‘Undo the straps or I’ll break your thumb so bad you’ll be deformed,’ he threatened. ‘NOW!’ he cried and added enough pressure to get her to kneel.
She couldn’t believe the pain.
‘Don’t yell or you’ll be screaming, too,’ he warned.
Quickly, she undid the strap that held his upper torso down and he sat up, now able to swing his right arm around and seize her hair. He pulled her toward the bed.
‘Get that lower strap,’ he ordered.
It was awkward, but she was able to undo it, too. He held on to her thumb and her hair and swung himself around. She was going to shout the moment he released her, but he was quite aware of that as well and in a fast, sharp, well-concentrated move, he drove his forehead into the bridge of her nose, snapping it instantly. The pain and shock overwhelmed her. Her eyes went back and she collapsed in his grip. For a moment he held her up simply with the grip on her hair.
Then he slowly lowered her to the floor and stood over her.
They had put him in one of those stupid hospital gowns with the backs open. He went to the closet, but found it empty.
‘This is fucked up,’ he muttered.
He went to the door and peered out carefully.
Mrs Littleton carried a bundle of sheets down the corridor and went into the laundry room. Other than that, no one was in sight. He kept to one side and went down the corridor quickly on his bare feet. He looked into the laundry room and saw Mrs Littleton feed the sheets into a large washing machine. Glancing to his right, he saw a sack with a cord to tie it closed. He scooped it up and stepped up to Mrs Littleton almost in one uncut motion, wrapping the cord around her throat and tightening it before she could cry out. She gagged immediately and tried to stand. Pushing against him, she fell ungracefully on her rear end and he went to his knees to hold the cord deathly tight.
He couldn’t believe the rush he was feeling. This was just like the old days. He had no aches, no pains. He was as strong as he could remember. The joy made him tighten his grip even more. He could see her eyes bulging, the saliva at the corners of her face turning red. Her body shook. She raised her hand in desperation and then died, so fast it was like puncturing a tire.
He lowered her to the floor and stood up. He didn’t feel nearly as exhausted as he had expected. His hand burned a little, but that was nothing. Just out of practice, he thought. He went to the closet in the laundry and found a pair of white pants. They were a little short and tight around the waist, but at least he had a pair of pants and his ass didn’t stick out. Mrs Littleton was wearing a blue sweater over her uniform. He stripped it off her and tried it on. He couldn’t close it, but at least he had something.
Once again, he peered out the door carefully. The hallway was still deserted. What the hell was going on in this place? Why had they done this to him? What had they intended for him? He looked down at Mrs Littleton’s body. He had no regrets. Whoever she was, she was in on it, whatever it was.
He started out slowly, keeping tight to the wall as he drew closer to the nurse’s station. Shirley was still engrossed in her magazine. However, as he made the turn to go behind the counter, Freda Rosen, blood streaming down her face, stepped out of what had been his room and let out a scream so primeval, it even caused him to shudder.
Shirley spun around in her chair, saw him standing there, and cried out for help herself. Louis started to lunge for her, hesitated when he saw a pair of scissors on the counter, and went for them instead. Shirley cowered back, seizing a syringe to hold out in defense. He rushed her, easily gripping her right wrist and turning the syringe away while he drove the knife into her throat. She gagged on her blood and sunk slowly to her knees.
‘Thank you, but I don’t want a blow job now,’ he said and shoved her to the side where she shuddered and slipped into her own dark tunnel of death.
He turned and stepped back into the hallway. Freda was still screaming. He considered going back for her a moment and then he turned and started down the hallway, the scissors gripped in his hands, one side of them out like a blade, Shirley Cole’s A Positive blood dripping off them.
He reached the elevator and when he hit the button for the lobby, the doors closed. Feeling even greater elation than before, he had an overwhelming sense of immortality. He could kill forever and never be killed himself. He had felt this before in his life, but for some reason, never as strongly.
The elevator door opened on the first floor instead of the lobby. He didn’t realize it for a moment and then he turned and saw the security guard standing there with his pistol drawn. He smiled at him. They won’t kill me, he thought. They needed me for something.
He started to step forward when the gun went off.
He really didn’t hear it reverberate in the elevator.
The bullet slipped silently through his forehead, shattering his brain and the back of his skull on the rear wall of the elevator. His body rained down around his feet a second later. The elevator door started to close, so the security guard put his foot in its way and it stopped.
Simon, terrified at the sound and the sight, came forward slowly, followed by Mrs Randolph. They all looked down at Louis Williams and the pool of blood expanding around his head.
‘Damn it,’ Simon said. ‘What a waste of a specimen.’
Twelve
He stood in front of the Waldorf trying to appear as casual and unexcited as he could. Every time a limousine pulled up in front, he stepped in its direction and watched carefully to see who the passenger was. He wanted to get to Henry Dover before he emerged from his vehicle, if that was possible. Finally, his continual presence in front of the hotel attracted the interest of one of the doormen, who strolled up to him and smiled.
‘Anything I can do for you, sir?’ he asked.
Bradley smiled back. ‘I’m hoping to surprise my brother. I found out an hour or so ago that he was coming to the Waldorf for lunch today. We haven’t seen each other for nearly a year. In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m in New York. We both travel a lot and it’s very rare that we cross paths.’
The doorman nodded. Bradley looked a little disheveled, but the clothes weren’t cheap and the shoes looked new.
‘In fact,’ Bradley added taking out a fifty-dollar bill, ‘maybe you would do me a favor and check to see if he arrived earlier than I was told. His name is Henry Dover. As I said, he has a reservation in the restaurant.’
The doorman’s eyes widened at the sight of the bill. Fifty for just asking? ‘Sure. No problem,’ he said taking the money. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘Thanks. I didn’t want to leave the spot in case he hadn’t arrived, otherwise I would have checked myself.’
‘I understand. I’m on it for you,’ the doorman said and headed into the hotel.
Bradley smiled to himself. Money was clearly the key to the gates of opportunity. Show it, have it, spend it, or promise it and doors swung open. No matter what science does or how so-called powerful leaders alter things, that won’t change, he thought. It didn’t sadden him. It reinforced his core belief that the essence of all living things was purely selfish and that belief justified anything and everything he did in the past or would do in the present and future – if there was a future.
Another limousine pulled up. The driver nearly tripped over himself rushing to get out and open the door for his passenger. That urgency, near-hysteria to be prompt and subservient attitude alerted Bradley. He stepped off the curb just as the driver opened the door and he saw Henry Dover starting to rise from the seat to get out of the limousine. Bradley pushed the driver aside and pointed his pistol at Henry Dover.
‘Thanks for picking me up,’ Bradley said getting into the limousine. ‘Tell him to drive on,’ he ordered as he sat and waved the pistol at Henry.
‘I have an appointment here,’ Henry said nodding at the Waldorf. ‘People will be looking for me.’
‘That’s been canceled. Tell him!’ Bradley ordered.
‘Michael,
’ Henry Dover called, eying the pistol. ‘Please get back behind the wheel.’
Dover’s chauffeur closed the door and started around the car. Standing on the curb, his eyes wide, was the doorman who had returned to tell Bradley Henry Dover had not yet arrived at the restaurant. The chauffeur looked at him with a clear expression of fear and then got into the car quickly.
‘So, where are we going?’ Dover asked Bradley.
Bradley didn’t like Dover’s calm demeanor even in the face of this threat. It further annoyed him. The arrogant bastard, he thought.
‘Into the park,’ Bradley said.
‘Take us into Central Park, Michael,’ Henry Dover told his driver.
The chauffeur started away, looking once more at the doorman who turned and headed back into the hotel quickly.
‘So, Mr Morris, you’ve been on quite a rampage,’ Dover said sitting back as if he was just going on a short, pleasant ride. ‘Taking your anger out on poor Father Martin, as I understand.’
‘And Jack Temple,’ Bradley said. ‘That’s why I know you’re appointment is canceled.’
Dover stopped smiling. ‘You’re crazy. You’re making big mistakes.’
‘As big as the one that was made on me? Tell me, did you always know what would happen to me? Was I merely another sacrificial lamb wasted on your journey to riches and power?’
‘We were, and are, addressing the problem. You were being given good care.’
‘In God’s Waiting Room. Thanks.’
‘You obviously aren’t the worse for it. You seem to be quite improved. That doesn’t matter. We still owe you what you were promised and we’ll deliver.’
‘Oh, you’ll deliver,’ Bradley said. ‘I’m going to want a lot more now.’
Dover smiled. ‘Obviously. So negotiate. What do you want?’
Oddly enough, Bradley was the one taken aback. He had come to this moment too quickly and directly. He had been an enforcer, not a manager, and in a sense a blue collar worker who carried out the assignments he was given and then received his pay check. He had never created an assignment or been in charge of what was to happen next.
All sorts of romantic ideas flew through his mind to answer Henry Dover’s question. Make Dover set up a Swiss bank account for him, buy him a yacht, or maybe just give him a million dollars right now. They all sounded good, but how could he guarantee and insure his own safety if and when Dover agreed to anything? He was familiar enough with pressure tactics and blackmail, but he needed something more. He was at least smart enough to realize that. And he could be as cool as Dover, he thought. An idea occurred to him. He knew where he could find his collateral for any promise.
‘Take me to the clinic where I was treated and to this Dr Oakland. I remember his name,’ he added smiling. ‘In fact, my memory is just as good if not better than it was.’
‘The clinic? For what purpose?’ Henry said shaking his head.
‘I’ll be the one asking questions and giving orders, Dover. Just do as I say. The only thing keeping me from blowing your brains out is the noise and the possibility some of your blood will splatter on me.’
Dover finally revealed anger in his face. Before he could speak, however, his cellphone rang.
‘May I?’ he asked Bradley as he reached inside his jacket.
‘It’s not Jack Temple calling. I can assure you of that,’ Bradley said smiling and nodded.
‘Dover,’ Henry said into his phone. He listened. His reaction was solely in his eyes and so subtle, it would take an ophthalmologist to discern it. ‘When did this occur? I see. And the clean up? OK.’
He glanced at Bradley.
‘I will be there. Consider my arrival a stage five,’ he added and closed the cell. ‘Michael,’ he said leaning forward. ‘Take me to the company.’
‘Yes sir,’ the driver said.
‘The company? I said the clinic,’ Bradley told him, nearly growling his words.
Dover remained calm. ‘It’s the same place, Bradley, and it is a bit of a ride, as you know. I did miss my lunch, too. I know this great Italian place on the way up,’ he added smiling.
Bradley smiled too, leaned back and then in one swift, actually graceful motion, swung his arm and slammed the pistol squarely into Henry Dover’s forehead. The blow opened a gash a half inch wide and was so quick and unexpected, Dover had no chance to block it. It stunned him and he slumped back to his right.
The driver hit the brakes, but Bradley lifted his pistol so it was in clear view.
‘The back of your head,’ he told him, ‘is as big as a wall. Look at the windshield. That’s where your eyes will be. Drive and drive fast but carefully,’ he added.
The chauffeur pressed down on the accelerator, made a turn and headed for the West Side Highway.
Bradley sat back. Dover, regaining his composure, took out a handkerchief and held it to his forehead. ‘You won’t get away with this, Bradley.’
‘I don’t want to hear another peep out of you, Dover,’ Bradley said. ‘You just close your eyes and think about your estate planning in case there are any last minute changes you want to call in.’
Dover turned away. Bradley sat back. He was feeling strong again. Dover wasn’t completely wrong about lunch either. At the moment that was the only regret he had.
They rode on crossing the GW, entering the Palisades Parkway heading for upstate New York. He was cutting through these powerful men as easily as cutting through cream cheese.
Damn, he thought, cream cheese on toast, some eggs and bacon. Why the hell did he think of that?
His stomach rumbled and that only made him less tolerant and angrier. It was their fault he was sitting here starving. He’d kill them all for that as much as for anything else. The driver, who periodically glanced at him in the rear-view mirror appeared to sense it. His hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly, the veins were embossed. It kept him from trembling.
He glanced also at Mr Dover. His handkerchief was soaked in his blood and he had his eyes closed. That shut the bastard up, Bradley thought.
The chauffeur looked, too. He liked his job and he loved the money, but he wasn’t prepared to die for it. He was tempted to leap out of the car and run the first time they had to come to a stop. Of course, the lunatic might shoot him before he got out. That prospect, and not any remarkable loyalty, was all that kept him going. The smirk on Bradley Morris’ face gave him the chills. It was as if the man could hear his thoughts and knew just how much of a coward he was.
Bradley nodded at him and he shifted his eyes away quickly. They passed the next hour silently. Finally, Bradley sat back and with his right hand brushed his hair away from his forehead. He felt something in his fingers when he stopped and looked down.
It was like a blow to his own face. Clumps of hair were in his palm.
What the fuck? I’m losing hair again?
He put it down between himself and the door quickly so neither of them would see and then he stretched his leg out and felt an ache travel in a ripple up his thigh to his lower back. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. And then he had to clear his throat.
Slowly, Henry Dover turned his head toward him and lifted the handkerchief from his forehead and his eyes to look at him.
‘What are you looking at?’ Bradley snapped. His voice didn’t sound as deep. The words seemed to rise from some small pocket of tightness in his throat.
Dover said nothing. He put the handkerchief back against his forehead and turned away.
Bradley flexed his arm and then sat quietly while a small pool of terror simmered inside his chest and began to rise in temperature and bring his blood to a boil.
‘Step on it,’ he ordered the driver.
‘We’ll get a ticket. They’re all over this highway with radar.’
‘Like I give a shit,’ Bradley said. ‘Whoever pulls us over will be pulling over his last speeding car.’
The driver accelerated.
Dover kept his face turned away.
‘Let it go,’ Tucker said. He could see how deeply in thought Palmer was.
‘Can you just let it all go?’
‘What can we do, Palmer? It’s in the hands of a higher authority. It’s not the first time we lost a case to the FBI or the BCI. When I was younger, actually only a year or two younger than you, I was sure I lost one to the CIA, although no one would confirm it.’
‘Why is this an FBI matter? It involves homicides in New York City.’
‘You going into Foreman’s office to demand an answer? I’m not. I need my head tonight. My mouth is in it and I have to chew my food carefully before swallowing.’
Palmer didn’t respond until they were almost back to the precinct. ‘This is not kosher,’ he finally said and marched into the building.
Tucker said nothing.
Palmer continued toward his desk, his head down, until Lily Marshall stopped him. ‘Got the information you wanted on that Classic Industries,’ she said.
He looked up. He had forgotten he had asked her to do it. ‘And?’
She handed him some printouts. ‘It’s a shell of some sort. It’s holding a variety of LLC’s under it, but I did notice that this man,’ she said pointing to one of the documents, ‘Henry Dover organized its articles of organization. I didn’t check them all out, but he’s down on the first three as the organizer as well.
‘I knew you were going to ask about him next so I ran this off,’ she said and gave him another document.
Tucker came up behind him and looked over his shoulder.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Classic Industries,’ Palmer muttered. ‘Information about the CEO, Henry Dover. Billionaire. International holdings, sits on the boards of a half dozen very influential companies. Hefty contributor to powerful politicians.’
Life Sentence Page 17
