The Civilized Man is closest to who I might have been if life had been kinder. He is the idealist, the humanist, the optimist. He also gets his ass comprehensively kicked every time I go to work. The Cop is pretty much my central personality. He’s balanced, astute, precise, and cold in a useful, detail-oriented way. He’s the puzzle-solver, the investigator, and, in many ways, the protector.
The other aspect is the Warrior, or as he prefers to be known, the Killer. That’s the part of me who was truly born on that awful day when Helen screamed and I bled and innocence died. The Warrior is always vigilant, always ready to go hunting in the jungles of my life, always aching to bring terrible harm to those who in any essential way resemble the people who destroyed Helen’s life and changed mine. That part of me grieves most for Helen, because he could not save her when she went looking for a permanent way out of her personal darkness—and found it.
As I drove back to the Hangar, the Civilized Man was too numb to comprehend the enormity of what was going on. The Cop kept trying to make sense of something that refused to be understood. The Warrior wanted to find Mother Night and everyone who worked for her or with her, and he wanted to do red, wet things to all of them. As punishment for bombs and murders, and—I have to admit it—for putting me in that subway tunnel with the wrong people walking into my spray of bullets.
I—we—drove on, thinking some of the darkest thoughts I have ever had.
Chapter Sixty-three
Guitar George’s Tavern and Grill
Nashville, Tennessee
Sunday, August 31, 3:01 p.m.
A priest and a rabbi walked into a bar.
The priest was a tall man with lots of red hair and intensely blue eyes. The rabbi was shorter and dark, with intensely black hair and blue eyes. Their eyes were the exact shade of blue. An improbable electric blue with a metallic glitter.
The bar was packed with a Sunday holiday-weekend crowd and a five-piece band was playing down-and-dirty swamp blues. In what little space was available more than fifty people were dancing. Some well, some not, all happily. The priest and the rabbi stopped at the edge of the dance floor. They each carried a bulging plastic shopping bag on which INTERFAITH MINISTRIES was printed in a blue that matched the eyes of the two clerics. The bags were heavy and the men carried them with some effort.
Some of the crowd—those that noticed the two men—reacted in a variety of ways. Some gave them sober nods. Some raised glasses to them. A few avoided eye contact with one or the other and shifted away to be outside of whatever implied field of guilt emanated from the men of the cloth. One very drunk woman curtsied to them with all of the elaborate grace of a tipsy lady of the court.
The priest and the rabbi smiled at her. They smiled at everyone.
They smiled and smiled and smiled.
A waitress came up to them, approaching with a nervous and tentative smile.
“Um, can I get you a table or…?” Her words faltered as she noticed their eyes. Working in a bar, she’d seen a thousand kinds of false contact lenses, everything from bright green lenses on ordinary brown eyes to Marilyn Manson glaucoma chic to slit-pupiled cat’s eyes. She’d even seen eyes as metallic and blue as those of the priest and rabbi. But she had never seen novelty contacts on a priest or, for that matter, a rabbi. It was a kind of freaky that wasn’t funny and wasn’t cool, and wasn’t even nerdy comical cool. What it was, was weird.
It was a funny day to be weird.
That’s how she saw it.
What with all that was going on in Pennsylvania and Kentucky and New York. The day had enough freakiness in it already. It was probably why so many people were out getting hammered. Not merely drinking, but guzzling the stuff.
She tried on a smile, hoping that it would somehow let her in on the joke.
But their smiles were bigger and brighter and totally …
Well … weird was the word that stuck in her head.
Another word occurred to her, too.
Those smiles were wrong.
The rabbi opened his big shopping bag and for a moment the waitress thought he was reaching for a gun. The news reports were still running through her head.
But then she saw what the rabbi had.
It was a water balloon. Bright red. With a happy face on it. He showed it to her and his grin widened.
Her smile flickered on again, though uncertainty kept it at a low wattage. She thought she understood what was happening.
These guys weren’t real. They weren’t a priest or a rabbi. No way. They were a little too hunky anyway. What with the contacts and the water balloons … this was some kind of college stunt. A frat thing. These were a couple of guys from the University of Tennessee. And, oh God, they had two bags filled with water balloons. They were going to throw them and get everyone wet and then get their asses kicked and there would be a big fight and the cops would come and … and … The waitress’s mind raced on and on at warp speed, working it out all the way to the point where she was out of work because the place was closed by the police and there were lawsuits from injured customers.
“Sir,” she said, stepping close to the rabbi to make sure he heard her over the band’s cover of “Down on the Bayou,” “you can’t—”
And the rabbi hurled the water balloon high over her head. It struck the whirling blades of one of the bar’s six ceiling fans and exploded, showering the dance floor with water.
There were shouts and screams.
And laughter.
None of the laughter was from the people who were spattered with water. But there was a lot of it from the people seated and standing around the dance floor.
The priest set his bag down and removed two more balloons. A yellow one and a blue one.
“Here!” he said brightly, handing them to a pair of brawny college jocks in UT shirts. The jocks looked at the balloons, at the priest, at each other, then they grinned and hurled the balloons, which burst against the ceiling and rained clear water onto the crowd. The crowd yelled and shouted, and some of them laughed.
The waitress was yelling, but the rabbi ignored her as he pulled another balloon out of the bag and hurled it at a different ceiling fan. The priest handed out more balloons.
That’s how it started.
In seconds the whole place was wild.
Water balloons were flying everywhere. The waitress was shrieking now, but no one was paying attention to her. Bouncers were trying to fight their way through the press. The people were getting into it. Water balloons hit women and burst without doing harm, but the effect was an impromptu wet T-shirt show.
It spiraled upward into a massive prank that toppled off the ledge of order into a loud, laughing chaos.
Until the screaming started.
It came from one of the dancers who’d been splashed by the first balloon. She wiped water from her eyes but her fingers came away red. Bright, bright red.
The man she had been dancing with stared at her in white-faced horror.
Except that his face was white only where it wasn’t red.
They stared at each other, caught in a fragment of reality that was chipped off the craziness of what was going on. Blood ran from their eyes and noses and ears. When they screamed they sprayed blood at each other. Blood darkened their clothes as it ran from every opening in their bodies.
The people nearest them screamed, too. Not because of what was happening to that couple, but because it was happening to them. To everyone.
Everyone.
The laughter was gone, replaced by shouts and screams.
Some of the people bolted for the door as if they could flee what was already happening to them. However, as they crashed against the double doors they rebounded. Someone had looped a heavy chain through the wrought-iron handles set in the big wooden doors. The rear door was blocked by a Jeep that had been backed up against it. No one was getting out. Bloody fists pounded on the doors.
When the two jocks from UT grabbed a table and tried to heft i
t through a window, the rabbi drew a pistol and shot them both. The priest took a Glock from under his vestments and began firing indiscriminately into the crowd.
The priest and the rabbi were both bleeding from every orifice, every pore. They used their last two bullets on themselves, tucking the hot barrels under their chins and blowing off the tops of their heads.
Dying patrons collapsed slowly onto the floor as their tissues melted and ruptured. Blood boiled out through their pores. They vomited it onto one another, onto the floor, onto themselves.
In the distance the first sirens wailed, but no one in the tavern could hear them. And never would.
In all the panic, no one noticed the small boxes affixed to the walls, high up near the ceiling. The devices had been planted in the middle of the night and were hidden among decorations and beer posters. Six tiny red eyes watched the death below. The video feed from the cameras was compiled into a single streaming signal, at the bottom of which was a continuous text crawl. It read: Quick onset Bundibugyo ebolavirus suspended in distilled water. Bidding starts at fifty million.
Chapter Sixty-four
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, New York
Sunday, August 31, 3:03 p.m.
“Boss,” said Bug from the view screen, “I think I have something.”
Church had a phone to his ear and others lighting up on his desk. Into the phone he said, “Excuse me for a moment, Mr. President.” He muted the call. “What is it?”
“The forensics team just called. They’ve been collecting evidence at the apartments of two of the shooters from the cyber café. At both locations they found portable game consoles. Like Gameboys, but off-market stuff. A runner just brought them in to me. They’re loaded with games, and—”
“Cut to it, Bug,” snapped Church. “What have you found?”
“The most recent game played is Burn to Shine. It’s a massive program and heavily password-protected. Here’s the kicker, though. MindReader is having trouble hacking it.”
“Keep on it and keep me posted.”
“No, listen, boss, this is scaring the crap out of me.”
“Why?”
“The reason MindReader is having trouble cracking it is because it’s fighting back exactly the way MindReader would. I think Mother Night has our technology.”
Chapter Sixty-five
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, New York
Sunday, August 31, 3:04 p.m.
We reached the Hangar without incident. Bunny, Ivan, and Noah were already there; the others would arrive soon. Ghost was there and he let out a series of furious barks as he came bounding over to me. I couldn’t tell whether the barks were because he was happy to see me or to scold me for leaving him behind. I didn’t care, either. I dropped to my knees and gathered the fur monster into my arms. He licked my face with enough enthusiasm to remove a layer of skin. Then he began nosing at my pockets, but I was wearing borrowed clothes.
Brick came to my rescue. He was almost as big as Bunny and looked like the actor Ving Rhames except for some shrapnel scars on his face and a high-tech artificial leg. He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet then gave me an up-and-down appraisal. “Damn, son, normally a guy has to get mugged in an alley to look as bad as you.”
“Getting mugged would be a step up for my day, Gunny.”
“Yeah, so I hear.” He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to loosen some fillings. “The big man is in the big conference room.”
“We anywhere yet?”
“We are exactly between a rock and a hard place.”
“Ain’t that just fucking peachy?” I grumbled.
I left Montana with my team and headed to the conference rooms, which were on the next level down. On the way I got a phone call and stepped into an alcove to take it. Junie.
“Hey, beautiful,” I said. “We have to make this fast.”
“Are you okay?”
“Define okay.”
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
I had cuts and scrapes all over my body from the flying glass at the Surf Shop, and I had a gaping wound in my soul from the subway. “Nothing a couple of Band-Aids and a change of career wouldn’t fix.”
“Oh, Joe,” she said, breathing it out with a lot of pent-up frustration and concern. There was an old saying about how the people who sit at home and wait are also serving. But it goes deeper than that. They’re also taking fire in their own way, and they’re being injured as surely as if shrapnel pierced their flesh. It is a phenomenon as old as war and as horrible as all the pain in the world. Nothing that I could say could make it right because “right” had so little to do with my world.
“I will come home to you,” I told her. And I meant it.
“You have to.”
“I will,” I swore. “In the meantime, I have a couple waiting in the lobby at FreeTech. Things are getting really weird, so I want you to go with them back to your hotel. Stay there until this is over.”
“Violin’s here. I’m quite safe—”
“Please,” I said.
She said, “Yes. Okay.” A reluctant acquiescence, but enough to keep me from having a heart attack. We hung up a few seconds later and I stood there for a bit, allowing myself to dwell in the oasis of understanding that came from knowing there is a world beyond the one in which I generally traveled. There were clearer skies out there somewhere, and suns that did not shine on spent bullet casings and spilled blood.
I leaned back against the wall, looked up at the ceiling as if I could see those unpolluted skies.
“Junie,” I said.
Like a talisman.
Like a lifeline.
And then I pushed off the wall and went to find Church.
Chapter Sixty-six
Across America
Sunday, August 31, 3:17 p.m.
Passage to India Restaurant, San Antonio
Donald Crisp sat across a food-laden table from Amanda Shockley and wondered if he was going to get anything this afternoon. A kiss? Sure, she kissed him every time they went out for food. Once she even let him get a little grabby. But when he tried to go from outside her tight-fitting blouse to under it, the flag went down on the play. Five times now he’d dropped serious cash on her and so far he’d gotten tongue action and maybe felt a nipple under her padded bra, but wasn’t sure.
He was losing confidence in his own charm.
Back in high school it was different. He was always smooth and had that brooding man-of-mystery thing because he was the new kid in town. He milked that for a lot of ass. Even got a BJ from a teaching assistant, and for a while that was a personal highlight. In college, ass was easy. There was a lot of it and everyone seemed to want to prove that they were consenting adults—emphasis on the adult part, so they consented a whole damn lot.
After college, though, it all slowed down. He went into insurance and discovered that there was nothing less sexy than insurance. There were no stud insurance reps. Stud real estate guys, sure; Donald’s best friend, Chico, sold condos and got more ass than a public toilet. It drove Donald nuts.
When he did score, he had to work for it.
Like with Amanda. She was a junior account executive. Half Swedish and half something else that gave her a permanent tan, black hair streaked with brown, and a body that would not let him have a moment’s peace. The ass-kicker was that she didn’t seem to give much of a hot shit that she was built. She dressed in expensive clothes, but the stuff she chose made her look like an upscale librarian. On the hot side of dowdy. Never anything low-cut, but she did like things tight.
Over the last few weeks, Donald had asked Amanda out for dinner, drinks, and music, followed by a romantic stroll along the River Walk and then …
And then it was some kissing, a little touch, and he was watching her walk to her doorway while he sat in the car with a restless trouser lobster.
Today, maybe, things would go a
different way.
Today, maybe, he’d get to explore the undiscovered country of Amanda Shockley’s upper torso, sans blouse and Wonder Bra.
They’d worked their way through a spicy samosa and into chicken tikka masala, with naan and a bottle of really expensive wine. He sprang for a bottle of Gewürztraminer, a dry aromatic wine with a tangerine and white peach nose, and lychee flavor. Donald knew his wines and this one was perfect for Indian food. He pretended not to see how much the fucking restaurant charged for it, though, almost three times what he would have paid at a liquor store, but if it loosened some of those buttons and undid the hooks on her bra, then it was worth it.
“Let me fill your glass,” he said, smiling what he knew was his best smile, the one that got him so much ass in high school.
“Just half a glass,” said Amanda. “I’m already feeling it.”
He poured her a full glass.
They smiled as they clinked and her eyes met his in what Donald was absolutely sure was “the moment.” That point of connection when the internal conversation switches from trivialities to okay-let’s-do-this. Her smile changed, too. He’d seen that before, too. The lips relaxed in some indefinable way, becoming softer, fuller, less defensive and more inviting.
I’m so getting laid today, he thought.
And then her eyes slid away and looked past him. Too soon, too soon, he thought.
Her expression immediately changed again. Soft mouth parting into an O of surprise, eyes clouding with confusion, a narrow vertical line forming between her brows.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quickly, beginning to turn, beginning to look.
He heard it before he saw it.
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