SURVIVORS (crime thriller books)

by T. J. Brearton

  “I understand.”

  Dutko got in his vehicle and drove off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY / Monday 10:56 AM

  Jennifer Aiken swam up through the locks of her consciousness. As she drew a few cautious, shallow breaths, she realized she didn’t know where she was.

  No one we don’t like comes anywhere near this building.

  Things slowly started to take shape. This was a dance studio, with a railing along the wall of mirrors. A place where ballet dancers practiced their pirouettes and ballroom dancers their swirling glides.

  Something stung her eyes and nose. Like she’d suffered smoke inhalation. She found that her wrists hurt, too, her fingertips were tingling, her hands numb, with the blood slowly returning.

  It all came back, then – being bound to the chair, the man coming in named – what was his name? Staryles. A young man who had hinted that he was black ops. JSOC. The Joint Special Operations Command; what detractors called the President’s personal hit squad. Men who went around performing raids at three in the morning that left women and children dead. Squads that took out a target and then went after his sons – even little boys – to wipe the enemy’s seed from the earth.

  The fact that he’d told her his name was not a good sign.

  She’d screamed and kicked. She’d kicked straight out towards him, missing his shins by inches.

  She’d snorted and yelled and kicked and the chair was scraping around beneath her. Staryles had recoiled a little from her flying feet. And then he had thrust the vial out towards her.

  A brownish plume of dust had filled her vision. She’d thought to hold her breath, but it was too late – she had put up such a fight, she’d already inhaled the poison in great gasping breaths.

  Her heart had become a turbine engine in her chest. Every alarm in her body wailed. The back of her neck flared with fresh lances of pain as she threw her head back, wrenching it from the man’s grip behind her. She exhaled and screamed and spit up into the air, all at once. Her eyes squeezed shut and stinging; she opened them and the ceiling was blurry through her tears. Her spit was overtaken by gravity and drizzled back down onto her face.

  She felt the poison in her nose. Her sinuses usually so inflamed from the allergies she’d never quite outgrown, those passages were open now, never before so free and clear as her body sucked down the thallium, as it was absorbed into her every pore, invading her bloodstream, tissues, cells.

  Thallus sulfate, or, thallium. She’d done her research on it, and what Staryles had predicted was what was true in most cases, depending on dosage. If he’d given her anywhere close to a gram, she had forty-eight hours to live. Maybe three days at the most.

  Jennifer was lying on her side. She realized that she must have passed out for a while after they had given her the poison. That was the only explanation. Her hands were free, however, hence the tingling – had they somehow come unbound when she’d fainted? She doubted it. They had been snipped by Staryles and his men. Why?

  She pushed off of the floor and got herself sitting up halfway. The pain was still there in the back of her neck, where her skull joined her spine, but the pain from her pistol-whipping paled in comparison to what she was facing now.

  She slowly got to her feet. The world swam for a moment as she stood fully upright. She squinted her eyes and leaned forward a little, willing it to pass. Maybe this was what morning sickness felt like. She couldn’t say, exactly, because she had never been pregnant. She’d been too careful. After John Rascher, she’d barely even dated, focusing on her studies. She rationalized her isolation and dogged work ethic; too many students turned college into one long party. It was more about the hooking up and the drugs than anything else. There was Jennifer, from a farming town in Rockland County, and she had no oats she felt needed sowing. After John, she’d gotten down to business, and she’d never let up.

  And she was still single now, in her thirties, with the time for having babies ebbing away. What did they call it if you were pregnant and over the age of thirty-five? For a long time it had been referred to as a Geriatric Pregnancy. Recently they’d euphemized it to a “pregnancy of advancing years.” Advancing years? Weren’t years always advancing? Her own mother had been forty. It had been ten years since her last child – Jennifer was a big surprise.

  She sat there, blinking, her mind wandering. She needed to focus. It wasn’t the time for last regrets, it was time to do something.

  She walked gingerly towards the door in the corner of the room, careful not to lose consciousness again, to give the blood time to get to her brain. She looked in the mirrors at the reflection of city. And she couldn’t help see herself there, too, crossing the room in the middle of it all.

  The light from the windows behind her darkened her image revealing a thin and hunched shape. As she drew closer she saw more clearly what a mess she was. Her hair was sticking up on one side. Her face was banded with dark streaks – the tears had tracked through the grime of sweat, dirt, and powdery poison.

  Jennifer stopped and swiped at her face with her hands, frantically rubbing off the residue. She brushed off her body and she smoothed her clothes with her hands. She ran her fingers through her hair, and shook it out, and watched as a faint cloud of thallium dust plumed from her head. She blew at it, trying to disperse it, knowing it was all in vain – the toxin was already inside her. By now her blood was transporting it throughout her body. In fact, the more she moved around, the more excited she became, the harder her heart pumped, the quicker the poison would spread.

  She tried to get herself under control. She took some deep breaths – yoga breathing. She inhaled, slowly and deeply. Everything was okay at the moment – and the moment was what mattered. The moment would tell her what she needed to do, if she opened up to the present, if she allowed the wisdom of her body and the insight of her heart to do what they did best, unpolluted by the endless scheming and planning of her thoughts. She exhaled.

  Feeling slightly more together, breathing in rhythm with her steps, she made her way to the door. She extended her hand gradually and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob. She was ninety-nine percent certain the door would be locked, but it was irresistible not to try opening it. Her grip tightened and she twisted the knob. Of course, its tumblers were prevented from rolling over and drawing back the latch because the lock was activated. There was a small keyhole in the end of the knob. The door locked and unlocked by key only. Even if someone were to arrive on the other side to help her, they’d have to break it down.

  She walked away from the door, determined not to panic. Instead, she walked in the other direction, passing by a support post, towards the windows, where she stopped and looked down. She remained there for a moment, gauging her location.

  The avenue was about twenty stories below her. She knew it was an avenue, and not a street. For one, it was five lanes across, and for another, avenues ran north and south in Manhattan, and the way the light was hitting the buildings she was able to get her compass bearings. Her guess was that the avenue was either 2nd or 3rd. In fact, she thought she knew where she was – she was on the Upper East Side.

  There was an intersection that was close. The building she was in sat on the northeast corner. Her vantage point was up a little further from there, situating her at the north end of the building, or in the middle, at least. Across the street, far below, were what looked like a construction site, a Laundromat, and a bar. It was next to impossible to make out anything more than that because of the height and because she wasn’t wearing her glasses or contacts. In fact, if she was to be honest, she really didn’t know what she was looking at down there – one little fuzzy neon light may or may not have indicated a bar. One large plate glass window with something in it that looked from here like an egg carton didn’t necessarily mean a row of dryers stacked together.

  None of this information did her any good anyway without someone to pass it on to. She had no phone, no way to contact anyone.

  The
buildings she could see down along 2nd or 3rd avenue were only a couple of stories high – the other tall buildings, two brick-red apartment buildings – were all the way across the block, over along the next avenue. The windows were the size of tooth cavities from here. She could stand there all day waving her arms and no one would ever see her, unless by some crazy fluke someone was looking in her direction, at this building, along this floor, with a pair of binoculars.

  There could be people on either side of her, though. The Upper East Side was primarily residential – a dance studio was anomalous; artist lofts, rehearsal spaces, and all of that were in Midtown, or the West Side, or the Village.

  Having inventoried the street below and mapped out where she thought she was, Jennifer turned and padded in her bare feet over to the wall with no windows or mirrors. She was conscientious not to work herself up, and resolved to be systematic. She pounded firmly but not desperately, calling out “hello?” as she did. She moved gradually down the wall like this.

  She was going to get out of there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE / 11:18 AM

  Brendan was about to get into the rental and finally make the trip to Dobbs Ferry to see Argon’s sister when he realized something.

  “Ah, crap,” he said, looking around. He’d lost the cat. It wasn’t vitally important, but it bothered him enough to permit a brief diversion. The cat was something that Argon had left behind.

  He went back into the house and looked everywhere. He made “tsking” noises to try and draw the cat out. He had no idea if the cat would actually respond to such solicitations – he’d never had a cat. He checked all of the rooms, and trotted down into the basement to do a quick sweep. No feline anywhere.

  Back in the kitchen, he stood looking down at the litter box in the corner. He wondered if there were any fresh lumps in there. The bowl of cat food sat untouched – Sloane had filled it before she’d left. Was that the last time he had seen the cat? It had been there when they were having dinner. When had he last seen the damned thing? If memory served, it had been licking itself near the fireplace when he’d gone into Argon’s bedroom to look through the cop’s belongings. After that he’d spent maybe twenty minutes in the basement, come back upstairs, and then passed out on Argon’s couch. Time was ticking away. He had to let it go.

  * * *

  He decided to circle the house for one last check. He called out softly as he went, ruffling the bushes, but no luck. Back in the driveway he searched along the shrubbery and then found himself standing at his rental car again.

  He gazed out at the street, East View, at the few cars parked along the curb. Nary a blue sedan since Russell Gide’s BMW.

  Still.

  He looked at the neighboring houses. To his right, a white one with black shutters. Across the street, a broad Colonial with a lower bay window. He thought he saw a shape move behind the glass, or perhaps it was just the reflection of a rustling tree.

  He turned his attention to the rental car.

  A thought began to form in his mind. It built like a thunderstorm.

  “Here, kitty kitty,” he said softly.

  His eyes darted from side to side, sure now that he was being watched. Somewhere, somehow, he was being watched. It was just in the air. He could feel it crawling over him.

  Brendan lowered himself onto the pavement next to the rental, wincing at the pain in his hip. “Here, kitty.” He dipped his head down and scanned the underside of the vehicle.

  He was no auto mechanic, but everything appeared to be normal.

  Still, he got down on his stomach and inched himself beneath the vehicle for a closer look.

  “Kitty,” he said more loudly. “Is that you?”

  He checked everywhere he could think. There were dozens of different devices used to bug a vehicle, they came in many shapes and sizes. Most attached with a strong magnet. The device could be hotwired into the car’s electrical system or contain a long-life battery.

  After ten minutes of uncomfortable searching, he found it, tucked up under the right front wheel well. Brendan felt a sense of accomplishment and fear as he snapped free the small black casing, about the size of a cell phone. Still beneath the car, he popped it open to reveal a small black box with two red telltale lights, blinking. On one side of the face were the letters GSM, on the other, GPS. There were two circled numbers, three and four. Just below that was the port for a SIM card.

  A tracking device.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO / Monday, 11:36 AM

  The phone buzzing in his pocket nearly gave him a heart attack.

  “Titan Med Tech,” Colinas said as Brendan pulled himself out from underneath the car. “That’s the company which supplied the medical equipment. EMTs on scene at UAlbany, where we took Forrester down; their supplier was Titan Med.”

  “Bingo,” said Brendan. He stood and dusted himself off, looking around.

  “Something . . . something messed up about this, Healy. I mean, maybe you’re right. There’s definitely a ‘Titan.’ But, right out there up front? The construction company, the med tech supplier. What the hell, man?”

  “Yeah,” Brendan said. He stared down at the shadow beneath the car, thinking of the tracker.

  “I don’t get it. It leaves an obvious trail,” said Colinas.

  “Probably to nowhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well, it leads somewhere. Titan Med Tech is a company that Alexander Heilshorn invested heavily in. I went through those financial records again, the ones we subpoenaed, you know, doing our due diligence, on the Heilshorn case. Titan Med was behind a huge super PAC in the last gubernatorial campaign. Not long after the Supreme Court Citizens United ruling made it possible for businesses to pour in unlimited money. The right to free speech and all that – monetary giving is considered indirect speech and protected under the First Amendment. That’s the theory anyway.”

  “Janseth?”

  “Yup, that’s him. They said he was a surefire bet for governor until some other guy showed up and they said he was going to give Janseth a run for his money. Guy coming out of the legislature. But then he got into all that hot water, upsy-daisy went his campaign.”

  Brendan felt something move deep within his memory, a large stone rolling away.

  “Largo.”

  “That’s right, I think.” Colinas paused, and Brendan could hear him breathe. “You think Janseth or Largo are involved in what happened to Forrester? Man, whenever you bring this shit up, it makes my head ache.”

  “Me too.”

  “We need bigger guns on this.”

  “I know. There are bigger guns. I think Argon’s death was T-O-T-ed to the FBI, or some other Fed agency. Maybe the HTPU is already on it. I need a contact over there; the one I’ve got is not answering her phone. Can you find out who is running the show?”

  “Jesus, Healy. You give me too much credit. I mean, I am a superhero, but no one is supposed to know my secret identity.” Colinas was being typically jocular, but Brendan heard the fear in the state detective’s voice. Brendan could understand it completely. He thought of the tracking device underneath the rental car, as he considered his next move.

  “Just do your best. Would you do that for me?”

  “Yeah man. I don’t have any other cases piled up on my desk, a detective sergeant who’s breathing down my neck, a wife who needs me every other hour while the baby sucks her dry. Nothing like that.”

  Brendan chuckled. It was an empty sound. The morning was filled with low stratus clouds, like fire ash. Everything seemed too shaded, too grimy. Snow was in the air.

  “I’m sorry, bud.”

  Colinas sighed. “Oh and you wanted to know how Taber’s doing. You’re going to love this.”

  “What?”

  “Vacation. Started this morning. He’s off for two weeks and no one at the department knows where. In fact, I think I stirred up a bunch of shit. Bostrom said he was going to Florida, and
then the woman – I forget her name – said he was going to Bermuda. I asked who with. They said alone. Personal reasons, they said. Know what I think?”

  “Please tell me.”

  “Taber is going through a divorce. I made a quick call to Bostrom. All that’s left is the signing, from what he told me, but he didn’t know for sure. He seemed sick over it, and you know Bostrom; he doesn’t show much emotion.”

  Brendan remembered Bostrom well. Bostrom had been the OSO, the deputy first on-scene at the Rebecca Heilshorn murder. He was a genuine tough guy: crew-cut, muscle. Bostrom was fiercely loyal to Taber. So if Bostrom said Taber was going through a divorce, then it was probably true.

  Colinas continued to display some nervousness. “Has Taber lost it, or something? Divorce can be a bitch, man, my brother went through it. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just sit tight. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Thank you, Rudy. I owe you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Brendan hung up. This thing was beginning to unravel faster than he could follow. He felt like he needed to launch up into space, to get some vantage point where he could see it all together from above, and his intuition told him that Sloane was part of getting a grip on it all.

  He felt anxiety settling into his neck and shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do was put anyone in danger. He was being tracked by the same people who’d had a hand in Argon’s death.

  But then again, the best thing to do would be to keep up appearances. Picking up Sloane, a friend of Argon’s, and visiting the sister was the natural thing to do.

  If someone was after him, though, they’d know right where he was headed. He could be putting Sloane in serious jeopardy.

  He couldn’t do that. He had to proceed without her. He decided to call her and tell her he wasn’t going to be able to make it, that something else had come up. He hated to lie, it seemed like he was knee-deep in lies and cover-ups, but he owed it to Argon to protect Sloane.