Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  To the north lay the runways, the East River, and Rikers Island. If he didn't get out of here soon, Rikers might be his new home.

  To the south, past Ditmars Boulevard and Grand Central Parkway, the glowing house windows of Jackson Heights beckoned.

  East offered only dark expanses of marsh and more of the East River. The west had possibilities, but involved long stretches of exposure.

  He had to get down to the highway.

  Jack fell in with a group heading from the skyway to the garage. No one spoke. Shock was the order of the day.

  As they entered the fourth level and scattered toward their respective cars, Jack took the elevator down to the ground floor. Crossed to the outer rim and hopped over the wall. Cut across an access lane to a low concrete wall. Hopped that, landing on a patch of bare ground. Directly ahead, across a scraggly winter lawn, lay Grand Central Parkway.

  All that stood between Jack and freedom was an eight-foot, chain-link fence with a barbed-wire crown.

  Blue-and-white police units and sinister black SUVs kept roaring in and out along the airport access roads.

  That fence… that damn fence…

  Couldn't go over it. No big deal physically—he could easily climb the links and throw his sweatshirt over the barbed wire—but he'd be spotted for sure.

  Had to find another way.

  Jack lay flat and began to belly crawl through the cold, dead grass. When he reached the fence he turned and crept along its base, feeling his way, searching for—

  His hand slipped into a depression in the dirt. Knew he'd find one somewhere along the line. Inevitable that some dog at some time would want to get past the fence. To do that it would dig. And one had dug here.

  Not deep enough to allow Jack through, but okay. The dog trough gave him a head start. All he had to do was make it a little deeper, strip down to his underwear, and slip through.

  He pulled out his knife and flipped it open. A sin to use a Spyderco Endura as a digging tool, but…

  At least the ground was still soft. Though cold, winter was a couple weeks off, and the ground hadn't frozen yet.

  He began to dig, loosening the dirt with the knife blade and scooping it out with his free hand…

  8

  Jack crouched in the shadows under an overpass. He punched Abe's number into his phone and prayed he was still at the store. He released a breath when he heard him pick up.

  "Abe? It's me."

  "Hello, Me. I don't recall ever meeting a Me. I should know you?"

  "Hold the jokes, okay. I need a favor."

  "Always with the favors."

  "This is serious."

  Abe must have picked up on his tone. "Serious how?"

  "I need a ride."

  "You call that serious?"

  "Abe, I'm stranded on the Grand Central. Can you pick me up?"

  "I should drive all the way out to Queens when you can take a cab?"

  "I can't take a cab."

  "Why? Someone pick your pock—hey, wait. Are you out near the airport?"

  "Very."

  "Are you okay?"

  "No."

  "Wait—your father was coming in today. Was he—?"

  "Yeah."

  "Gevalt! He's not…?"

  "Yeah, Abe. He's gone."

  "What?"

  "Gone."

  Silence on the other end. Finally Abe spoke, his voice thick.

  "Jack… Jack, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Anything. Just tell me."

  "Come get me, Abe. Check the underpasses near the airport exit ramp. I'm under one of them. Wish I could tell you which one but…"

  "I'll take the truck."

  "Hurry."

  9

  Hours later Jack sat slumped in a funk on Gia's couch while she huddled against him. Vicky was upstairs doing her homework. Gia had told her that Jack's father had died and left it at that. Knowing that he'd been slaughtered in what the media were now calling the "Flight 715 Massacre" would only frighten her. Better for now to let her think he was an old man who'd died of natural causes—whatever those were.

  They stared at the old TV, watching the same shots of La Guardia's Central Terminal, hearing the same clips of the mayor, the police commissioner, the head of Homeland Security, and the president himself. No new news, just repetitions of what little had been gleaned from witnesses who had been close enough to see the massacre, but far enough away to stay clear:

  Two gunmen wearing airport coveralls, ski masks, and Arab headdress—described as "the kind of thing Arafat wore"—had entered baggage claim through an employees-only doorway and opened up on the passengers of American Airlines flight 715. The result was one hundred and fifty-two dead—men, women, children, passengers, relatives, limo drivers, security guards—everyone who'd been anywhere near the carousel.

  Among the dead were forty-seven members of the ultra-orthodox Satmar Hasidic sect returning to Crown Heights from a gathering in Miami. Since the killers did not attack any of the other nearby carousels, the news heads speculated that the presence of such a sizable group of Hasidim might have been why that particular flight was targeted.

  After finishing their bloody work, the killers had fled through the same doorway. In the hallway beyond they'd discarded their coveralls, their masks and kufiyas, as well as their assault pistols. Word had leaked that both pistols were Tavor-2 models, manufactured in Israel. That started speculation that the choice of weapon might have been a way of adding insult to injury. Jews slaughtered by Israeli-made weapons.

  But the question most asked by the news heads to their endless parade of experts on terrorism and Arabs and Islam, singly or on panels, was why there were no wounded. How could every wound be fatal? Finally someone offered the possibility that the terrorists might have used cyanide-filled hollow-point rounds.

  "Oh, my God!" Gia said. "How could they?" Then she shook her head. "Sorry. Stupid question."

  "I figured it might be something like that."

  "Why? How?"

  As he'd knelt next to his dead father, Jack's reeling mind hadn't been able to process all the surrounding sights and sounds. But as he'd waited in the cold darkness for Abe, he'd slowed and corralled his chaotic thoughts, and painstakingly pieced together what he had seen.

  Dad hadn't been lying in a pool of blood—he'd been lying next to one that seemed to have come from the uniformed woman beside him. His body wasn't bullet riddled; in fact Jack had seen only one wound, a bloody hole near the left buttock, but not much bleeding from that.

  "My father's wound—at least the one I could see—seemed to be a flesh wound. Of course the bullet could have ricocheted off a bone and cut through a major artery. But after I heard there were no wounded, that everyone who'd been shot was dead, I began to suspect cyanide."

  None of this had been confirmed, but Jack was pretty sure it would turn out to be something along those lines.

  Gia shivered against him. "I've never heard of—I mean, what hideous sort of mind dreams up these things?"

  "Cyanide bullets aren't new. They're a terrorist favorite, but usually when they're out to assassinate a specific target. The poison guarantees that an otherwise nonlethal wound will be fatal. First I ever heard of them was back when we were kids—when those Symbionese Liberation Army nuts used cyanide-tipped bullets to kill that school superintendent. But for mass murder? Never heard of them being used for that. At least until now."

  Gia closed her eyes as a tear slid from each. "So if they'd used regular bullets your father could have lived… if he'd laid still and played dead, he might have survived, and we'd be standing around his hospital bed now talking about how lucky he was."

  Thinking about what could have been and might have been never worked for Jack. Seemed like self-torture, and he felt tortured enough right now.

  "I doubt it."

  Gia opened her eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "I saw a smear of blood about the length of his leg on the floor beside him. His hand was on the holster of
a dead security guard. I think—no, I'm sure he was going after her gun. Dad wasn't the type to sit and wait to be killed. He was an excellent shot. If he'd reached the gun… who knows? I doubt he could have taken down both of them, but maybe he could have hit one of them, and that might have scared off the other."

  Could have … might have…

  Useless.

  Just as useless as the rerun of his fantasy of teaming up with Dad to take out the killers.

  Gia said, "He would have been a hero."

  "Most likely they'd have cut him to ribbons as soon as he fired his first shot."

  "At least you got to see him again. If this had happened down in Miami, you, well… you're now the last one to see him alive."

  Jack knew he couldn't claim that blessing for himself.

  "No, the killers were."

  "I mean in his family—oh, God! Family! Did you call your brother?"

  Shit!

  "No. I didn't even think…"

  Truth was, thoughts of his brother rarely if ever crossed Jack's mind. He'd never considered Tom a real brother, just someone who shared some of his genes and, for the first eight years of Jack's life, the same house. Ten years older than Jack, Tom hadn't been a presence even before he'd gone off to college, and after that he'd faded to a wraith who'd float in and out over the holidays and breaks.

  Jack had his number somewhere. He'd had to call him a few times last September to update him on Dad's coma, but not often enough to remember.

  "You've got to call him."

  Yeah, he did. But how much would Tom care?

  Jack caught himself. Not fair. Maybe Tom hadn't gone to visit Dad in Florida when he'd been hurt, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be devastated to learn he was a victim of the flight 715 massacre. Back then he'd said he was tied up with "judicial matters," whatever that meant. Yeah, he was a judge in Philadelphia and maybe he couldn't leave in the middle of hearing a case, but still… if your father's in a coma and no one knows whether or not he's going to come out of it, hell, you find a way.

  "Tom's number is back at my apartment. So's Ron's."

  His sister's kids needed to know about their grandfather.

  He kissed Gia on the top of her head. "Got to get home and make those calls."

  Gia looked up at him. "Can't you call information?"

  "For Ron, yeah, I suppose. But I know Tom's is unlisted, him being a judge and all."

  She grabbed his hand. "You're going to come back, aren't you?"

  "Sure, I guess."

  "Jack, you shouldn't be alone tonight. This is something that needs to be shared. Vicky and I can help you through this, but you've got to let us. I know you, Jack. You're like an injured wolf that goes off to lick its wounds alone. You can't keep this bottled up. You've got to let it out. I'm—we're here for you, Jack. Please don't shut us out."

  "I won't. I'll make my calls and then come back."

  As Jack left, he hoped he'd be able to keep that promise.

  10

  Jack sat in the cluttered front room of his apartment. Still numb, he hadn't tuned on the lights. He sat in the dark with the glowing touchpad of his phone providing the only illumination. He started his calls.

  The one-hundred-and-fifteenth precinct came first. A woman there told him they didn't have any information yet on how relatives could claim the bodies of the deceased. The victims were being IDed and examined, and then they'd be released.

  "Was your loved one with the Hasidic group?" she said.

  "No. Why?"

  "Well, there's a lot of religious concerns on their part."

  "Like what?"

  "Like burying the body before sundown and—"

  "That's long past."

  "I know, but there are issues about icing the bodies down and—well, it's been very trying to say the least."

  "I'll bet."

  "We've got assemblymen and congressmen and city council members calling, pushing to expedite matters and—"

  "What? Their dead are more important than my father?" Jack could feel a quick burn accelerating. His rage wanted a target—any target. "Like hell!"

  "I'm sorry, sir. Please call tomorrow morning. The post mortems should be completed and we'll have a procedure in place by then. Thank you. Good-bye."

  Jack found himself holding a dead phone.

  After taking a few moments to cool, he called Kate's ex, praying Ron would answer instead of one of the kids. Jack had never met his niece and nephew, never even spoken to them, and didn't want to start now. Kevin and Lizzie had lost their mother earlier this year; he hated being the one to tell them their grandfather was gone too.

  Jack freely copped to cowardice in this.

  Ron answered. It took Jack's ex-brother-in-law a moment to figure out who he was. He took it hard, asking over and over how he was going to tell Lizzie. Jack promised to get back to him with the funeral arrangements.

  "Oh?" his brother-in-law said in an acid-etched tone. "You're going to show up this time?"

  Jack hadn't been able to attend his sister Kate's funeral. Forced to stay away for reasons he couldn't explain to them.

  "Ron," Jack said, feeling a lead weight in his chest, "you don't know me, so I'll let that pass. But if you had any idea of how much I loved Kate, you'd know that I would have been there if at all possible. Talk to you soon."

  And then he'd hung up.

  God. Two tough calls. And now the last and possibly least: big brother Tom.

  After half a dozen rings and no pickup or answering machine, Jack was about to hang up when a slurred voice came on.

  "Tom?"

  "Yeah. Who's this?"

  "Your brother Jack."

  "Oh-ho! Jackie, the prodigal brother. And to what do I owe this honor?"

  "You been drinking?"

  "What business of it is yours?"

  Yep, he'd been drinking. Probably not a bad thing, considering what he was about to hear.

  "None. You sitting down?"

  "I'm lying down—you woke me up. I hope this is fucking important."

  "Dad's dead."

  A good ten, fifteen seconds of silence, then, "You're not bullshitting me?"

  "You know better than to ask that."

  "Jesus, when? What? Heart attack? Hit by another car? What?"

  When Jack told him, the ensuing silence stretched even longer.

  "Holy Christ. I knew he was swinging by to see you but I didn't know when… never dreamed he was on that flight. This is unbelievable!"

  "Tell me about it. I was there and I still don't believe it. When can you get here? We need to claim the body."

  "Can't you do that?"

  "No."

  "Why the hell not?"

  Because I can't even prove I'm related, let alone his son.

  "Can't explain. Just get here. I don't want him on a slab in the morgue any longer than necessary."

  "Shit-shit-shit! Goddamn it! All right, I'll come up. But the earliest I can get there is tomorrow afternoon, if then."

  "Christ, Tom—"

  His voice jumped in volume. "That's it, okay? I've got things coming at me from all sides here, and it's going to take me a while to cut myself free. Tomorrow afternoon's the best I can do. And since you, for God knows whatever reason, can't seem to handle this on your own, you're just going to have to wait!"

  He was nearly shouting by the time he finished.

  "Fine," Jack said softly. "I'll give you my number. Call me before you get here and I'll meet you."

  He gave Tom his Tracfone number and hung up.

  He leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

  What was up with Tom? His brother had always been self-centered. No matter what happened, good or bad, his first reaction had always been, How does this affect me? But this seemed to go beyond that.

  Jack sensed it was more than just the pressure of being a judge in a city like Philly. Another divorce? That would make three. Or was it something more serious?

  Whatever it was, this was mor
e important. He had to put everything else aside for a few days and tend to this.

  Jack so wished he could handle this, but that was impossible. He needed Tom.

  And he hated needing Tom.

  11

  "Don't wait up for me," he told Gia.

  "You're not coming back?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Oh, Jack…"

  The hurt and worry in her voice scalded him.

  "I'm sorry. It's just—"

  "But we discussed this. You shouldn't be alone tonight."

  "Yeah, I should."

  "Jack—"

  "Really, Gia, I'm okay. I'm just better off alone with this. I'm edgy and the truth is, I don't think I can sit still. I need to be up and about… need to move around."

  "Move around how?"

  "Take a walk, maybe a jog. Something to burn off this…"

  He didn't have a name for it.

  "Don't shut me out, Jack."

  "I'm not. I swear I'm not. I'll be there early tomorrow. I'll spend the whole day with you. But tonight… I need to move."

  "All right. I don't think it's a good idea, but I can tell I'm not going to change your mind. Be careful. Please?"

  "I will. I promise."

  "I love you, Jack."

  "Love you too, Gi."

  12

  Jack ambled in a slow jog along the most poorly lit paths in Central Park. He made a point of cutting through dark groves of naked trees as he moved between paths, hoping—praying—someone would make a move on him.

  God, he needed to let loose on somebody. It would feel sooo good to fire his rage laser and crisp some asshole.

  But something about him must have sent out warning signals, because no one bothered him. No one even spoke to him.

  Figured. You could never find a dirtbag when you needed one.

  TUESDAY

  1

  As Jack pushed through the front door of the Isher Sports Shop he realized he was arriving empty-handed. He always brought something to eat. Today he'd forgotten.

  So be it. Abe would survive.

  He walked toward the rear.

  If Set, the Egyptian God of Chaos, had been a sports nut, his temples would have resembled Abe's shop. Every size and shape ball imaginable plus the various instruments used to strike them, every wheeled contraption that could be sat or stood upon, plus a wide array of cocooning safety gear necessary to protect the users from grievous bodily harm during their pursuit of "fun," all tossed with utter disregard for coherence or continuity onto rows of eight-foot shelves teetering over narrow winding aisles laid out in a pattern to rival the Wiltshire hedge maze.