eddie?” She waved the granola bar in front of his face. “Would you like another granola bar? Because I’m going to eat it if you don’t.”
Again, he didn’t respond. He kept his focus on his computer and continued working at a frenzied pace. Eddie was gone.
Skylar remembered Nurse Gloria saying, “He gets a certain kind of idea in his head, and wild elephants can’t stop him from seeing it through.” Watching him, she realized he, too, was feeling relief. He wasn’t thinking about being away from Harmony House or being tagged, or even being hungry. All he was thinking about was whatever was currently occupying him, and that was a good thing.
But what was it? What was he thinking about? Skylar glanced over his shoulder at the computer screen and realized she was looking at another language. Eddie could be writing improvements to the echo-box algorithms, or he could be working on something else entirely. There was no way she could tell. It reminded her of her younger brother, Christopher, and the hundreds of pages of equations he had left behind that she had tried to decipher over the years. Most were complete gibberish, but some actually seemed to be the start of something, at least according to the theoretical physicists she had shown his work to.
She glanced out the windows at the moonlit Meadowlands as she ate the stale granola bar. She was surprised to see a few cattails waving gently in the night air. How nice that there were actually a few left. It really must have been a beautiful area before all the stadiums were built.
The train was due to arrive in Philadelphia at 12:39 a.m., exactly two hours and seventeen minutes from now. She couldn’t leave Eddie, so she’d have to occupy herself as best she could. Her thoughts immediately went to Jacob, and Skylar now realized this train ride was going to be a very long one.
Sixth Precinct, New York City, May 27, 11:19 p.m.
Marcus Fenton had never been inside a police station before and, after tonight, was determined to never be inside one again. How dare they bring him in for questioning? Who the hell did this detective think he was? And how dare McHenry leave him alone in a windowless interrogation room for over twenty-five minutes?
He was confident that there were people studying him through the two-way mirror that dominated one of the walls. They were watching him for signs of guilt. For something that could be used against him. Because nothing they had to date could be. As long as he remained calm, they wouldn’t have a shred of usable evidence.
McHenry had brought him to this room, then immediately left without a word. Fenton had considered contacting his lawyer, who, in turn, would contact an attorney who handled this sort of thing, but decided against it unless they arrested him. He also briefly considered contacting Senator Davis to arrange for his release, but decided he would rather sweep this little incident under the rug as soon as it was over. He would grin and bear the momentary inconvenience, and then move on. After all, how long could this take?
Butler McHenry sipped the last bit of two-day-old coffee from a Styrofoam cup as he stared through the mirror at Fenton, who sat quietly at the table in the interrogation room.
Detective Lieutenant Victoria Daniels entered the observation room. “Has he asked for a lawyer yet?”
“Nope.”
“Have you asked him anything yet?”
“Nope.”
“How long do you plan on keeping him here?”
“As long as you’ll let me.”
“We’ve looked into the man’s records. He’s a big-shot doctor with big-shot connections and the federal government behind him. The moment you ask him a question he doesn’t want to answer, he’ll get lawyered up and be released. You’ll never get anywhere near this man again.”
Butler nodded. “I know.”
Daniels shook her head. “So what the hell are you doing?”
“Enjoying the moment. The shitbag is guilty. I confirmed it the moment he agreed to come here. But I couldn’t exactly stop and say, ‘Well, thanks for your confession. I know there’s nothing I can do about it, so I might as well turn around and take you back home.’”
“No, but you might as well say it now. I’ll make arrangements for someone to take him.”
As Butler got up to begin his interrogation of Fenton, he noticed Daniels removing something from her pocket, but paid little attention to it.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, sitting down across from the doctor.
Marcus clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “No you’re not.”
Butler nodded. “I was trying to be polite.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
The detective looked him squarely in the eyes. “Would you like to make a confession?”
“Are you a priest?”
“Do I look like a priest?”
“If you’re not a priest, I have nothing to confess.”
Before Butler could respond, static came over the dusty intercom speaker at the top of the two-way mirror, close to the ceiling. The next sound to come through the intercom was the voice of Michael Barnes: “You sure about this?”
Fenton looked puzzled, but Butler recognized the acoustic reconstruction instantly. He’d heard it twice already. The detective turned back toward the mirror and glanced where he knew Victoria was standing. This was one of those rare moments when someone does exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. He nodded with heartfelt gratitude.
The detective lieutenant held Deputy Inspector Nataro’s pocket recorder next to the intercom microphone as the reconstructed conversation continued to play.
FENTON: Yes, I’m sure. Skylar is too valuable. She’s already made more progress with Eddie in days than the others made in years.
Marcus Fenton’s face tightened as he now recognized the conversation.
BARNES: Will you want to know the details?
FENTON: Nothing in his residence. Make it look like an accident.
BARNES: He takes the subway.
The click of the “Off” button could be heard over the intercom as Victoria stopped the playback. She stood so close to the two-way mirror, watching Fenton, that her breath steamed the glass.
Butler studied the doctor across the table, enjoying every second. If the NYPD ever made a Mastercard commercial, this was a moment that could fairly be described as priceless.
“I want to speak to my lawyer.” Fenton’s voice quivered. He was clearly rattled.
“I figured as much.” Butler stood up from the table. “You’re free to go. Transportation will be arranged for you.”
Surprised, the senior doctor immediately got to his feet and moved toward the door. He paused. “You’ll never be able to use it, you know.”
“We just did.”
Fenton steamed. “In a court of law.”
“That may be. But now you know we know. And you will never be able to forget it.” He held the door open for Fenton as the doctor stormed out of the room.
CHAPTER 87
New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 28, 12:07 a.m.
Max Garber had followed Agent Raines’s instructions to the letter, focusing his analysts’ efforts on the area’s five major train stations: Penn, Grand Central, Hoboken, Newark, and Secaucus Junction. All were reachable by subway. Penn and Grand Central were the obvious choices, but for that reason alone, Garber knew not to overlook the other three. The two fugitives had managed surprisingly well thus far to elude capture, and while part of their success could be attributed to luck, not all of it could. The doctor and patient were making smart choices. And the smart choice in this instance would be to avoid the two most obvious ones.
Garber split up his analysts into five equal teams, each assigned to one of the stations. They played catch up, reviewing surveillance footage from the last two hours—a guesstimate as to the earliest time the doctor and patient could have reached one of the train stations—to the present. Making full use of Homeland’s facial-recognition system, they methodically studied every train passenger’s face they could. Anyone with a rating of 70 percent or higher received closer, human inspection. It was this small percentage of “possibles” that required the analysts’ complete attention. And was why most of them were looking bleary eyed and chugging as many Red Bull and Rockstar and 5-Hour Energy drinks as they could get their hands on.
In each of the train stations, a majority of travelers wore either Yankees or Mets paraphernalia. This was, after all, baseball season. And the Mets were playing their National League East rivals the following afternoon. Whether going to the game or not, every legitimate fan was required to wear their colors. And in New York, the Yankees and Mets had a lot of fans. Max Garber was a fan of the latter. Later, if he wasn’t in the office, he’d be watching the game. If he was still in the office, which was looking increasingly likely, he’d sneak glimpses of the game on his phone.
Passing through the five analyst teams, Garber took note of the ones focused on Grand Central and Secaucus Junction, because those stations seemed to have the highest concentrations of Mets fans passing through their terminals. A quick search of train routes revealed why: those two stations had the most express trains to Philadelphia, site of the following day’s matchup. The problem was that all five analyst teams had already completed their searches of the available footage, and none had come up with a single actionable lead.
Garber scratched his head. He dreaded the thought of reporting no progress to Agent Raines. So what to do now? In part because he didn’t have any other ideas, and in part because his gut was telling him that somebody missed something, he randomly reassigned each team a different train station. Each was going to review the same footage another team had pored over. Garber wanted to be sure.
The government is known for redundancy. It’s
expensive and inefficient, but, every now and then, critical. This was one of those rare times that justified all the wasted taxpayer dollars. Because the second team to review the footage from Secaucus Junction needed less than fifteen minutes to spot the fugitives standing near the cattail sculpture in the station’s main concourse. The time was 10:09, just over two hours earlier. Skylar Drummond and Edward Parks were both dressed in Mets jerseys and caps, which was probably why they were missed the first time. Max Garber was once again impressed with a choice the fugitives had made. He quickly called Agent Raines to inform him of their findings as all five analyst teams attempted to track Skylar and Eddie’s progress through the train station.
The agent’s question was simple and direct. “Where were they headed?”
“We’re working on it now, but currently have no conclusive evidence. I can only make an educated guess.”
“I’m listening.”
“Both were wearing New York Mets jerseys and caps.”
“They play the Phillies tomorrow, don’t they?”
“They do. An express train for Philadelphia left Secaucus six minutes after the last time we spotted them.”
“When is that train due to arrive?”
Garber checked the clock at the lower-right corner of his monitor. “In seventeen minutes.”
In the time it took the analyst to hang up the phone, Agent Raines had already clicked off, speed-dialed the main Homeland switchboard, and asked to be connected to the Philadelphia office.
Raines had no idea that another party located in Alexandria, Virginia, would be listening to the call, just as they had been listening to his conversation with his favorite analyst.
CHAPTER 88
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 12:12 a.m.
That particular phone call to Agent Raines regarding the fugitive sighting in Secaucus Junction had triggered a flurry of activity inside the American Heritage Foundation. Jason Greers listened to the call and quickly related the information to his superior. Bob Stenson promptly placed his second phone call of the day to Senator Corbin Davis, who was entertaining the last of the four hundred guests who had attended a fund-raiser in his honor. The senator excused himself from his well-heeled donors and stepped outside the garish home of his third-largest campaign contributor to listen to a set of detailed instructions. Davis then dialed Homeland Security Director Arthur Merrell and proceeded to give one of the country’s three most powerful law-enforcement officers explicit orders as to how and where the fugitives should be apprehended, and, perhaps even more importantly, who should be allowed to come in contact with them and the echo box once they were in custody.