Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  “What do you think?” Murrall asked.

  Bailey hesitated, forcing himself to look directly at Sylvia Greene’s face. You’re not haunted anymore, he thought darkly as he peered at her glassy, bulging eyes. “You find a note?”

  Murrall shook his head. “This is going to be a hot one, sir. I don’t know if you read the Record, but she really turned it around. Broke a lot of big stories. Pissed off a lot of powerful people.”

  “Where’s the husband?” Bailey asked.

  “Downstairs with victim support,” Murrall replied.

  “He said anything?”

  “No. He kept it together until his sister collected the boys, but then he lost it.”

  “We should see if he’s ready to talk,” Bailey suggested as he headed for the door, relieved at his growing distance from grim death.

  Bailey didn’t answer any of Murrall’s questions but instead considered what he’d seen as he followed the wheezing detective downstairs. Apart from the bloodstains on the carpet, there was nothing to suggest murder, and the beam that supported Sylvia Greene’s body showed no signs of abrasion, suggesting that she had not been hoisted up there by someone else. Subject to the results of the forensic report on the blood, Bailey had been inclined to view Sylvia Greene’s death as suicide, but that changed the moment he caught sight of her husband, Connor. The distraught widower was seated at a pine-topped table near the high windows of his basement kitchen, and, while there was no doubting the authenticity of his grief, Bailey saw the man glance over at him and Murrall as they entered and recognized a familiar expression, one he’d seen on the faces of countless criminals: the discomfort of deceit.

  “Mr. Greene?” Bailey crossed the expensive white kitchen, the heels of his shoes clicking against the hard stone tiles. “How are you feeling?”

  Connor looked at the uniformed victim liaison officer, a young constable with an earnest face, no doubt in the vain hope she could answer on his behalf. The young constable caught Bailey’s eye and shook her head slowly. Connor’s chin dropped and he kept his eyes fixed on the delicate natural patterns embossed on the stone beneath his feet.

  “Do you think you can talk?” Bailey continued, leaning against the butcher’s block that stood at the heart of the kitchen. Ignoring Murrall’s concerned looks, he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves while he waited for Connor to answer. “It’s humid down here.”

  Bailey tried to read Connor’s eyes as the bereaved man glanced up at him: grief, anger, hostility—all the usual emotions he’d expect to see, but there was also discomfort, which manifested itself in Connor’s inability to hold his gaze. Bailey crouched down and forced himself into Connor’s eyeline. “What do you think, Mr. Greene?”

  “We can do this later, right . . .” Murrall began, but he stopped talking when Bailey shot him a disapproving look.

  “Saturday morning,” Connor began quietly. “Saturday morning. Give the boys their breakfast, get them in their kit, take them to football. Vee came every now and again, but Saturday mornings are mine. Me and the boys. She said she was going to catch up on some work.”

  Bailey watched Connor as he choked back his tears. The grieving husband looked hot and uncomfortable, perspiration clearly visible on his brow. Connor was wearing a thick woolen submariner’s sweater, complete with tight roll neck. His right hand was holding his left forearm, his fingers teasing a loose strand of wool. Thick jeans and heavy boots completed the husband’s outfit, clothes that might have been sensible for the touchline, but were bound to stifle in this well-insulated, hot kitchen.

  “Would you like me to open a window?” Bailey asked.

  Connor shook his head. “What would you like to know?”—his voice rising, searching for a name.

  “Detective Inspector Bailey. Just tell us about your day. Exactly what happened.”

  The kitchen fell still. Bailey could hear Murrall’s labored breathing and the muffled sounds of distant traffic. Someone outside the house dropped something that clattered to the pavement and made Murrall jump. Bailey was studying Connor too intently to react.

  “I take the boys to football practice every Saturday,” Connor began. “Out at the Hackney Marshes. Vee, Sylvia, my wife . . . she uses the time to work. She likes the house quiet so she can concentrate. Me and the boys stop for food on the way home, McDonald’s normally. She was fine when we left, maybe a little preoccupied, but she’s always like that when she’s got a lot on at work. When we came home . . . I . . . I found her upstairs. I tried to get her down . . .” Connor crumbled, his voice failing utterly as he recalled his efforts.

  “And the blood?” Bailey pressed.

  Connor took a moment to compose himself and then stared directly at Bailey, holding his gaze with unnatural intensity. “I cut myself,” he responded flatly, rolling up the sleeve of his thick sweater to reveal a nasty gash on his left forearm. The bloody wound was still weeping.

  Bailey gave Murrall a dismayed look; that was not the sort of thing he should have missed. “We need to have that looked at, Mr. Greene,” he advised, before telling the scruffy detective beside him, “See if you can get someone in here.”

  Murrall nodded at the victim support officer, who quickly left the room, and Bailey turned back to Connor. “How did you cut yourself, Mr. Greene?” he continued.

  Connor didn’t answer, but instead looked sheepishly at the floor.

  “Mr. Greene, what did you cut yourself on?” Bailey insisted, and the atmosphere changed.

  “The chair,” Connor responded at last. “I caught myself on the mechanism when I tried to lift my wife down.”

  Bailey looked to Murrall for confirmation, and the pale detective shook his head emphatically.

  “There was no blood on the chair, Mr. Greene,” Bailey countered. “How did you cut yourself?”

  Connor was unresponsive, his attention held by the patterns on the floor tiles.

  “People go into shock in these situations, do strange things, things they might struggle to remember,” Bailey added. “You need to tell us how you cut yourself, Mr. Greene.”

  Connor’s mouth twisted into a half-smile as he shook his head. “Why would I call the police?”

  Exasperated, Bailey turned to Murrall. “I think we’re going to have to continue this at the station,” he said. “Once we’ve got his arm seen to.”

  Connor’s smile fell away and he stared past Bailey, toward some distant point far beyond the walls of the kitchen. “Why would I call the police if I’d had anything to do with my wife’s death, Detective Inspector Bailey?”

  4

  The first gunshots echoed around the valley and Wallace looked down the mountainside to see flashes of fire erupting in the darkness. He heard distant cries, followed by urgent shouts, and peered into the night to see silhouetted figures running up the valley, holding long-barreled weapons that sprayed death. He knew he should have been afraid, but life’s calluses had robbed him of the sense to be scared.

  “Afghan Army,” Vosuruk announced urgently. “Satr’ama, Druni,” he said, turning to his shocked son. “S’u pre le’ea moc h’ u-kum bu kal’ a ku. I send him to wake people. They must escape,” he explained to Wallace.

  Druni nodded, then ran to the edge of the balcony and slid down the ladder. Wallace heard him shouting, “Kal’ a ku,” as he sprinted down the street banging on doors. Within moments the cry had been taken up by countless voices around the town.

  Arani, Druni’s beautiful young wife, stepped on to the balcony, thoughts of her wedding celebrations killed by gunfire. “T’ot, Vosuruk?” she asked hesitantly. Wallace could see the rest of the family crowded around her, eager to learn the cause of the commotion.

  “San’oa s’ea dor in’rama zan’or!” Vosuruk commanded as he stared out at the gunfire that was drawing ever closer. “We must all go to the mountains.”

  Arani and the rest of the family immediately withdrew, and there was hurried chatter as some of them rushed to gather their bel
ongings, while others simply fled the building. The sound of the approaching helicopters grew louder, and, as Wallace saw the first dark shadow crest a distant ridge, the valley below them crackled with gunfire. This time Wallace could see the tracers blazing downhill.

  “My men will hold them,” Vosuruk told him. “They made a bad mistake. The helicopters should have come first.”

  Wallace was not about to argue with the veteran of so many wars. He watched bursts of light illuminate the valley below as fire spat in both directions.

  “In’rama zan’or!” Vosuruk yelled and his cry was echoed by other voices. “We must run to the high country,” he told Wallace. “Take only what you can carry. Go!”

  Wallace looked inside the house and saw that Vosuruk’s immediate family had almost finished preparing their packs. He ran for the ladder. As he stepped on the first rung, he saw a spark of flame shoot across the sky. Moments later there was a massive explosion where it hit the earth. The sound of distant screams froze Wallace’s blood; he was sure he heard a child’s voice. More fire from the sky as the approaching helicopters rained missiles on Kamdesh, concentrating their fury on any pocket of resistance.

  “Go!” Vosuruk commanded.

  Wallace slid down the ladder, landing on the hard dirt with a thud. He scrambled into the stable, where he found Kurik preparing the horses. Outside, the valley was alive with the sound of battle. Explosions shook the building and the rattle of automatic gunfire had become incessant, as had the cries of the townspeople. Wallace hurried into his quarters and grabbed his camera bag. He thought about taking his other backpack, which contained clothes and medical supplies, but had no idea where they were going or how long they’d need to travel, so decided against the extra weight.

  “Tr’ok Si’ol!” Kurik shouted.

  Wallace slung his camera bag over his shoulders, pulled back the drape and stepped into the stable where Vosuruk’s youngest stood holding the reins of all three horses. Vosuruk entered, clasping an AK-47.

  “We must go!” he said urgently.

  Kurik handed Wallace the reins of a white gelding before mounting a tan mare. Vosuruk jumped on to the gray and dug his heels into the horse’s body, spurring it forward. Wallace struggled to stay in his saddle as his horse galloped after Vosuruk and Kurik, and he felt his heavy camera bag accentuating the effect of every twist and turn, threatening to throw his balance, as the horses bolted up the mountain along the narrow, winding streets of Kamdesh. Bullets sliced the air and clouds of dust burst all around them as the slugs studded the mud-walled buildings.

  A piercing whistle cut through the sky above them, and Vosuruk suddenly turned his horse, shouting, “This way!”

  Kurik and Wallace followed Vosuruk along a narrow alleyway, as a missile hit a house further up the mountain. Black night was banished by a powerful explosion. The force of the blast threw Wallace against his horse’s neck, and he felt his forearm scream with pain as he clasped the reins and willed himself not to fall. He righted himself, and, as the horse thundered on, he caught sight of figures lit by the burning building to his rear. Men, women, and children fleeing their homes, running for the safety of the surrounding forest, as those able to fight tried to repel the highly organized invaders.

  A light flared further up the mountain and Wallace saw fire streak into the sky. The deadly flame headed directly toward the nearest helicopter, its heavy silhouette looming in the heavens like a fearsome god. The pilot must have registered the threat, but acted too late, and the surface-to-air missile hit the belly of the chopper as it tried to bank away. Wallace turned from the blast and saw Kurik and Vosuruk riding on to a dirt track that led toward the thick forest above Kamdesh. He looked back at the helicopter, which burned brightly as it fell to earth, and saw that the valley was being torn apart. Afghan soldiers pressed through the town, exchanging fire with outnumbered locals, while the remaining helicopters targeted the surface-to-air launcher. Missiles streaked through the sky and destroyed a collection of houses on the upper slopes. The force of the blasts threw Wallace sideways, and he felt the heat of the explosions as he tumbled out of his saddle and hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

  Dazed, he tried to get to his feet but stumbled and fell forward. His rebellious legs no longer obeyed his commands, and he looked around anxiously, acutely aware that he was alone. There was no sign of Vosuruk, Kurik, or his horse. The ground shook with the force of another explosion, and bullets hit the walls of nearby buildings. The tree line was no more than a hundred yards away, but Wallace doubted his legs would carry him to the nearest building, let alone the safety of the forest. Farther down the street, which flanked the eastern edge of town, he saw the first Afghan soldiers approaching. There were two of them, and they were working cover-and-clear as they made their way up the mountain, one sweeping the abandoned homes, while the other ran ahead and took position to give cover for the move to the next building. They saw Wallace at roughly the same time and exchanged urgent looks, before breaking into a run.

  The nearest man spoke urgently into his radio. “Sahib, mung laral paida el-khareji.” He trained his gun on Wallace. “Khateez sarak, mujawar el-zanggal.”

  Wallace recognized the Pashto words for foreigner, east, and road. They were radioing their location and telling someone that they had found the foreigner. Something about the way they phrased the word bothered Wallace, but his thoughts were interrupted by the painfully loud rattle of gunfire. Both soldiers fell dead, yards from where he lay. Wallace looked up the mountain and saw Vosuruk holding his weathered AK-47. Behind him, Kurik rode down the track, clasping the reins of Vosuruk’s gray and Wallace’s own white horse.

  “Thank you,” Wallace said as Vosuruk approached, but his host didn’t stop and instead ran past him toward the fallen soldiers.

  Kurik gave Wallace the reins of his horse. As he hoisted himself into the saddle, Wallace looked round to see Vosuruk concealing something beneath the nearest soldier.

  “Hurry! Quick!” Vosuruk yelled urgently, as he ran back toward his horse.

  Kurik spurred his mount toward the tree line and Wallace’s white gelding needed no further encouragement, following at speed, while Vosuruk brought up the rear. Wallace heard barked commands as they raced toward the safety of the dark trees. He looked over his shoulder to see more soldiers come into view, their muzzles flashing as they opened fire. Bullets whipped around Wallace, and he gripped the reins tightly and clamped his thighs around his galloping horse. He looked back and saw a soldier approach one of the men Vosuruk had shot. As the man checked his fallen comrade, a massive explosion tore him apart and set the street aflame; Vosuruk’s booby trap threw the detachment into chaos, as those not caught in the blast sought to extinguish their screaming, burning companions. Wallace glanced at Vosuruk, and the grizzled veteran smiled sourly as they crossed the tree line and rode into the cold embrace of the dark forest.

  5

  Christine Ash shifted position in a vain attempt to make the tiny stool more comfortable. The atmosphere in the van had moved from close to oppressive, and she was aware that she was covered in nervous perspiration. Her colleague, Deon Reeves, a slim black man, was also glistening. He was so tall that he couldn’t really sit on his stool; it looked more like he’d been folded up and precariously balanced on top. He watched the bank of monitors, his eyes darting from one to the other with the intense diligence that Ash had come to expect of him. A New Year promotion to Senior Special Agent had put Ash in charge of the team investigating a serial killer known as Babylon. Profiling had pegged him as an intelligent white male, possibly a professional, almost certainly college educated, with a deep-rooted but warped belief in one of the Abrahamic faiths. The moniker, Babylon, had come from a series of emails sent to the New York Post shortly after each murder. The correspondence provided rambling justifications and details of the killings that only the murderer would know. Inspired by Pendulum, Babylon said he had made it his mission to rid the world of thos
e who were helping the evils of technology overrun society. Like the unholy tower that was destroyed by God, Babylon would tear down the evil edifice that was technology and return humanity to a simpler way of living. He had murdered Tim Smith, a systems programmer at a small app development company; Robert Cornish, an account manager who worked at Dell; Sally Lonner, a website developer; Molineaux Lund, a YouTube technology reviewer; and Andie Fong, a Wall Street fund manager who specialized in technology stocks. Babylon’s chosen method of murder—beheading—had the tabloids in a frenzy. What the media didn’t know was that the Bureau was struggling to identify the murder weapon. The victims were decapitated by something that cauterized the massive wound, removing the head with minimal blood loss.

  Babylon claimed to have been inspired by Pendulum, but he lacked the same level of sophistication, and once they’d been made aware of the Post correspondence, Ash had tasked Reeves with tracing the source of the emails. She found it ironic that someone on an anti-tech crusade would use email to boast about his crimes, but she knew from bitter experience that most righteous zealots were terrible hypocrites.