The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  “I’m Jack Hamilton,” a voice behind him said, right on cue. “Department of Justice.”

  Buchanan spun around as Jack took a step into the room and stuck out his hand.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Finally?” Buchanan managed.

  The journalist, looking the attorney over, shook the offered hand. Again, there was that baffling glimmer of familiarity. It was in both the eyes and the smile.

  “I’m Lapdog.”

  Buchanan absorbed the shock, but continued to scowl at Jack Hamilton. “You seem so familiar. Have we met before?”

  “No,” Jack replied, “but I believe you know my daughter.”

  The pieces snapped into place with the sting of shock. Bloody hell. Jack Hamilton was Thea’s father. “She’s still in Tartarus,” he blurted, grateful finally to have help. “With one of Sterling’s goons. We need to get her the fuck out of there.”

  * * * *

  Thea now floated in an inky void, weightless, free, and utterly at peace. Light had broken through the darkness only a moment before—beautiful beams of radiant light like those that streamed down from the clouds after a storm. She was only dimly aware of the weight on her chest.

  Inside the beautiful light, she was a little girl again, sitting on her grandfather’s lap in the big overstuffed chair in the living room of the house where she grew up—a brick ranch just North of Atlanta with a rocking-chair front porch. Everything was the same—the colorless linen sofa, the teak coffee table where she liked to do her homework, the prayer rugs rolled up in the corner, and the shiny black piano her mother used to play in the evenings. Her dead grandmother's shawl covered the top, along with a collection of photos of family and friends in mismatched frames. She especially loved the one of her mother and father on their wedding day. Her mother looked so young and beautiful. And so happy. Since her father left, she was always so serious. And so sad.

  Her grandfather was telling her about what happened when a person died. “In Islam,” he told her, “the Afterlife is the true reality. This life is merely a testing ground, so we can prove ourselves worthy of Paradise and save ourselves from the Hellfire.”

  Gazing into his face in earnest, she asked, “What happens when we die?”

  “If we have lived a good life, have studied the Qur’an, and remained faithful to God, the Angel of Death will come, sit by our head, and say, ‘O good soul, come forth to forgiveness from Allah and His pleasure.’ When the soul comes forth, the Angel seizes it, wraps it in a perfumed shroud, and ascends with it to the gates of Paradise.”

  “And if we were bad?” she asked meekly, a little afraid of the answer.

  “In such a case, the Angel of Death will summon our evil soul, wrap it in sack cloth stinking of death and decay, and escort it to the gates of hell.” He smiled down at her, tenderly touching her cheek. “Not that an innocent such as yourself need worry about such things.”

  The dream slipped away, returning her to the darkness with the realization that, though she was hovering on the brink of death, she felt at peace with it. She had lived a good life, perhaps not as devout a one as God would have liked, but she was far from evil. Would the Angel of Death come for her with a perfumed shroud? Would she find her mother waiting for her in Heaven? Would she be happy? What about her grandparents? And Robby? Would they be waiting, too? Or would her brother, being a suicide, have been sentenced to the hellfire?

  Concern fluttered as her thoughts shifted to Buchanan. Would she find him waiting on the other side as well? Would Allah and the angels allow them to be together? Supposedly, good Muslims were awarded seventy-two perfect partners when they reached the pearly gates. She’d never understood why Allah provided seventy-two perfect partners when one ought to be more than enough for anybody. It certainly would be for her.

  “Alex,” she tried to say aloud, but the name caught in her throat.

  The fear passed. A tranquil lethargy spread over her. Nothing mattered anymore. She closed her eyes. The Angel of Death was coming. She could sense his approach. There was nothing left to do now but wait for him to summon her soul.

  Chapter 30

  “Robert Sterling is an alias,” Buchanan told Jack Hamilton as they wove their way through heavy cross-town traffic on their way to Tartarus. “Borrowed from a Bond film. In reality, he’s the illegitimate son of Milo Osbourne. By his sister. Apparently, Osbourne chucked her out after learning of the pregnancy. According to Sterling, the experience drove her around the bend. And now he’s hell-bent on avenging her. And himself.”

  Hamilton’s eyebrow shot up. “And that’s why he’s gunning for Golden Age Media?”

  Buchanan nodded. “He wants to break up the empire he feels should have been his before Osbourne croaks and passes it to his legitimate heirs. He also wants to disgrace his father by making public his scheme to help the Saudis take over the media.”

  Hamilton’s expression was dour. “A scheme aided and abetted by his friends in high places, no doubt. Like my boss, the attorney general.”

  “And the president,” Buchanan added with chagrin. “Don’t forget that Osbourne practically bought Richard Freeman the election. And endorsed the crap out of him on Con News. And I wouldn’t be surprised if his Saudi friend also had a hand in filling the campaign war chest.”

  Hamilton was behind the wheel of Judy’s all-black unmarked Crown Victoria police interceptor. Buchanan was sitting shotgun, and Judy—real name Detective Sergeant Judith Miller—was in the backseat. She and Thea’s father, it turned out, really were neighbors. They’d bumped into each other in the hallway a few months ago and had been dating ever since. “Love at first sight,” they called it, making Buchanan, who didn’t believe in such fairy-tale nonsense, grit his teeth.

  The two FBI agents who’d gone after Ivan had come back empty-handed. They had chased the Bulgarian for more than two miles before they lost him in an enclave of industrial buildings. They were behind them now in a big black Cadillac Escalade, hoping Ivan might be heading back to the club to rendezvous with Sterling and Georgi.

  Right now, Buchanan didn’t give a damn about catching them—however much he yearned to beat Sterling and that idiot Georgi to bloody pulps. All that mattered to him right now was getting there in time to save Thea. Shooting a glance at Hamilton, he said, “I’m almost certain that Sterling is behind the publisher killings.”

  Hamilton met his eyes, but only fleetingly. “Any theories as to a motive?”

  “I’ll wager anything that the men he killed had agreed to help Golden Age fight the takeover, thereby interfering with his plan.”

  “Interesting,” Hamilton said. “And what about the hit on your people?”

  The thought of it made the journalist wince as he said, “I’m guessing it was ordered by Prince Zahhak, as a favor to Milo Osbourne. Which explains why the assassins were former GIP. Osbourne tried to buy me, you know. Three weeks ago. But I turned him down.”

  “So, you think he resorted to illegal means?”

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” Buchanan replied with a shrug. “But it’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

  Silence fell between them for several moments before Hamilton asked, “What’s happening with the story?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Hamilton’s expression darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I filed it yesterday with The News. Under Thea’s name. But it hasn’t run.”

  The creases in Hamilton’s forehead deepened. “I hate to tell you, but we’re still dead in the water without it. In terms of stopping the merger, I mean.”

  Buchanan’s gut tightened and twisted. “Even with the recording? And knowing what we know? Including the fact that he murdered Frank Aslan?”

  Judy leaned in between the seats. “We might be able to pick Sterling up for the murders, but that’s a separate issue. And we’ll need proof. Did you actually see Aslan’s body?”

  Buchanan sucked on his cheeks. “N
o.”

  “Well, I know for a fact that Barclay won’t interfere with the merger unless public pressure is brought to bear,” Hamilton interjected. “And for that, we need to invoke the power of the press. While there’s still a little of it left.”

  Despair began to settle over Buchanan. The bad guys weren’t supposed to win, and yet, it was certainly starting to look as if they would. And yet, he still clung desperately to one faint glimmer of hope: that he could somehow persuade The News to run the story.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, pinching the top of his nose. He could feel despair sucking him down like quick sand. When he opened them again, he saw, ahead in the distance, the garish purple face of The Pillory.

  “Turn right in that alleyway just past the blue liquor store,” he instructed Hamilton, pointing the way.

  As they approached the turn, trepidation squeezed his chest, making breathing hard. What if they were too late? What if Thea was already dead? He’d waited all his life to find a woman he could love, and now that he had, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her so soon.

  * * * *

  Thea hovered near the ceiling, looking down, where the meat suit that had once been hers now lay discarded. Light permeated everything, even her ethereal being. The whole room glowed with a warm, golden light. She could see right through her hand as if it were a hologram rather than flesh and bone. Profound peace engulfed her. She was infinite now, all-knowing and connected to everything in existence.

  * * * *

  Buchanan felt sure he would lose his mind as he waited for the agents to jimmy the impossibly heavy iron doors. The moment they swung open, he charged into the phone booth like a rodeo bull. What the hell was the code? He took a wild guess: 007. Hands shaking, he tapped it in. As the bottom dropped out, jolting him, he called out the numbers to the others.

  He landed hard on his back, rolled onto his side, and got to his feet. The room was dark and reeked of cologne. He squinted, straining to see. Everything appeared to be in order—except for the bed. The coverlet was in disarray and there were ropes strewn nearby. Rage flared in his chest. What had that filthy animal done to her?

  The others started dropping. First the two agents, then Jack Hamilton, and, lastly, Judy.

  “I called the paramedics,” she said as Hamilton helped her to her feet.

  Buchanan loped to the door leading to the cells. He lumbered down the corridor, frantically trying every door. Fucking hell. She wasn’t behind any of them. He cut down one hall, then another. The place was like a bloody labyrinth.

  “Thea! Where are you?”

  She didn’t answer. The only sounds were behind him. Running footsteps. Doors opening and closing. The murmur of voices. His desperation grew more acute with every passing moment.

  “Thea!”

  He turned another corner. The corridor was long and dark. He smelled something. Was it matches? Was something on fire? Surging with panic, he checked the first door. The cell was empty. He hurried on, checking door after door. Cells, storage closets, torture chambers. The sulphuric smell grew stronger. It wasn’t matches. Whatever it was had a noxious odor that was making him dizzy and queasy.

  “Thea! Answer me! Please!”

  He checked the next cell and the next. There was still no sign of her. Panic and the smell were making it hard to breathe. His pulse was racing, his temples pounding, and that terrible stench—was it rotten eggs?—was making him gag. Please God, he prayed, let her still be alive.

  Holding his breath, he reached for the next door. With a hard yank, it opened. Light shattered the darkness. He scanned the floor. Yes! There she was—curled up in the corner like a fetus.

  Racing to her, he dropped to his knees. His breath ran out. He drew another one, choking as the burning air poured into his lungs. He pressed his fingers against her neck, startling at the coldness of her flesh. He felt for a pulse. There was one—thank God—but it was weak and thready.

  “Don’t you dare die on me,” he told her. “Don’t you dare. Not when I’ve only just found my heart.”

  * * * *

  The Angel of Death had come at last. She could sense him kneeling beside her, could feel the shroud spreading over her. It was heavy and scratchy and smelled not of perfume but of antiseptic.

  Oh, no. Was he taking her to the hellfire?

  He must be, because the light had gone. She now drifted in darkness. And there was pain. Terrible pain. In her head there was a hammer, pounding, pounding. And in her lungs, a blaze, burning, burning.

  Was it the hellfire?

  She was floating, drifting in a swirl of dark clouds. She could hear the angel talking, but couldn’t make sense of his words.

  “She’s cyanotic. She needs oxygen.”

  Something came down over her nose and mouth. The fire in her lungs burned hotter for a moment, then little by little started to cool. The clouds began to clear. Her eyelids began to glow a beautiful shade of golden orange.

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  It was a different voice this time. One she recognized.

  “I think so,” the angel said.

  “Is she going to wake up?” The familiar voice again.

  “Probably,” the angel replied.

  “How soon? I need her to do something for me, if she’s able.”

  She knew the voice now. It belonged to Alex Buchanan, her one-legged tin soldier. But was he dead or alive?

  She tried to speak his name, but her voice was so weak it came out as a murmur. Soft fingers swept over her face.

  “Thea? Can you hear me?”

  “Alex?”

  Her voice was more audible now.

  “I’m here,” he whispered. “You had a close call, but you’re going to be all right.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes dark with worry. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever beheld.

  “Hi,” she whispered through the oxygen mask.

  “Hi, yourself,” he said with that beguiling Scottish burr of his.

  She lifted a hand to his face. Her arm felt like lead, his face like rough sandpaper. She looked at the other face hovering over her. The dark-blue uniform told her it belonged not to the Angel of Death, but a paramedic.

  Returning her eyes to Buchanan, she said, “You need me to do something for you?”

  The smile he offered her was tremulous. “Do you feel up to making a call? I’ve already entered the number.”

  He held out a cell phone, which she took. “Who am I calling?”

  “Glenda,” he said. “All you need to tell her is that the story’s legit. Then hand me back the phone and I’ll take it from there.”

  She felt too out of it to understand what he was saying. She could feel the dark clouds moving in again. In another minute, she’d be out. She pressed the “send” button and put the phone to her ear. Glenda answered after the second ring.

  “It’s Thea,” she said weakly.

  “Thea? My God. Where are you? You sound awful. Are you all right?”

  There was no time to explain. She was fading fast.

  “You’ve got to run the story.”

  As her head lolled to the side, he took the phone from her hand.

  “Glenda, hello, it’s Alex Buchanan,” she vaguely heard him say. “Do you know who I am?”

  * * * *

  Gut smoldering with stuffed-down rage, Buchanan climbed into the FBI’s big black Escalade. It was past nine o’clock now and dark. A few minutes ago, the paramedics had left with Thea, who had slipped back into a coma. He would have ridden along, but unfinished business demanded his attention. In the ambulance, in a moment of lucidity, she had told him about the call Georgi received from Sterling. She also told him about his brother. He could still hear her words, zinging around inside his head like a bullet: He hung him strappado, raped him with objects, and sliced him up with a box-cutter.

  “And surely the murder of my brother is reason enough to arrest that s
ick SOB,” he was telling Hamilton now, shaking with rage.

  Hamilton, agreeing that it was, telephoned the airport, learning that the control tower had just received a request for runway clearance from a pilot for Golden Age Media.

  “Sounds to me like he might be planning a direct attack on Uncle Daddy,” Hamilton said.

  The Cadillac was moving now, heading south on Fourteenth Street toward the Potomac. Buchanan’s gut was churning as he stared out through the smoky glass into the darkness. Monolithic government buildings zoomed past. Treasury. Commerce. Fitting tributes to a nation now ruled by corporate greed run amok. On the seat beside him, Jack Hamilton was wringing his hands in troubled silence. Finally, the attorney looked up, meeting the journalist’s eyes.

  “I know I’ve got no right,” Hamilton said, straining, “but I trust your intentions…with regard to my daughter…are, em, honorable?”

  Tingling heat filled Buchanan’s chest. To tell the truth, he’d been so intent on staying alive in the present, he hadn’t given the future much thought. “As honorable as they can be under the circumstances.”

  Hamilton arched an inquisitive brow. “What circumstances would those be?”

  “I’m just saying.” Buchanan shrugged and returned his attention to the passing cityscape. “It’s been one helluva week.”

  * * * *

  Glenda Northam, beyond astonished, depressed the hang-up button, but held onto the receiver. Not only had Alex Buchanan just confirmed that the story was legit, he’d also dictated a few additional paragraphs—paragraphs implicating Robert Sterling, the illegitimate son of Milo Osbourne and his sister, as the Zorro killer. Apparently, his arrest by the D.C. police was imminent.

  Still clutching the receiver, she looked out her office window toward the newsroom. Through the slats in the mini-blinds, she could see the clock on the wall. It was 7:15 p.m.—more than two hours past deadline. There were still a few stragglers in the maze of cluttered cubicles, but for the most part, her crew had gone home for the night.