Serpents in the City (Mac Ambrose Book 3)

by HN Wake

  Despite the senator’s diatribe, Laura’s face was serene.

  The senator grasped both hands of the podium and leaned forward. “It’s time to represent the mothers and fathers, sons and daughters who get up every day, take care of their own, go to work, pay their taxes, support the school systems. These, our fellow Americans are the cornerstones of this great country. They have ridden this rocky boat through financial turmoil and economic down turns and a constant state of international war. They have held their heads high and have remained constant in their commitment to our ideals, despite the deadlocks of Washington.”

  Heads across the room began to swivel, exchanging curious glances.

  “Tonight,” the senator’s voice rose, “Among my friends, I am announcing my run for president.”

  Herbie’s shoulders stiffened. There you fucking have it. This whole mission just became exponentially more intense. If Odom and Hawkinson found out Mac Ambrose’s trail had something to do with a presidential candidate, they’d never leave him alone until he got the bottom of it.

  Gasps erupted.

  The senator held out both hands. “I ask you to stand with me.”

  Laura stood first, held up her glass toward the senator, and waited. The woman in rose stood quickly next to her. Then more around the room stood, slowly at first, faster as the sentiment grew. A roar built as chairs screeched back and the rich and powerful of New York raised glasses.

  Laura raised her glass three inches higher, “Here’s to President Eleanor Gillis.”

  The room erupted in, “Hear, hear!”

  On the stage Senator Eleanor Gillis beamed.

  Out in the shadows, Herbie felt chilled. Holy hell, Mac. What are you involved in? Across the room the only person who remained sitting was Joseph Severino.

  Herbie stepped away from the light and walked to the farthest corner of the lawn. He gazed toward the dark sky and wondered if there were satellites passing overhead. Perhaps Langley had a perfect view of this brightly lit town home in Manhattan and this green yard. Perhaps, Frank Odom was watching.

  Jesus, Mac, whatever you’re up to, whatever involvement you and Joe Severino have with presidential candidate Eleanor Gillis, you’ve left me no way out but to put your head on a platter.

  50

  Above Teterboro, NJ

  “Oh my fucking god,” Joyce whispered again.

  Mac could feel the plane’s vibrations through the rough wool carpet against her face. Her shoulder was throbbing. “Grab his laptop. Put the USB in it.” Her voice sounded distant but strong.

  From above, she heard the laptop slide across the table. She rolled her forehead onto the carpet, tucked her chin, said softly, “Let’s hope your boyfriend knows what he’s doing.”

  “He does,” Joyce said from above her. “Okay, it’s in. The USB is in. Oh my god. I can’t believe this.”

  Thank god for this high energy woman. She’d be lost without her right now. “Check his pulse.” Mac gritted through the pain.

  She heard Joyce stand and lean over the table.

  Joyce said, “It seems fine. Not that I would know what the fuck this old man’s pulse should feel like at a moment like this. I mean oh my god—“

  “Find his cell phone.”

  “What?”

  “Find his cell phone,” Mac repeated against the carpet, pain shooting through her arm. Her fingernails dug in.

  She heard Joyce searching Fenton Warrick’s body. “Got it.”

  “In the bathroom—my bag. Reach in my bag. There is a plastic Ziploc. Inside is a cell phone with a cord. I need you to plug mine into his.”

  “What?” Joyce worked her way out of the chair, stepped over her, and disappeared into the bathroom. Two minutes later, she returned, “Got it. All right, hold on, I’m plugging it in. Okay, it’s in.”

  Mac breathed in against the carpet, the pain too strong to ignore.

  Joyce leaned over Mac, “What’s wrong with you?

  “I’ve hurt my shoulder.”

  “Again? Are you okay?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Of course.” Joyce was kneeling beside her.

  Mac stared at the fine details of the carpet to distract herself from the pain. “I need the pills. From my bag.”

  Joyce fished out the pills and the sling.

  Mac whispered, “Can you help me sit up?”

  As Joyce gently angled her upwards into a sitting position, Mac used her right hand to stabilize her shoulder. Gingerly, she strapped the sling around her neck and under her elbow, wincing as she tightened the straps.

  Joyce handed her a bottled water and two pain killers.

  Mac grimaced. “Make it four.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Do you think I follow doctors orders?”

  Joyce handed her two more.

  They felt the vibration of the floor smooth out as the plane leveled off at cruising altitude.

  Joyce fell backwards into a crossed legged sitting position. “What was that?”

  “A type of ruffie.”

  “Oh my god. I can’t believe you just did that.”

  “He’ll be out for one hour. He won’t remember the minutes before the drug took effect.”

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t see you.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Is he going to remember that someone jabbed him with a fucking needle?”

  “No.”

  Joyce gaped at her.

  Mac whispered, “We got what we came for. Operation success.”

  “Do you do this often?”

  “Which part?”

  “The fucking needles?”

  Mac nodded. “Enough.”

  Joyce’s eyes widened again, then the enormity of their situation must have broken her trance and she broke out into a huge grin. “You’re fucking James Bond. I’m sitting in Fenton Warrick’s private jet with James Bond who just shot him up with a ruffie. That makes me like Moneypenny. No wait, like Halle Berry.”

  Mac shook her head. The pain was subsiding, if only slightly, it was enough. “Let’s hope Isaac got what he needed.”

  “What happens when he wakes up?”

  “He’ll be groggy. The drug makes them dopey for an hour or so. They’ll think he had a mild heart attack.” She took a slug of water, washed down her face.

  “Are you okay?”

  The pain was scorching. “I’m fine.” She held out her good hand for Joyce to help her up. She fell into her chair across from Warrick, by the window. He was slumped, his body a shapeless, lumpy pillow, but breathing heavily. His skin was paler than before.

  Mac cocked her head at Joyce, “Jump up and down a few times.”

  “What?”

  “Get in the aisle and jump up and down a few times. I need you to turn your energy back up.”

  “What?”

  “You need to go bang on the cockpit door and when they answer, you need to act terrified as if he’s just had a heart attack.”

  “No shit?”

  “They’ll call it in. We’ll make an emergency landing. We’ll tell the ambulance medics we think it was a heart attack.”

  “Oh-okay.”

  “And then we’ll get back to Teterboro.”

  Joyce ogled her.

  Mac sighed. “I need you to buck up. I need you frenetic. Mr. Warrick just passed out in front of you! Holy Shit!”

  Joyce jumped up, did four wild jumping jacks in the middle of the aisle, her curls bouncing up and down, then raced forward toward the cockpit door.

  She was a quick learner.

  51

  New York, NY

  The Disney store was a rainbow shrine to childhood. Wall-to-wall shelves exploded with blue and red Mickey and Minnie Mouses, yellow and red Winnie the Poohs, orange and white Nemos, and bright pink princesses. Tiny pink sparkling dresses and red racing car suits hung smashed between stuffed toys. A life-sized white Star Wars stormtrooper protected a corner as parents chased small ch
ildren through a princess castle in the back. The xylophone theme of childhood amusement parks plinked from overhead speakers.

  Ernest stood panting inside the door, scanning the cacophony of color and sound. If there was a blue baseball hat in this mishmash, it was impossible to see.

  He turned to the security guard by the door and flashed his badge. “Is there an emergency exit?”

  The guard nodded up an escalator. “At the top, to the right.”

  Ernest raced up the moving stairs two at a time and rushed to the door. It was gaping open an inch. He pushed through into a quiet staircase. There was no movement either up or down. He leaned over the rail, could make out the empty stairs and the door to the side street.

  He had lost Fox.

  He spoke into his mic, “I’ve lost him.”

  The back of his cotton shirt stuck to his skin.

  In his ear he heard Pharaoh’s quiet voice, “Roger that.”

  He stood on the escalator down, his hand holding the moving railing, then walked back out into the noise of Times Square. In his mic he asked, “What have you got?”

  Pharaoh said, “Jeff’s reviewing the video. The sunglasses and the hat were extremely unhelpful.”

  “Facial?” Ernest needed to know if they could make a facial recognition using the Agency database.

  “Surprisingly little. He never took off those sunglasses, so nothing we can work with. But we’re still checking.”

  Ernest cursed, “God damn it. What about audio?”

  “I’m just reviewing the transcript,” Pharaoh lamented. “Nothing on there would stick.”

  Ernest hissed, “Damn it. Okay, I’ll be up soon.”

  He walked through the crowd. Blinking images taunted him. He stopped on the corner and dialed Castle. “He slipped away”

  “What happened?”

  “Reddenbacker said some stupid shit. Scared Mr. Fox. He rabbited. Into a building on Times Square. I lost him inside.”

  “What does your tech team say?”

  “Fox was wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap.”

  Castle waited.

  Ernest admitted, “They don’t think there is a facial good enough.”

  “And audio?”

  “From what we can tell—early mind you—but he didn’t admit to anything.”

  “Crap.”

  Ernest thought of Reddenbacker. His rheumy eyes and yellow skin. He should never have put his faith on this guy—former cop or no. “Yeah, he fucked up.”

  “Intentionally?”

  Ernest thought about Reddenbacker’s nervousness back in the empty office space. It seemed legitimate. “No, not a tip off.” In fact, in hindsight as he thought about it, Reddenbacker seemed beyond an appropriate level of nervousness for a simple sting operation. What did he know about Mr. Fox that he wasn’t telling?

  Castle said, “Hold on. Mary Epper just came in” Coming back on the line two minutes later, Castle used the speaker phone, “Ernest, I’ve got Mary here.”

  Ernest stopped, held the phone against his ear. The crowd around him seemed to still.

  Mary said, “So I’ve been running searches on the government employees in your files. The ones who are junior. The ones you said were inconsequential.”

  Ernest held his breath.

  “Before,” she said, “we thought there was no connection between them.”

  Ernest blinked. Cases turned on just this type of coincidence.

  “But the connection was actually so obvious, we missed it.” Mary’s voice was unruffled, but pleased. “Ernest, they’re all staffers of presidential candidates.”

  The skin on his neck puckered. Involuntarily he raised his eyes toward the sky, over the crowd. The lights continued to blink overhead, impervious to the fragility of humanity.

  Castle took over quickly, his tone clipped and directive. “Ernest, close down your team. Bring in everything you’ve got. I want files. I want the laptop. I want the video from today. I want Reddenbacker in a cell.”

  “Copy that.”

  “We’ll regroup when you get here. I’ll have to call this up.”

  “Understood.”

  Castle asked, “You’re sure you didn’t get much?”

  Ernest had reached the door of the diner. He pulled it open. “That’s what my guys said. They’re not optimistic. No facial, and no admission on audio”

  “Did he have an accent?” Castle was already pulling at the thread of a connection to the US elections. He was asking if Mr. Fox had been a foreigner.

  “I’ll confirm, but I didn’t hear an accent.”

  “We’ll get our audio forensic guys on it.” There was another long pause before Castle thanked Mary then picked up the phone off the cradle. “Bring in what you’ve got, Ernest.”

  Ernest stopped inside the diner. The space was bright and loud. Plates clanked onto tables, a short order cook yelled out an order. The cashier by the door pinged with a sale. All the booths by the window were taken and five people were standing near the exit waiting to be seated.

  Ernest dialed a number.

  In the second to last booth, an older man answered a call on a cell phone, looked toward the restaurant entrance, and gave Ernest a huge smile.

  “Ernest, my son.” Lester Carmichael held up a plastic bag, waggled it side to side. Inside was an empty glass. “We’ve got Mr. Fox’s prints.”

  52

  Ville Platte, LA

  Alicia Cade sat in an old folding chair under the Evangeline Oak over in Miss Ford’s yard. A cloud’s shadow passed through the branches of the tree. She counted the numbers circled by the darkness, subtracting numbers as they moved into light. Was her Elijah sitting on that cloud, watching her count? Was he watching her with his special honey eyes? Maybe he was counting with her? She thought maybe Elijah could count too, the way she could. Did they need counting in Heaven?

  The old hound had followed her down the road. He was Mr. Parker’s old dog. Helped around the fields, cleaning out rabbits and rats. She didn’t know his name. He must have sensed her sorrow, the pain that froze her insides, that brought numbness around her like being caught in an ice cube. She put her hand on the old dog’s head. Didn’t rub him. Just put her hand there, trying to feel his heat. Because her hand was cold. Her body was cold.

  Where her Elijah?

  This damn dog must know she was practically dead herself. Maybe he guarding her before she goes on her own journey. Who knows what dogs know? Maybe Elijah up on that cloud looking down can read the mind of this dog. Maybe Elijah sent this dog to stay with her, keep her company.

  The voices came from down the road. They were coming toward her. She wanted them to go away. Don’t come here. I ain’t up for talking. I just want to sit here with this tree, and this dog, and dream about that cloud up in the sky and talk to my Elijah.

  But they kept coming cause the voices were getting louder.

  It’s her mamma. She can tell. Her mamma’s calm, gentle voice. Her daddy at work. So the other voices must be men from somewhere else. She can hear the feet pushing along in the dirt. She can imagine them kicking up dust as they marched toward her.

  Go away.

  Then her mother was behind her.

  “Licia. There some men want to talk to you.”

  She just looked up at the cloud. Ignored them. Not polite. But she frozen so no need to be polite.

  “Licia. They just want a few minutes.”

  One of them stepped in front of her. In front of the cloud. He looked down, a white man with a beard and glasses. He gave her a small, tired smile, “Alicia, my name is Henry Hastings. I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  Get out of the way. But the cloud was moving, out over Henry Hastings head.

  Elijah come back.

  “Alicia,” Henry Hastings voice was far away. “We represent the Southern Poverty Law Center. We wanted to meet you, tell you how sorry we are.”

  Her mamma there now, in front of the clouds, looking down at her. “Li
cia, they just want to say they condolences.”

  Alicia watched the cloud.

  “Alicia,” Henry said, “We’ve also heard about the University. About how they are saying you can’t come back.”

  Alicia couldn’t keep words in her mind. He was standing in front of the clouds. That’s what matters. Where her Elijah?

  Henry Hastings was saying, “I’m gonna leave my card with your mother. When you are ready to talk, we are going to be here for you. We are going to take your case and we are going to find you justice.”

  This better not be about them news people talking about how she a prostitute. Because she don’t care about that. Elijah sitting on a cloud up in that blue sky and he know his mamma would never do that. She don’t care about nobody talking nonsense.

  Her mamma was nodding her head, that kerchief moving back and forth in the sun. “They gonna get justice for Elijah.”

  Ah. This white man with the beard is talking about getting justice for my angel. Ah, I see, she thinks sarcastically. Because that’s what he needs up on that cloud.

  Where her Elijah?

  Stop your talking silly nonsense, white man. Nobody need justice now. It all too late now.

  Mamma was taking the white man away.

  Alicia put her hand back on the old hound’s head, trying to feel the warmth.

  53

  New York, NY

  At midnight in the heart of Manhattan the sky was light. It was nothing like the pitch black in the deepest of nights in the northwest corner of Sudan when clouds cover the moon. There you can sit outside, let your eyes scan the blackness and see nothing move across the desert for hours. In the abyss of that blackout you are easily convinced of the possibility of a spaceship landing.

  Herbie wondered how long it would take a foreign species to diagnose humans as warring zealots and turn it rapid fire back into the universe. Even the prospect of an alien abduction seemed preferable to the quagmire of Agency politics Herbie had found himself in.