Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  He almost collided with two young women as he turned left on to Bowery. They smiled at his apology and stepped out of his way as he continued past Whole Foods Market, along the busy street which was flanked by a mismatched assortment of multi-colored buildings, most of them no more than four or five stories high, some of them old and in need of repair, others new and gleaming. Wallace forced himself to focus as he passed the All-Nite Pharmacy and neared the Fresh City Hotel. If this was a trap, it would be sprung soon.

  The hotel entrance was unchanged, the “F” and “C” still missing from the sign hanging above the doorway which was squeezed between the All-Nite and the Fireball Kitchen. There was no one hanging around on the street, and the nearby parked cars were all empty. Wallace scanned the windows of the surrounding buildings, but he couldn’t see anything to suggest that the place was being watched. Bright sunshine glared off the glass door, making it impossible to see into the tiny lobby. As he walked toward the entrance, he couldn’t help but imagine a gang of heavily armed men lying in wait for him.

  He pulled the door open and saw that the lobby was empty. The receptionist sat behind the bulletproof Plexiglas screen, and barely glanced up from her iPad as he entered. Wallace headed straight for the stairwell, which seemed smaller and more dilapidated than he remembered it. The stairs were covered with large flakes of paint that had fallen from the walls, and the whole place reeked of decay. He climbed cautiously, his senses alert. As he rounded the first flight, a door burst open and two men spilled through it. Wallace’s heart leaped into his throat, but his fear quickly subsided when he realized that they were students, goading each other remorselessly as they passed him, bantering loudly about each other’s inability to hold liquor. They skipped down the steps, their voices echoing off the crumbling walls, diminishing to nothing as they left the building.

  Wallace carried on. When he reached the next floor, he noticed a puddle of grim brown liquid pooling in the stairwell doorway. It had grown since his last visit. He stepped over it, into the decrepit corridor that lay beyond, and moved slowly toward room 217. He could feel his pulse rising and his breathing quicken as he neared the scuffed, chipped door. He glanced along the dismal corridor, peering in both murky directions for any sign of danger. He knocked. There were sounds of movement inside and he saw the peephole go dark for a moment before the door swung open to reveal Christine Ash. She wore a gray tank top, which revealed her toned arms, and a pair of jeans. She looked pale and tired, but to Wallace she was still beautiful.

  “The penthouse suite.” He smiled awkwardly.

  Her bare feet made no sound as she stepped toward him.

  “John,” she said, pulling him into a warm embrace. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Her hair was tied in a lank ponytail, and smelled of smoke and grease. Wallace recalled the time they’d embraced outside a subway station to avoid the police. He could still remember the scent of jasmine and the overwhelming urge he’d had to kiss her. Ash pressed her soft skin against his cheek and Wallace was suddenly aware of her warm body and the tingling sensation of her breath against his neck. When he reached a hand up to return her embrace, he felt rough fabric and stepped back, surprised to find that a thick, dirty bandage encircled her throat.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “You’d better come inside,” Ash said.

  37

  Ash sat cross-legged on one of the two narrow beds. She was paper white, and fatigue seemed to burden her every move. Wallace couldn’t tell whether her condition was the result of her injury, overwork, or the fact that her investigation into Pendulum had been thwarted. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall beside the folding bathroom door, watching her closely as they traded stories. He couldn’t be sure exactly how long they’d spoken, but the sun had fallen behind the neighboring building, and as the last rays of light faded, Ash leaned over and switched on the unshaded bedside lamp. Wallace had talked of Afghanistan, of the men, women, and children who’d died in the mountains, of Vosuruk and Kurik, and the discovery that Mike Rosen had been behind the assassination attempt.

  Ash had chronicled months of frustrating obsession, working alone, robbed of the resources of the Bureau, coming close to losing her mind as the weight of evidence led to the crushing conclusion that she’d imagined the second man in the Twin Lakes facility, and that Pendulum had been working alone. She’d told the tale of Babylon, Pendulum’s biggest fan, and how he’d led her to the base where she’d seen two other men, finally providing her with unassailable proof that she hadn’t imagined an accomplice. They’d both spoken of their concern for Bailey, Wallace focusing on the selfless sacrifice that led to the detective’s incarceration, Ash on the worrying communications which reflected their friend’s damaged state of mind.

  They shared their experiences of violence, Wallace first listening intently as Ash told him how she’d almost been beheaded in Babylon’s dank, festering lair, how she’d fought, utterly determined that her life would not be lost to a brutal maniac. He had offered words of comfort when emotion washed away her composure, and she returned the sentiment when he’d choked on the tale of Kurik and Vosuruk dying in his arms. They both knew what had happened to Connie, her shadow looming so large that it would chill Wallace’s remaining days, but neither spoke of the parallels, and when they were finally done trading tales of brutality, Wallace sensed that their relationship had shifted. Pendulum had forced them together and given them shared experiences that no one else could possibly understand. There existed between them a warped intimacy so deep that it could never be matched. As darkness rolled across the city, when they’d finally exhausted all they had to say, Wallace and Ash sat together, listening to the muted sounds of Manhattan, knowing that there was no better place to be than that infested hotel room, and no person they’d rather share their rotten sanctuary with.

  “Truth or happiness?” Wallace asked at last.

  Ash looked blank.

  “If you had the choice, which would you pick?” Wallace explained. “We can find out who did this, or we can leave, disappear. Go somewhere they wouldn’t find us. We’d never know the truth, but we might have a chance at happiness.”

  “When I was a kid,” Ash began, “I wanted to be like everyone else, to be stupid enough to believe my father’s lies, to nod my head, smile, and be happy. But even then I knew that happiness can’t be built on lies. I need to know who did this and we both need to make sure that they’re never capable of doing it again.”

  She smiled, and Wallace realized he’d made a mistake. She was an FBI agent. The truth was her job and she had no interest in escaping with the broken wreck of a man he’d become. Maybe, one day, he’d ask her the question again. If he lived that long.

  “So, what do we do next?” he asked, concealing his disappointment.

  She glanced at him before looking away, her eyes settling on the tiny window and the silhouette of the city beyond. “I don’t know,” she replied wearily.

  He’d seen Ash lost once before, at the motel on the Wilbur Cross Highway where she’d watched in horror as her childhood had been dissected on television, but this was different. She seemed so fragile, vulnerable, the tough veneer worn away to reveal a delicate core. She’d given so much of herself to her lone crusade that when she finally had confirmation she was right, the spark that fueled her had been extinguished by the terrible effort.

  “I’ve been seeing my father,” Ash confessed, her eyes filling. “In my dreams. The pills used to keep him away, but they don’t seem to work anymore. Most of it I can live with, but if I see her . . . if I see what he did . . .”

  Wallace could sense Ash’s anguish at the horrific memory she carried deep inside her. As a child, living under a different name, she’d witnessed her father shoot her mother dead.

  “I don’t think I could cope,” she continued, choking out the words.

  Wallace pulled himself on to the bed, and wrapped his arms around her.

 
“It’s going to be OK,” he assured her, telling himself that it wasn’t really a lie.

  Ash smiled up at him awkwardly. “I know,” she said quietly, gently extricating herself from his embrace. She wiped her eyes and stood. “I’m gonna grab us something to eat. There’s a pizza place across the street.”

  Wallace was bewildered. After everything they’d shared, she still didn’t feel comfortable around him. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

  “No. I’ll be OK on my own. No point risking us both getting caught.” She slipped on a pair of sandals and hurried from the room.

  Wallace felt a turmoil of emotion. There was no doubt that he had feelings for her, and he cursed himself for confusing the situation. He saw such sadness in her eyes, but it wasn’t simply that they were kindred, flawed spirits who might find comfort with each other; there was something about her that had changed. She’d opened up to Wallace, exposing herself in a way that made it impossible to ignore the beauty that lay within. He knew that it had taken a lot for her to be so honest, and that trust had only strengthened the attraction.

  “I’m sorry, Con,” he said quietly, swept by guilt as he realized he was feeling something he hadn’t experienced since he’d been with Connie: longing.

  Ash pulled the door closed and leaned against it, partly in response to the pain shooting up from the shredded soles of her feet, but mostly because she needed a moment of calm in the eye of an emotional storm. They’d established a genuinely powerful connection, and it scared her. She hadn’t ever let anyone get this close. Even as a child she’d sensed something warped in her parents’ relationship, and knew that her mother’s loyalty was split between maternal devotion and religious obligation. She’d never been able to totally trust anyone, not even her own mother, who might betray a confidence to her all-seeing, all-powerful father. Ash had never been herself; she’d always hidden behind achievement and used constant activity as a way to avoid forging any real bonds. Her relationship with Wallace was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Uncomfortable with being anything other than open, unwilling to give him anything but honesty, unable to erect the customary barriers that she used to keep people at a distance, Ash had let Wallace know her as no other. And he hadn’t recoiled or run. He hadn’t tried to use the knowledge to his advantage or manipulate her. He’d just listened, and when he saw she was hurt, sought to comfort her. Even if he didn’t exploit or betray her, Ash still had reason to be fearful of this unique relationship. She was in uncharted, unfamiliar territory. She’d never had a real friend and she didn’t know how to handle it; she had no idea what was involved.

  Don’t be afraid, baby.

  Her mother’s words rose in her mind, and Ash smiled to herself. Of all the things facing her, having a true friend was the least troubling. She eased her weight on to her pained feet, making a mental note to stop at the pharmacy on her way to the pizza place. As she slowly shuffled down the gloomy corridor, she thought about Wallace’s question. What do we do next? She already knew the answer. They’d have to start taking risks, and convince a brilliant man to break the law.

  38

  The kiss of bare feet on a polished wooden floor. Tiny, fragile fingers trailed along a whitewashed wall. A light cotton dress, crisp and cool against the skin.

  Not this. No.

  Sunlight warm on her back. A line drawn ahead of her, separating light from shade. She shivered as she crossed the border into shadow.

  No. I can’t go in there.

  A door ajar. White wood framed by light. A young hand reached out to push it open.

  Don’t. Don’t do it.

  Her father’s room. She’d made this journey countless times. From the lush garden, into his bungalow, down the corridor, into his bedroom.

  Don’t go in there. You know what you’ll find.

  The little girl she once was couldn’t possibly hear the warning, and stepped inside.

  Please. Please don’t.

  “You sent for me, Father,” Alice said, fixing a practiced smile to her face.

  Don’t look.

  But this wasn’t then; it wasn’t the day she dreaded, the day her world turned to horror. This was another time. Nicholas was sitting on his vast bed, his arms around her mother, pulling her close to him in an unaccustomed display of affection that reminded Alice of a time long ago, when she’d been tiny, when life had been good, and simple, and sweet.

  “We just wanted to tell you that we love you,” Nicholas announced. “And to let you know that you’re going to have a brother.”

  “Or sister,” her mother chimed in.

  This should have been a happy day. Alice wanted to hug her mother, but she knew that Nicholas was as changeable as a Pacific squall, and so she stood, waiting to be told how to react, looking beyond her parents, through the French doors, watching a blanket of California poppies as they swayed in the breeze, the thick yellow petals cupped tightly, as though trying to catch the air.

  “Don’t you have anything to say, Alice?” Nicholas asked, the bright, whitewashed room darkening as he spoke.

  “I’m very happy,” Alice tried.

  “That pleases me.”

  Nicholas smiled and offered her his arm.

  Alice stepped forward and he pulled her into a tight embrace. For a moment she almost believed that they were a normal family celebrating the impending arrival of a new baby.

  “We should all be most grateful for the wondrous bounty that is life, for the great gifts that the divine bestows upon us all,” Nicholas whispered in her ear, his words reminding her that they weren’t a normal family.

  They weren’t normal at all.

  A shaft of light snuck between the ill-fitting drapes and highlighted her smooth leg, which was wrapped around the quilt. Her hand gripped the thick fabric, her knuckles white with tension. She was asleep, but instead of calm repose, her face was furrowed, and her body had trembled intermittently the whole time he’d been watching. Wallace sat on the edge of his bed and wondered whether he should wake her. He’d showered and shaved, but his movements had been insufficient to rouse Ash from her nightmare. They’d shared a six-pack with their pizzas, and Wallace had seen her swallow a couple of pills after her food. He wasn’t sure whether they were painkillers to help numb her throbbing neck or whether she’d picked up some sleeping pills from the pharmacy at the foot of the building.

  He hadn’t wanted to confuse the situation or add to her stress, so he’d spoken of inconsequential things, watching Ash for any sign that she shared his feelings. But she’d returned from the pizza place more like her old, guarded self and instead of relaxing her, the beer and pizza seemed to make her more distant, their conversation growing increasingly superficial until at last she’d announced that she needed sleep.

  Wallace checked the phone Salamander had given him: 10:17 a.m.—they needed to get moving. He reached a hand toward Ash’s exposed shoulder, but her eyes flickered open before he could touch her. Fear and anxiety clouded her face until she realized where she was and who she was with.

  “Morning,” Wallace smiled.

  “I was dreaming,” Ash replied quickly, her words running into each other with the haste of the recently woken. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No. I’ve been up for a while. I was thinking of getting some breakfast.”

  “We’ll grab something on the move,” Ash advised him, shifting to her customary “take charge” tone. As she pushed herself upright, the quilt fell away to reveal her slim, muscular body, which was ill-concealed by the gray tank top and panties she’d slept in.

  Wallace flushed and looked away.

  “I’m going to shower,” she announced, stepping into the tiny bathroom.

  Wallace watched the flimsy plastic door slide shut. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  They walked north from the hotel, losing themselves in the Manhattan crowds. They bought a couple of cream cheese and lox bagels, and ate them on the move.

  “We
’ve got to go after Steven Byrne,” Wallace said as they joined the Avenue of the Americas and picked their way along the busy sidewalk. “I shot his son, and was at least partially responsible for what happened to his daughter. He’s got plenty of motive. And we know he’s rich enough to finance something like this.”

  Ash shook her head. “We checked him out thoroughly to see if he knew more than he was saying. There was nothing to link him to the murders.”

  “But—” Wallace began.

  “I’m not saying he’s not involved,” Ash cut him off. “I’m just saying that I don’t think we should start with one of America’s richest men. You’re wanted and I’ve been targeted twice. Maybe we should stay off the radar for a little longer?” She shot him a mollifying smile.

  “OK,” Wallace conceded. “So what’s the plan?”

  They were parted by a polished businessman shouting into his phone.

  “I put in three requests but I couldn’t get access to Max Byrne’s military records,” Ash revealed when they came together. “Mike Rosen said they’d served in the same unit, but I don’t remember seeing his records either. So much was lost in the aftermath of what happened in California . . .” She trailed off at the memory of her colleagues. “I can’t be certain we vetted him properly, and by the time things were back to normal, Rosen was in the wind. I want to see their military records, see who else they served with.”

  The Kosinsky Data Services reception hadn’t changed. Puffball clouds eased across a cobalt sky, and the city gleamed in the sharp sunlight, but Wallace only glanced at the view from the eighteenth-floor windows. He could feel Ash’s anxiety and watched as she paced back and forth. Todd, the young receptionist, had offered her a seat, but she’d rejected it impatiently. Wallace couldn’t tell whether her fearfulness stemmed from their current predicament or whether she was afraid of the man who haunted her dreams. Ash hadn’t said any more about her father and Wallace hadn’t wanted to pry, but he sensed a change, as though the specter of her past had been rendered more potent by her recent ordeal.