The Prophecy paj-5

by Chris Kuzneski

‘Knock, knock,’ he said as he walked into Jones’s office.

  Jones barely glanced up from his computer. ‘It’s about time.’

  Still wearing his tuxedo, Payne collapsed in the chair across from Jones. ‘Sorry about that. Lots of people to see, lots of asses to kiss.’

  ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Much better than I’d expected. The cops barged in, looking for potential witnesses, and

  ‘Did you say hundreds?’

  ‘Hey, the cops exaggerated, not me.’

  Jones rolled his eyes. ‘Let me guess, my name didn’t come up once.’

  ‘Not true,’ Payne assured him. ‘I told everyone you helped.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep! Working as a janitor at Heinz Chapel.’

  ‘You’re such an asshole.’

  ‘By the way, I have a message from Sam. He wanted me to tell you, six o’clock sharp. Whatever the hell that means.’

  He growled softly. ‘I already burned his jumpsuit. I’ll send him the ashes tomorrow.’

  ‘Speaking of clothes, what’d you find in Ashley’s bag?’

  Jones pointed to the far side of the room where the contents were spread out on a glass table. Payne walked over and examined them. Unfortunately, nothing stood out. There was a change of clothes, an overnight kit filled with toiletries, and an unzipped leather portfolio.

  ‘Not much to work with, huh?’

  ‘No wallet? How’d she rent her car?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘I was working on that when you came in.’ He grabbed a sealed plastic bag from his desk and dangled it in the air. Inside was a single US passport, already opened to the photo page. ‘According to this, her full name was Ashley Marie Duvall.’

  ‘Ashley was her real name?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Jones leaned back in his chair. ‘I ran that name through the State Department computer and got zero hits. It isn’t in their database.’

  ‘Her passport was fake?’

  ‘Yep, a damn good one. I couldn’t spot any flaws.’

  Payne walked across the room and snatched the bag from Jones’s hand. When he did, a fine layer of powder settled on the interior of the plastic. ‘You dusted for prints?’

  ‘Of course I dusted for prints. I had three hours to kill.’

  ‘And?’

  IAFIS stood for Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, a national fingerprint and criminal-history database that was maintained by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and intended for law-enforcement agencies, not the private sector. But thanks to his connections at the Pentagon, Jones had full access to the system.

  Payne sat down. ‘How lucky?’

  ‘Very lucky. Our girl had a record.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘She was a lifelong thief.’ Jones held up a threepage printout, then handed it to Payne. ‘Her real name was Ashley Henderson. Born and raised in Camden, New Jersey, she was first arrested at thirteen and had been in and out of juvenile homes until eighteen. On the bright side, her last known address was in Philadelphia, so she didn’t lie about everything.’

  ‘See,’ Payne joked, ‘there’s a little good in all of us.’

  Glancing at the document, Payne focused on the driver’s licence photo on the first page. It was definitely the woman they had met earlier, the victim who had been killed at Heinz Chapel. Ashley the teacher was Ashley the criminal. No

  The last question was the one that worried him the most.

  ‘Any thoughts on her murder?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Anytime you’re dealing with a criminal, there’s always a chance she pissed off the wrong person. But considering tonight’s circumstances, I’m not sure that was the case.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘Not only was she murdered, it happened three hundred miles from home. That’s a long way to give chase if someone had a problem with her in Philly.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Furthermore, I ran down her travel arrangements. She flew in this afternoon, under the name Ashley Duvall, and booked a return flight for tomorrow. Her tickets were purchased online within the last twenty-four hours, meaning her killer didn’t have much time to set things up. If

  ‘What do we know about him?’ Payne wondered.

  ‘I ran his prints, but IAFIS didn’t have a match. If he’s killed before, he hasn’t been caught.’

  ‘What about other databases?’

  Jones shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had time to try.’

  ‘Wow,’ Payne teased, ‘I gave you three hours to wrap everything up, and that’s all you got? I thought you were a professional?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Jon, or I’ll charge you for my time.’

  ‘Go ahead and bill me. What do janitors make per hour?’

  Jones ignored him. ‘Anyway, if it’s okay with you, I’m gonna call it a night. Let me get some rest, and I’ll do more digging in the morning. Maybe something else will turn up.’

  Unfortunately for them, his words were prophetic.

  17

  Sunday, 13 December

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  When Payne took over the business a few years ago, he redecorated the place, eliminating the old decor and adding a touch of luxury. Now, when he or his board of directors needed to impress an out-of-state executive or a foreign client, Payne Industries had the most scenic penthouse in the city at their disposal. And when the suite was empty and Payne didn’t feel like

  With an empty pantry and a growling stomach, Payne put on some jeans, a sweatshirt, and a winter coat. He rode the elevator to the ground floor and exited through the lobby. Just up the street was a local bakery known for its fresh bread and pastries. On Sundays, it was always packed with churchgoers, but he knew when services ended and avoided those times.

  Strolling up Grandview Avenue, the picturesque road that overlooked the city, he gazed at the river below. The Gateway Clipper steamed across the icy water, shuttling Steelers fans to Heinz Field from the parking lots at Station Square, an old railroad station that had been converted into a bustling entertainment complex. Since it was nearly 11 a.m., tens of thousands of tailgaters had been partying on the North Shore for the better part of three hours. By the time the Steelers kicked off against the Cleveland Browns at 1 p.m., the local fans would be so rowdy that people could sit on their balconies and, based on the crowd noise alone, tell what was happening at the game over a mile away.

  At least that’s what Payne had been told by his neighbours. The truth was he wasn’t willing to

  Payne bought a box of pastries at the bakery. A couple of fruit Danish would hold him over until he dined on the elaborate spread at the stadium. The doughnuts and croissants would be given to Jones, who was meeting him at noon for the game, and his building’s security staff. Unlike most CEOs, Payne identified more with hardworking members of the rank and file than the white-collar types who ran corporate America. His grandfather had been the same way, starting off as a mill worker and slowly building a manufacturing empire. During his life, he had never lost track of his roots, and he made damn sure his grandson didn’t, either.

  Despite the cold weather, Payne followed his weekend ritual and stopped on one of the

  With no one around, Payne set his box of pastries on the ground, then fished through his pockets for some change. He found a quarter and slipped it into the coin-operated binoculars that were mounted nearby. As a youngster, he used to come here with his father, who taught him the history of the city by pointing out important landmarks through the viewfinder. The tradition had started a generation earlier when Grandpa Payne had taught Payne’s father the exact same lessons. Now, as a way of honouring them both, Payne stopped and remembered his past.

  ‘Hey,’ growled a voice from behind. ‘Show me your hands.’

  Payne smiled, fully expecting to see one of his friends standing behind him.
But when he turned round, all he saw was a silencer pointing at his chest.

  ‘Show me your fucking hands!’

  were criminals.

  With his peripheral vision, Payne studied his immediate surroundings. A black Mercedes sedan was running on the nearby street. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t tell if anyone else was inside. Because of the bitter winds, the sidewalk was free of pedestrians. At least for the time being. In approximately ten minutes, the church down the street would be letting out, and when it did, Grandview would be clogged with potential targets.

  Then again, ten minutes was an eternity in a hold up.

  No way would this drag on that long.

  ‘I’ve got some cash and a box of pastries. Help yourself to either.’

  ‘I don’t want your wallet. I want the letter.’ Payne took a step back. ‘What letter?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb with me. I know you have it. You got it from the girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  Payne inched backward until he felt the cold metal railing against the small of his back. Now there was nothing behind him but a great view and a drop of several hundred feet.

  ‘Don’t move again!’ the man ordered.

  ‘Where can I go?’ Payne replied.

  The man stepped forward, closing the distance to ten feet. Close enough so he wouldn’t miss, but far enough away so Payne couldn’t charge him. ‘Where’s the letter?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  The man sneered and pulled his trigger. His silencer flashed, and the bullet pinged loudly as it struck the railing less than six inches from Payne’s waist. It hit so close that he could feel the vibrations in the metal.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  He ignored the question. ‘We already killed the girl. What’s one more?’

  ‘Wait a second!’ Payne demanded. ‘Who’s we?’

  The gunman sneered again. ‘I’ll ask you one last time. Where is the letter?’

  Payne lowered his hands, grasping the rail behind him. ‘Honestly,’ he lied, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘That’s a shame, Mr Payne. Then you must die.’

  And this gunman had that talent.

  With that in mind, Payne did the only rational thing he could think of.

  He leaned back and flipped over the railing.

  18

  Stunned by the development, the shooter rushed forward with gun in hand, hoping to see a body splattered on the hillside below. From the edge of the platform to the icy ground was a distance of over 200 feet. Several bare trees lined the slope, as did a thick blanket of snow, but neither could save a life from this height. Even a physical specimen like Payne was subject to the laws of gravity. Death would be very likely.

  That is, if he had fallen into the valley. But in fact that wasn’t what happened.

  Payne had spent enough time on the concrete platforms to understand how they were built. His grandfather had even taken him underneath one when it was being repaired, so he could teach Payne the basic principles of cantilevers and stress-bearing beams. From the sidewalk, the

  Of course, it was more difficult than it sounded.

  If not for his leather gloves, he couldn’t have pulled off the move without tearing the skin from his hands, but the gloves allowed him to keep hold of the vertical bars in the railing while he slid down the wrong side of the guardrail. Instead of plummeting wildly, his hands never left the metal. At the bottom of the rail, his fingers got pinched in between the support brackets and the concrete, sending a shockwave of pain to his brain that compelled him to let go. Thankfully, his adrenaline dulled the sensation, and he managed to hold on long enough to survive.

  With legs dangling freely, he swung both feet underneath the platform, hoping to make contact with one of the support beams. On his second attempt, his right foot hit steel and he managed to wedge his heel above the lip of the cold metal. Then, before the shooter had a chance

  As Payne ducked his head beneath the platform, the shooter spotted him from above and fired. The bullet hit the lower corner of the column and sent a small shower of debris towards the trees below. The gunman cursed, realizing that his target was now underneath him, and the only way to get a clean shot was to go after him.

  It wasn’t an appealing proposition.

  Wasting no time, Payne shimmied along the steel beam, crawling upside-down towards the anchor point of the concrete. He had learned the technique in the military, using a single cable to cross a ravine or to breach a nearby building. Heels locked above, hips hanging down, then hand over hand until he reached his destination. It took him less than a minute to reach solid ground — a small ledge underneath the platform that had been installed for workers — but when he did, he gasped for breath and considered his predicament.

  No weapon. No phone. No help on the way.

  And somewhere above was a man with a silencer.

  No way he’d let that happen. Not if he could help it.

  Because of his height, Payne was forced to crouch as he moved along the ledge. Slowly, he crept his way towards the right side of the platform, always holding onto the overhead beam to help steady his stride. One misstep on the frozen concrete and he would fall a long way. Not only would death be certain, but cleaning up would be a bitch. At the end of the ledge, he stopped and inched his head away from the platform, leaning back as far as he could to improve his view of above. The shooter must have sensed Payne’s presence because a split-second later he was hovering over him, ready to pull the trigger.

  ‘Shit!’ Payne yelled as he yanked himself underneath the platform. As he did, the bullet whizzed past him, missing his head by inches and slamming into the rocks below.

  ‘So will your ammo!’ he shouted back.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  Payne nodded to himself, realizing the shooter was right. If he had an extra clip or two, he could stand up there half the day, taking shot after shot until he got lucky or a hostage strolled by. Neither scenario appealed to Payne. In the MANIACs, he had always been the aggressor, looking to exploit his enemy, trying to catch him with his guard down. For him, sitting under a ledge and playing peek-a-boo with a gunman wasn’t an option. To survive, he knew he had to spot the guy’s weakness and use it against him. But what was it?

  After a moment of thought, he figured it out.

  ‘Hey asshole,’ Payne shouted. ‘What’s your name? You owe me that much.’

  ‘I don’t owe you shit!’

  ‘Sure you do,’ he replied as he listened to the creaking above him. ‘You snuck up behind me like a bitch. That’s a punk move.’

  The gunman crept to the left side of the platform. ‘But it worked.’

  Payne turned his head and shouted to the right. ‘No, it didn’t. I’m still alive.’

  ‘Come and get me!’

  The gunman paused, then doubled back to his right. Without saying a word, he climbed up on the railing and leaned out as far as possible, hoping he had guessed right. Ironically, he had, but it proved to be his downfall.

  Instead of peeking out from under the platform, Payne leapt out with only one intention: to grab the gunman’s tie. He had spotted it earlier when he had narrowly avoided the last shot. It had been hanging there, taunting him, like a leash on a lost dog. Payne knew if he got hold of it, he would control the gunman and he would control the situation.

  But he hadn’t expected what happened next.

  Stretching as high as he could, Payne snagged the tie with his right hand and gave it a mighty yank. The gunman, who had already been leaning over the edge, was unable to maintain his balance. Less than a second later, his feet shot skyward, and he flipped over the railing.

  In a perfect world, Payne would have held onto him and saved his life, if for no other reason than to question him about his mission. Unfortunately, Payne knew his footing and grip

  As Payne grabbed the bar, the gunman whizzed past, screaming an
d flailing the entire way until his life ended with a muffled thud on the icy rocks below.

  19

  Jones rolled down his window. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone fell,’ said the cop as Jones flashed his licence.

  ‘A jumper?’

  The cop shook his head. ‘I wish.’

  Jones wasn’t sure what that meant, but before he could ask, the cop waved him through and approached the vehicle behind him. Jones continued towards his building, unconcerned, until he saw half Payne’s security staff standing on the sidewalk instead of inside the warm lobby. The elderly guard manning the garage recognized

  ‘Morning, Clyde,’ he said as he climbed out of his vehicle and slammed the door shut. Jones was dressed for the Steelers game, wearing a blackand-gold Troy Polamalu jersey and a black Pittsburgh ski cap. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. He’s fine. Just fine.’

  Jones furrowed his brow. ‘Who’s fine?’

  The guard stared at him, confused. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Someone tried to kill Mr Payne.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, incredulous.

  The guard nodded. ‘Pulled a gun on him down the street.’

  ‘Where’s he now?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Inside, I think. Not really sure, though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said as he hurried to find Payne.

  Jones pushed his way through one of the revolving doors that opened into the atrium. Other than the spectacular view of the city, the building’s most prominent feature was the glass-lined lobby. It had been designed by Ieoh Ming Pei, the Chinese-born American architect who was later selected to build the Louvre

  Payne was holding a cardboard box as he talked to two detectives near the security desk. As soon as he noticed Jones, he excused himself and walked over.

  ‘What happened?’ Jones demanded.

  ‘It was the strangest thing. I bought a dozen doughnuts and all these cops showed up.’

  ‘Come on, man, I’m serious.’