by Timothy Zahn
An eerie chill ran up Powell's back. "Cyril wasn't blowing smoke, was he?" he asked quietly. "There really is a war brewing."
"Hell itself is brewing," Fierenzo confirmed tightly. "And we've got forty-eight hours to stop it.
Maybe less."
Powell looked at the clock again. "I don't suppose you know when this Junction Inn closes?"
"Probably before you can get there," Fierenzo said. "I was hoping you could be outside when they open in the morning."
"You think that'll be soon enough?"
"I don't know," Fierenzo conceded. "But the alternative is to blow in there tonight, wake up the owner and maybe a couple of state cops and demand they let you in. That would draw way more attention than I want to risk right now."
"Speaking of drawing attention, it might not be a good idea for me to suddenly go missing," Powell said as his brain started working again. "I've got a meeting set up for nine o'clock with Cerreta and Commander Messerling."
"S.W.A.T. Commander Messerling?" Fierenzo asked.
"You know anyone else with that name?" Powell countered. "I got the ball rolling a few hours ago when I thought you'd been kidnapped by one of these gangs. You want me to cancel the alert?"
"Better not," Fierenzo said. "It might be a very good idea to have them standing ready."
"Okay," Powell said. "Anything else I should tell them? Aside from the fact you're all right?"
"Not really," Fierenzo said slowly. "In fact... let's go ahead and leave out the part about me being okay."
Powell frowned. "Tommy, you can't keep this quiet. The whole department's up in arms."
"Which is exactly how we want them," Fierenzo pointed out. "Having a missing cop in the mix should help them be a little more inspired if and when this thing blows up."
"Except that you'll eventually have to come clean," Powell warned. "This is not what they call a good career move."
"I can take the heat," Fierenzo assured him. "As for you, you never knew anything about it. This conversation never took place. Got that?"
"We'll discuss it later," Powell said, keeping his voice neutral. Like hell he would leave his partner to take all the blame himself. "So what do you want to do about the Junction Inn?"
"We still need to see if Caroline left us a note," Fierenzo said. "You think Smith might be interested in an early-morning drive?"
"I can ask him," Powell said. "But I think I should let him know you're all right."
"No." Fierenzo's voice left no room for argument.
"He gave up his whole weekend helping us look for you," Powell said, arguing it anyway. "He deserves a little consideration."
"He deserves not to have his career go up in flames," Fierenzo countered. "You tell him I'm okay and we'll be making him a party to this deception. You and I may be able to weather that kind of storm, but he's way too junior to get away with it."
Powell grimaced. "I suppose," he conceded. "Okay, I'll get him on it as soon as you hang up. By the way, I never got to tell you what I found on the branch that was in that stolen Parks truck."
"Let me guess," Fierenzo said. "Dull axe marks?"
Powell made a face at the phone. "I don't know why you even bother with a partner," he said sourly.
"Yes, just like we found on the Whittiers' potted trees, only these went about halfway up from the broken end instead of all being clustered at the bottom."
"Don't sulk," Fierenzo soothed him. "It's still a useful confirmation."
"Confirmation of what?"
"Right now, I'm not at liberty to say," Fierenzo said grimly. "Just get Smith on the horn and point him upstate. And keep your cell handy. I might have to whistle you and Messerling up at a moment's notice."
"Don't worry," Powell said grimly. "We'll be ready."
40
Roger had been to Staten Island only once in his life, back when he was a child and his parents had taken him to see the Richmond Town Restoration. He didn't have much memory of that trip, but he'd come away with the vague impression of a place that was pretty quiet and very unexciting.
Now, at two o'clock in the morning, the island was even quieter.
"There," Velovsky said, pointing out the window at a collection of small shapes silhouetted against the reflected glow from the waters of the Upper Bay. "Third one from the left."
"Anyone around?" Fierenzo asked.
Jonah was sweeping the area with his binoculars. "Doesn't look like it," he said.
"Let's go, then," Fierenzo said, opening his door. "Roger, leave the keys above the visor."
Roger obeyed, the weight of the hammergun wrapped around his wrist still feeling strange. He climbed out of the car, closing the door to a crack instead of slamming it, and fell in behind Fierenzo, slogging through the loose sand as Velovsky and Jonah fanned out to either side.
They reached the shed without incident. "Locked," Fierenzo muttered, digging into a pocket. "I'll have to pick it."
"Don't bother," Jonah said, reaching over and pressing his thumb against the lock. "Gray general-use locks are keyed to pressure and body temperature. All I have to do is—there," he said as the lock snicked open.
Fierenzo pulled open the door and gave the weathered wood inside a quick sweep with his penlight.
Looking over his shoulder, Roger saw that the shed was empty, with no other doors or windows.
"What now?" he asked.
"This way," Jonah said, slipping past them and going to the far corner of the shed. He reached down and got a grip on something; and to Roger's amazement, a section of floor swiveled open on invisible hinges, revealing a set of narrow steps leading downward. "Again, general-use camouflage," Jonah explained as he propped the door back against the wall behind it. Twisting his wrist, he sent his hammergun flowing into his hand.
Roger did the same, though not nearly as deftly. Jonah gave a quick look around at the others, then turned to the staircase and started down, Fierenzo close behind. Roger followed, his heart thudding painfully, with Velovsky bringing up the rear.
The stairs were trickier than expected. Roger had grown up with the American standard of riser and step dimensions, which apparently was just slightly different from the typical Gray equivalents. Half a dozen times in the first thirty steps he caught his heel and nearly lost his balance. One of those times, as he grabbed for the smooth metal of the stairway to catch himself, his hammergun clattered against it, sounding as loud as a gunshot in his ears and eliciting a quiet but heartfelt curse from Velovsky. Letting go of the weapon, he let it flow back into its wristband, and from then on kept both hands brushing lightly against the walls for support.
Finally, with a murmured warning from Jonah, they reached the bottom.
Roger stepped off the last stair to find himself pressed close to Fierenzo in a cramped metal entryway no bigger than an office cubicle, facing an elaborately tooled metal wall. "I hope there's a door there somewhere," Fierenzo murmured.
"Right there," Jonah said, gesturing to a section of the wall that looked no different to Roger than any of the rest of it. "Problem is, I don't know how to open it."
"Try to figure it out," Fierenzo said tartly. "I'd really prefer not to have to knock."
"We may not have a choice," Velovsky warned. "The outer door would have locked Melantha in.
This one might well be designed to lock everyone else out."
"I think he's right," Jonah said reluctantly, running his hand over the wall. "Okay. Everyone back up the stairway."
They reversed direction, climbing back up the steps. It was just as tricky going up, Roger discovered, as it had been going down.
"That's far enough," Fierenzo murmured after the first ten steps. "Okay, Jonah," he called softly as he turned around and drew his gun from his shoulder holster. Taking a deep breath, Roger threw his hammergun into his hand and tried to prepare himself for action.
From below came a pair of dull thuds that echoed off the stairway walls. There was a moment of silence, then two more. "Com
e on!" Jonah shouted. "Open up, will you?"
More silence followed. Then, abruptly, there was a faint creak of metal, and Roger felt a puff of oddly scented air flow past him. "What do you—?" a deep voice growled.
"About time," Jonah cut him off. "Hey, Garth. How's it going?"
"Wait a second—wait a second," Garth protested. "You can't come in here. Special orders from—"
"From Torvald," Jonah finished for him. "Yes, I know. Why do you think I'm here?"
"No, really, you can't come in," Garth insisted. "We've got some delicate tech work going and can't have people clumping around stirring up air currents."
Jonah's sigh was clearly audible. "Very plausible," he said. "I'll be sure to tell Torvald what a fine job you're doing. But right now, I have to get in to see the girl."
There was just the briefest pause. "Girl?" Garth cautiously.
"Melantha Green?" Jonah said, starting to sound a little irritated. "The one you're guarding? Torvald wants me to bring some proof to Halfdan that we've got her."
"He told Halfdan about her?" Garth said, sounding stunned.
"The situation's starting to unravel," Jonah bit out, his voice clearly impatient now. "Or didn't they tell you about Damian?"
"They told me Whittier spun a spiderweb story for them," Garth said contemptuously. "I don't believe it any more than Torvald does."
"Well, I guess Torvald's changed his mind," Jonah said.
"He must have changed more than that," Garth countered. The initial shock of finding Jonah outside his door was apparently fading, and Roger could hear suspicion starting to edge into his voice.
"Since when are you working with him?"
"Since none of your business," Jonah said. "He doesn't tell me everything he's got on the burner, either. What, you think I just strolled over to Staten Island and came down here on a sudden whim?"
"Why didn't he tell me you were coming?" Garth demanded. "For that matter, why didn't you use your tel instead of pounding on the door just now?"
"Because I don't have one," Jonah said. "I was supposed to get one of the pair you cut up to track Whittier's trassk with. Come on, we're wasting time. You going to let me in, or not?"
"Not, I think," Garth decided firmly. "Not till I talk to Torvald."
And with that, Fierenzo jumped suddenly down the steps, the thud of his feet hitting the metal floor echoing up the stairway. "Police," he snapped. "Keep your hands where I can see them. Roger, get your butt down here."
Roger clattered back down the steps, Velovsky behind him, to find the situation just about the way he'd visualized it. Garth was standing in the middle of the open doorway, his mouth hanging open in shock, his ever-present pocketknife for once gripped motionlessly in his hand. In front of him stood Jonah; slightly to the side where he had a clear line of fire was Fierenzo, his gun pointed squarely at Garth's stomach. Garth's bewildered frown shifted over the detective's head—"Whittier?" he demanded. "Jonah, what in—?"
"Later," Fierenzo cut him off. "How many more in there?"
Garth's mouth clamped solidly shut. "Fine—we'll find out for ourselves," Fierenzo said, tossing Jonah a set of handcuffs. "Stay here and watch him, and make sure he doesn't use his tel. You two come with me."
Pushing past Garth, Fierenzo headed into the transport. Glancing furtively at the glowering Gray as he passed, Roger followed.
The transport's door led into a light-blue corridor that stretched back about ten feet to a T-junction.
Fierenzo reached the intersection and paused, giving a quick look both directions. "Short branch to the left; longer one to the right," he murmured back over his shoulder. "Any suggestions?"
"Go right," Velovsky muttered back. "We must be near the bow. Most of the transport will still be aft."
"Sounds good to me," Roger seconded.
Fierenzo nodded. "Stay sharp," he warned. "Looks like there are a couple more turns back there, and I see at least two doorways. Perfect spot for an ambush." Giving another quick glance both directions, he sidled around the corner and headed to the right.
This corridor was longer than the first, stretching back at least thirty feet. Roger stayed close behind Fierenzo, his eyes on the two doorways midway down the corridor leading off to opposite sides.
Melantha and another guard might be in one of those rooms—
"Behind you!" Velovsky barked suddenly.
Roger spun around to find that a big Gray had appeared at the far end of the corridor branch they hadn't taken and was striding purposefully toward them. Clenching his teeth, he snapped his hammergun up, peripherally aware that Velovsky was doing the same.
They were both too late. There was the familiar guitar-string whine, and suddenly Velovsky was thrown backward, slamming into Roger and sending his own shot splatting uselessly into the corridor wall. He tried to line up the weapon for a second try, but there was another whine and his arm flailed back over his shoulder as the Gray's shot caught him in his upper-right shoulder, spinning him halfway around and dropping him off-balance onto one knee. The Gray's third shot sent Velovsky careening backward into him again, throwing his aim that much farther off and leaving Fierenzo the only one still standing. With two of his opponents down, the Gray broke into a sprint, hammergun still spitting shots their direction. He reached the T they'd just passed, glanced toward the entryway as he ran through the intersection—
And was abruptly slammed sideways against the wall as Jonah's hammergun shot caught him dead center.
Roger suddenly noticed his left hand was tingling. Shouldering Velovsky off his arm, he twitched his finger and pressed the hand to his cheek. "Yeah, what?" he demanded.
"I've got this one," Jonah announced. "Keep going."
"Right," Roger said, getting shakily to his feet. He'd lost his grip on his hammergun in the fracas, he discovered; flicking his wrist, he threw it back into his hand. "You okay, Velovsky?"
"Don't worry about me," the old man wheezed, his chest heaving as he fought to get air back into his lungs. "Just move it."
"Quiet," Fierenzo admonished them both.
They continued on to the first door. It opened at a touch on a white plate set in the wall beside it, and Fierenzo and Roger looked cautiously inside.
The room was dark, but there was enough light spilling in from the corridor to show a dozen rows of dusty-looking padded seats, arranged airline style. "Passenger compartment," Velovsky identified it, peering past Roger's shoulder. "Those seats probably fold down for sleeping."
"Should we check it out?" Roger asked, trying to see around the chairs. "They could have Melantha on the floor behind that last row."
"You couldn't hide a Gray back there," Fierenzo pointed out, shining his flashlight into the compartment. "Not enough room."
"What about that storeroom?" Velovsky asked, pointing his hammergun toward a darker archway opening off the far side of the compartment. "Plenty of room in there for her and a couple of guards."
"Yeah, but all the comfortable seats are out here," Fierenzo pointed out, shining the light at the archway.
"They could have moved her when they heard us coming," Roger suggested.
Fierenzo shook his head. "Dust on the chairs; nothing floating in the air. Let's keep going."
The next door opened into a second compartment arranged in a mirror image of the first, and just as deserted. Beyond the two doorways, the corridor ended in another T-junction, this one with equallength branches leading off to both sides. "Should we split up?" Roger offered as Fierenzo hesitated.
"Bad idea," Fierenzo said. "Let's try right."
"No," Velovsky said suddenly. "Go left."
Roger looked at him. The old man was staring into space, frowning hard in concentration. "Any particular reason?" Fierenzo asked, his voice wary.
"Just go left," Velovsky repeated sharply, gesturing with his hammergun.
A memory flashed into Roger's mind: Caroline in the cab Saturday morning, listening to the Greens as they communicated sil
ently with each other. Could he be hearing Melantha's call? "Let's do it," he said, turning down the left-hand branch. Five paces ahead the corridor bent to the right; not bothering to look first, he charged around the corner.
He caught just a glimpse of the Gray kneeling marksman-style in the center of the corridor as the hammergun shot slammed into his chest, throwing him backward against the wall. He tumbled down onto the deck, vaguely aware of Fierenzo diving flat onto the floor around the corner in front of him as Velovsky leaned his right arm awkwardly around the corner—
"Roger. Roger!"
With a start, Roger came to. Fierenzo was crouched over him, slapping at his cheek. "You okay?" the detective demanded.
"Yeah, I think so," Roger told him. His head and chest ached fiercely, but not with the sharp stabbing pains he would have expected from broken bones. "You get him?"
Fierenzo nodded, getting a grip on Roger's arm. "Come on—Velovsky's gone ahead."
With the detective's support, Roger managed to stagger down the corridor. The Gray was lying on the floor a few feet back from a doorway opening off to the right, his hands cuffed securely behind his back. Roger got a grip on the edge of the doorway, and he and Fierenzo stepped through into another of the passenger compartments they'd seen farther forward.
Propped up on her elbow on one of the flattened-out seats, her eyes heavy-lidded with interrupted sleep as she gazed nervously at Velovsky, was Melantha. "Melantha?" Roger called, taking another tentative step inside.
Her dark eyes turned toward him and abruptly widened. "Roger!" she gasped. Hopping off the seat, brushing past Velovsky, she ran toward him. Roger braced himself—
And then she was in his arms, her own arms wrapped tightly around him, sobbing into his shoulder.
"I knew you'd come," her muffled voice came from his jacket as she cried. "I knew you and Caroline wouldn't leave me."
"We're here, honey," Roger soothed, feeling embarrassed yet strangely comfortable as he held her close, trying not to wince as her arms squeezed his new set of bruises. "I'm sorry it took so long, but we're here."
"And we need to get moving," Fierenzo put in, touching the girl's shoulder. "Do you know how many Grays are in here with you?"