by Joel Shulkin
Santos glanced over Cristina’s shoulder. His voice grew cold. “What did you do?”
“What?” She turned to the window. Blue lights flashed. A siren whooped once.
“Ah, Jeez,” the bus driver said. “I just paid off my speeding tickets.”
The bus slowed and veered toward the right side of the road.
“Filho da puta,” Santos muttered. He stared at his feet, nostrils flaring, and whispered, “Please forgive me, Cristina.”
“Forgive you?” She turned to him. “For what—?”
Santos’s fist connected with Cristina’s jaw. White explosions obscured her vision. The back of her head cracked against the window. Pain deafened her. She grabbed onto the seat back. The bus jerked to the side. Her hand slipped. She crashed against the window. Everything went black.
Wilson lingered in the doorway to the special operations room, staring at the top of Forrester’s well-coiffed head as the agent bent over a desk, studying a report. It was bad enough that Forrester barked orders like the supreme dictator, but he’d also commandeered the next best private office in the station after the Captain’s for his personal use. Wilson considered turning, marching back to his desk, hiding his files and pretending he’d lost them. Slumping his shoulders, he scrubbed the idea. Regardless of his feelings for Forrester, Wilson had to work with the feds on this one.
“This is what I’ve got.” Wilson entered and held out the files. “I wrote up a summary of my conversation with that mechanic, Manny Feldman, but we might need to interview him again. Maybe he has a record of Martins’s home address buried away somewhere.”
“Unnecessary.” Forrester glanced at the folder before dropping it on the desk. “Martins is too smart to give out a real address. Probably used a burner phone too. If we’re going to get this guy, we need to target his current activity. That’s why I need to interrogate Dr. Silva.”
The way Forrester said interrogate made Wilson’s neck burn. He bit off a sharp retort. “They’ll be here soon. But what do you think Silva can tell you? She says she doesn’t remember anything about Francisco Martins.”
“And you believe her.”
“Well, yes. Her story about having amnesia checks out.”
“Did she also forget about her meeting with Martins a week ago?”
“What are you talking about?”
Forrester pulled out his smartphone, swiped across the screen, and offered it to Wilson. “Take a look.”
The screen showed a video from a local news affiliate. Curious, Wilson pushed the play button. A reporter held a microphone out to a purple-haired young woman in a fur coat. The woman jabbered about a TV show and then turned around with arms raised. The camera swept over the cheering crowd.
“There,” Forrester said. “Pause it.”
Wilson studied the tiny screen. In the lower corner, looking startled, stood a woman wearing a green hat and scarf. Cristina.
“Where was this?” he asked.
“The Frog Pond at the Commons.” Forrester jutted his chin. “Twenty minutes before Jerry Peterman shot up Park Street Station.”
“We already knew she was there. She said she wanted to watch the ice skaters.”
“Uh-huh.” Forrester jabbed a meaty finger at the screen. “And him?”
Wilson squinted. Someone in a black ski parka was turning away from Cristina, arm raised, making it only possible to make out a thick ice-gilded beard. “What about him?”
“That’s Martins,” Forrester said.
“How the hell can you tell that?”
Forrester snatched the phone and swiped his finger over the screen. The image reversed and paused again. Now more of the man’s face appeared but blurry. “We ran it through face recognition and got a sixty percent match. Not enough for a positive identification, I know, but this footage sure looks like this man and the doctor were caught by surprise and then he ran off. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”
After searching for a better explanation, Wilson said, “Yeah, there’s something weird going on, but until we confirm that’s Martins, we need to treat Dr. Silva like a witness, not a suspect, okay?”
As Forrester opened his mouth to reply, someone shouted from the next room, “Detective, fall back! Don’t engage!”
Exchanging a quick glance, Wilson and Forrester ran into dispatch. “What’s going on?”
“Detective Hawkins called in after pulling over a bus,” said a young, brunette female officer. “When he got close, he spotted a bearded man holding a gun to the driver’s head. The driver hit the gas and took off, nearly running him over.”
“Give me that.” Forrester grabbed the officer’s radio. “Detective! Where are you now?”
“I’m trailing behind the 47 bus on Brookline,” Hawkins said. “They’re swerving all over the road. Who’s this?”
“Special Agent Forrester. Why did you pull over that bus? You’re supposed to be bringing in Dr. Silva.”
“I am. She’s on the bus.”
Forrester’s eyes bulged. “I’m ordering you to stop that bus. Use whatever means necessary.”
“Hey,” Wilson said. “There are people who could get hurt. Police policy is to minimize risk to bystanders.”
“Weren’t you paying attention?” Forrester shouted. “That’s Martins! If we don’t stop him, he’ll get away.”
The wild look in Forrester’s eyes squelched Wilson’s retort. Forrester’s vendetta against Quinn had made him desperate. Wilson knew how dangerous desperate men could be. He took a step back.
The agent glared at Wilson, recollecting his composure before saying into the handset, “Detective, keep pursuit. We’ll send backup to help you capture the gunman.”
“You better do it fast,” Hawkins said. “Son of a bitch!”
“Hawkins? What’s happening? Report.”
“He’s swerving all over Mass Ave. I got a three-car collision at the Sidney intersection.”
“We’ll send an ambulance,” Forrester said. “You just stay on that bus.”
“I’m pulling up alongside them.”
A tense silence filled the next three heartbeats. Forrester shot Wilson an anxious glance.
“Gunshots fired!” Hawkins’s yell cut through the static. “I’m pulling back. We’re in the middle of downtown Cambridge. Too many civilians.”
“Damn it.” Forrester spun toward the dispatcher. “Where’s that backup?”
“Cambridge PD sent three black and whites to intercept.”
“Not soon enough,” Forrester replied. Then he clicked the handset back on. “Company’s coming,” he told Hawkins. “Use a PIT when they arrive and then take down the gunman.”
“You want him to ram a bus? On an icy street?” Wilson said. “Even if a cruiser had the weight to push a bus, a PIT maneuver could make it skid right into a crowded sidewalk.”
“Do you have a better idea, Detective?”
Frowning, Wilson shook his head. They were out of options. If they didn’t stop that bus now, it’d ram right into Central Square, one of the busiest intersections in Cambridge. But if Martins were as dangerous as Forrester claimed, then even if they stopped the bus, how would they stop him?
Chapter Thirty-Six
As Cristina regained consciousness, colors pinwheeled through her field of vision. Cotton clogged her ears. She tried to sit. A gunshot sounded, followed by the crash of broken glass. Someone screamed. The bus swerved beneath her. Cristina thudded against the side of the bus.
Wincing, she dragged herself upright. Santos’s wheelchair lay upturned in the aisle. The teenagers cowered in their seat. Santos stood next to the driver, holding a gun to his head as the bus rocketed forward.
Cristina clutched the seat back. “You’re going to get us killed!” she shouted at Santos.
“Shut up.” Santos said, turning back tow
ard her. His eyes were wild and twitching.
The police siren muddled with her ringing ears and pounding pulse. Cristina glanced at the other passengers, the fear in their eyes chilling her core. She couldn’t let anyone else get hurt. Locking her gaze with Santos’s, she said, “It’s not too late. We can work this out. Put down the gun and let’s—”
“Don’t analyze me,” he said. “I’m not crazy. I came to you for help, and you want to lock me up.”
“What are you—?”
“I won’t go down without a fight, Doctor.” He pressed the gun against the driver’s temple. “Lose the cops or you’re a dead man.”
“Mister, I’m doing the best I can, but this is a bus for crissakes.” The driver’s hands shook. “It’s as maneuverable as—” They hit a pothole. The driver jerked against the steering wheel, then swerved back into the lane. “I’m going as fast as I can, okay?”
“Not good enough.” Santos glared over his shoulder. He snarled like a rabid dog. “This is your fault, Dr. Silva. Remember my face. Next time you see me will be your last.”
Cristina was too stunned to reply.
Santos held the gun level with the driver’s head. “If you value your life, slow the bus to twenty miles per hour, count to ten, and then accelerate again to this speed. After that, don’t slow down. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” The driver kept his eyes locked on the road. The bus decelerated. “Anything you say.”
Santos marched backward down the aisle. Glancing at Cristina as he passed her, his eyes softened. Before she could react, he sprinted to the back of the bus, shoved open the door and leaped outside.
Forrester hung up his phone. “The Bureau is sending a SWAT team and a hostage negotiator. But it’ll take them at least ten minutes to arrive on scene.” He grabbed the radio. “Detective, we’re out of time. Use the PIT. Now.”
“Okay, Agent,” Hawkins said. “I’m pulling into position.”
“You’re sure about this?” Wilson asked with his arms crossed, squeezing his biceps to restrain himself. “There are civilians on that bus.”
“You mean, your girlfriend?” Forrester simpered. “Don’t you trust your partner?”
“Trust isn’t the issue here. You said Martins is highly dangerous. If he’s the gunman, everyone on that bus is at risk—including my partner.”
Forrester shot Wilson a withering glance, but then widened his eyes. “You’re right. Where’s that backup from Cambridge?”
“Intercepting now,” said the dispatcher.
“Good. They can secure the scene until SWAT arrives.” Forrester’s brow furrowed and he looked sincerely worried. “Let’s hope your boy can pull this off,” he said to Wilson.
Then they waited. Stared at each other. Checked the wall clock. Four minutes since they last heard from Hawkins. The dispatcher coughed nervously. Her partner answered a routine patrol check-in.
Five minutes.
Wilson clenched and unclenched his fingers, feeling helpless. Hating the feeling.
Six minutes.
“Dispatch,” Hawkins finally said over the radio. “Hawkins reporting in.”
“Go ahead, Detective.”
“The bus is secure. Didn’t even need the PIT. The driver pulled over.”
Forrester snatched the radio. “What about the gunman?”
“Gone. He jumped out the back door while the bus was still moving.”
“What? Didn’t anyone pursue?”
“Two from Cambridge doubled back, but it sounds like he got away. The driver gave a positive ID of Martins from the BOLO flyer.”
“Damn it.” Forrester slammed the handset on the dispatcher’s desk. “We had him.”
Wilson wanted to ask Hawkins if Cristina was okay but knew Forrester would attack him. Instead, he said, “More like Martins had us. He used the bus as a distraction.”
“I’ve got worse news,” Hawkins said.
Wilson and Forrester exchanged glances. Forrester shook his head and gestured toward the radio.
Wilson picked up the handset. “Go ahead, Rick.”
“Dr. Silva’s here. She’s got a nasty bruise on her head, but she’s okay.”
A small sigh escaped Wilson’s lips. “What’s the worse news?”
“Witnesses say Martins had a heated conversation with the doctor before he freaked out. It looks like their relationship is more complicated than his one-way obsession.”
Forrester’s lip twitched in what might’ve been a self-congratulating smile. Wilson clenched the radio, his knuckles whitening. It was Boston all over again. He’d lost his objectivity.
It stopped here and now.
Into the radio, he said, “Bring her in.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“For the last time, I don’t know where Martins went.” Cristina jammed her fists against her temples. An overhead lamp bathed her and a wooden table in cold white light. The foul tang of nicotine and vomit in the air caused her gut, already agitated by shock and betrayal, to spasm. Each repeated question aggravated her pounding headache. “He didn’t say where he was going before he punched me.”
Agent Vasquez tapped her index finger against her cheek as she paced by a wall-sized mirror. “But you do admit you’ve been in recent contact with him. And not only today.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ve been consorting with a wanted terrorist?”
“I already told you. I didn’t know who he was.”
“Tell me again.”
Cristina took a heavy, resigned breath. “He approached me. He used the name Sebastian dos Santos.”
Twisting her lips, Vasquez glanced over her shoulder at the mirror and then turned back to Cristina. “And just what did Sebastian dos Santos want with you?”
“He claimed an organization called Zero Dark killed my parents and stole my memories.”
“Zero Dark.” Vasquez nodded. “What do you know about them?”
“Just that someone named Quinn is their leader.”
Vasquez lingered next to Cristina’s chair. “Martins worked for Zero Dark.”
“I discovered that the other day,” said Cristina. The agent’s accusatory tone gnawed at her. “Am I being charged with something?”
“No, but you’re a primary witness to Martins’s crimes.” Vasquez tilted her head, studying Cristina’s face. “He assaulted you. Don’t you want to help us catch him?”
Pain nipped at Cristina’s bruised cheek. The memory of Santos’s expression before he jumped off the bus made her shudder. Was he insane or in full control? “Of course, I do. But right now, I’m feeling more like a suspect than a victim.”
“Well, you haven’t been exactly forthcoming.”
“I told Detective Wilson everything I know.”
“Everything? Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to share?”
A cold wind blew onto the back of Cristina’s neck from overhead. Santos’s voice replayed in her mind. Why would they believe a woman who was found waving a gun around, babbling about victims and killers nobody saw? If she was in danger of losing her mind, she needed to be careful about volunteering information. Cristina stared back, saying nothing.
After a moment, when it seemed Vasquez was evaluating the rhythm of Cristina’s breathing, the agent reached into her pocket and withdrew an evidence bag containing a crumpled scrap of newsprint. She laid it on the table before Cristina. “Can you identify this?”
Cristina recognized it instantly. “It’s an article from a Brazilian newspaper, about a research team studying—”
“I know what it’s about, Dr. Silva. Did Martins give you this?”
“Yes.”
The agent pointed at a woman in the front row. “Is that you?”
“No.”
“She looks like you.”
Cristina shrugged.
Vasquez indicated a man in the back row. “What about him?”
“That is Federico Gomes.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Hardly. He’s the one who attacked me in my own apartment.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Vasquez leaned on the table with both fists. She squinted at Cristina. “How do you know his name?”
Cristina shifted in her seat. “Santos told me.”
“You two sound awfully chummy. What does he want from you in exchange for all this information?”
Cristina caught herself before saying anything about Santos’s daughter. Even if they believed the story, it would only make her look guilty. “He seems remorseful. Helping me is like his personal twelve-step program, even though I never asked for it.”
“You don’t contact him?”
“No. He just appears.”
“So he’s stalking you.”
Cristina shrugged again.
Either frustration or anger crossed Vasquez’s face, Cristina wasn’t sure. Vasquez tapped the photo. “Could Gomes and Santos have been working together?”
“I don’t know,” Cristina said. “Santos insists they weren’t. He looked surprised when I said that Gomes had shot Stacey Peterman.”
“Yes, Ms. Peterman, whom you claim tried to defame you on behalf of Zero Dark.”
Cristina hesitated at the agent’s tone. “That’s right.”
“How?”
“Stacey said that I had prescribed medications that caused her brother Jerry to go insane. But he wasn’t her brother, and he wasn’t taking the medication I prescribed.”
“Really?” Vasquez’s eyebrows arched. “How do you know?”
“The medical examiner, Dr. Morgan, found no traces of it in his blood.”
“Why were you speaking to the medical examiner?”
Cristina stared at her incredulously. “Jerry was my patient. I needed to determine the risk to the other patients I treat.”
“I see.” Vasquez touched her chin, seeming to digest that. “So suddenly Stacey Peterman had a change of heart, cleared your name, and told you the truth.”
