Legion

by Robert Swartwood

  For the longest time Eli made no reaction. Then his expression shifted and he smiled distantly.

  “It’s true. I was a shitty father. Not just to Melissa, but to all the kids.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, scanning the parking garage again. “I had my reasons. Marta and I both did.”

  “Who’s Marta?”

  “Melissa’s mother.”

  “No, it’s not. Melissa’s mother’s name is—”

  “Janice,” Eli said with a nod. “Yes, that was the name she took, just as Frank was the name I took.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere, does it?”

  Eli almost laughed. “Good point. But I don’t know how much longer we can wait here. We have to acknowledge the fact John might not come.”

  “How much longer can we wait?”

  They had been waiting for nearly an hour already, which didn’t count the two hours it had taken them to leave the city.

  “Not sure,” Eli said. “The only reason we’re still here is because Charlie and John didn’t know about me stashing the car. I only did it just in case.”

  “Were Charlie and John those guys from the Tahoe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were they?”

  “For better or worse, they were mercenaries.”

  “That’s why they turned on you so quickly?”

  Eli nodded again. “They work for the highest bidder, no matter the cause. And these people I’m up against, they have more money than God.”

  Ashley went to ask something else when Eli suddenly went tense. His eyes narrowed. She followed his gaze and saw someone out in the parking garage, maybe one hundred yards away, a dark figure moving slowly past the cars.

  “Do you think that’s him?”

  Eli didn’t answer. Earlier, when they had come to the car, he had popped the trunk. Inside were two duffel bags. Out of one he had extracted a black handgun. He had been gripping the handgun the entire time they were waiting in the car. Now he briefly set it on his lap so he could use his hand to reach up and flick off the switch by the dome light. Gripping the gun again, he used his other hand to quietly unlatch the door and push it open.

  Up ahead, the figure approached them. It was still too dark to be sure it was John, but Ashley had hope. She hoped it was John because that meant they could finally leave here. She hoped it was John so that all these questions could start to be answered.

  Eli slowly stepped out of the car, keeping crouched behind the door. He kept the gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger.

  When the figure was only fifty yards away, he said, “John.”

  The figure stopped immediately. It turned toward them, and as it did, it reached into its jacket and brought out a gun.

  “Shit.”

  Eli dropped in the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and turned the key in the ignition. He shoved the car into drive, slammed on the gas.

  The Crown Vic’s engine roared.

  They jerked forward, speeding toward the approaching figure who was now raising the gun.

  Eli turned on the headlights—and immediately slammed on the brakes.

  The Crown Vic stopped just within a foot or two of John Smith.

  Eli lowered his window. “Get in!”

  John hurried to the passenger side back door. He slid into the seat and said, breathless, “What the fuck was that?”

  “I thought you might be one of them.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “Off a cop.”

  Eli’s expression darkened.

  “It’s okay,” John said. “The cop wasn’t using it. He was already dead.”

  Both Eli and Ashley stared at him.

  He shrugged, exhaled a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

  Eli put the car back in drive and got them moving forward again. “Something tells me tonight will be full of long stories.”

  John settled back in his seat. He looked at Ashley. “How are you holding up?”

  Now it was her turn to shrug. “As well as to be expected under the circumstances, I guess. At least I’m still alive.”

  John forced a smile. “That makes two of us. Hey, Eli?”

  Eli lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “What?”

  “Where are we headed now?”

  “North.”

  thirty-one

  Zach flashed his badge at the detective standing near the police cruiser. “Agent Gibbons. How are you tonight?”

  “Not so good,” the detective said. “As you can see, this has turned into one hell of a mess.”

  Zach nodded thoughtfully, surveying the crime scene and the bodies—the two dead cops on this side of the street, the civilian on the other side, the civilian in the Jaguar.

  “So what brings the FBI here tonight?”

  “Nothing,” Zach said. “I happened to be in the area, heard what happened, decided to swing by to see if you needed any help.”

  This wasn’t at all standard procedure from a Fed, but Zach was banking on the fact this Hoboken detective didn’t know any better. And if he did, so what? There wasn’t a rule against federal agents offering their assistance in a bloodbath like this, even fake federal agents like Zach.

  “Appreciate the offer,” the detective said, “but we’ve got pretty much everything nailed down here as it is.”

  “What happened anyway? All I heard was there were four fatalities, two of which were your own.”

  The detective blew out a breath. “Like I said, it’s one big mess. Witnesses claim our guys approached the Jag. Next thing they knew, one of our guys took a shot at our other guy, then started firing off into the crowd. Killed the woman over there, wounded two others. Looks like he used his flashlight to break the driver’s nose, then a butterfly knife to stab him in the throat. The driver bled out immediately.” The detective shook his head again, this time with disgust. “Fucking insane, right? I even knew both of these guys. They were good cops. I can’t believe Boyle would do something like this.”

  “Boyle the lead patrolman?”

  “Yeah, he’s the one—Steve Boyle. Christ, he has a wife and two-year-old at home. Neil has a wife and two daughters. This is going to kill them.”

  Zach glanced back at the cruiser. “Anyone check the dash cam?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So was the driver alone?”

  “Doesn’t appear to be. Witnesses say the passenger fled on foot. He headed west, but nobody saw where he went.”

  “Did you get a description?”

  “Caucasian, late twenties to early thirties, shaved head. That’s about the extent of it. Basically bupkis.”

  “Who took the shooter down?”

  The detective’s expression darkened by Zach’s use of the term “shooter,” the cop no doubt dreading the twenty-four-hour news cycle and how they were going to spin this latest tasty bit of sensationalism. But the detective, either because he was a professional or because he didn’t want to deal with it right now, shook the expression off.

  “Civilian, actually. Guy across the street in the pizza shop, keeps a Beretta with him wherever he goes. Has a permit and everything. Just another happy citizen expressing his Second Amendment rights.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Down at the station. From what it seems, the man was justified in what he did, but still, he killed a cop. It’ll be a while before it all gets sorted out.”

  Someone shouted a name, and the detective turned away from Zach. An officer was waving him over.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” the detective said, “but I have to go.”

  He didn’t wait for a response from Zach, and Zach didn’t offer one. He was ready to get out of there. He had come for what he needed. He wished he could somehow access the dash cam video, make it disappear. Who knows, maybe Tyson might be able to hand
le that on his end. The last thing they needed was a solid description of John Smith hitting the airwaves before they managed to track him down first.

  He ducked under the crime scene tape as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Tyson.

  “How bad is it?” Tyson asked.

  Zach headed for his car—not the one he had smashed up, but a new sedan. “Pretty fucking bad. What did you tell Boyle?”

  “Just gave him the description of Smith’s roommate’s car and told him to keep it in sight.”

  “That’s it?”

  Tyson was silent for a beat. “Also Smith’s full name and that we were tracking him to get to his father.”

  Zach slipped in behind the wheel, gritting his teeth. “You stupid shit.”

  “Hey, I felt the situation warranted the extra intel. What if Smith had made contact with Eli? Boyle needed to know.”

  “Yeah, well, Boyle’s now dead, along with three other people, including Smith’s roommate. Any luck tracking Smith?”

  “Nothing on the traffic cams.”

  “Keep looking.”

  “I am. Oh, by the way, we now know who the girl is.”

  “And?”

  Tyson said nothing.

  Zach started the car, the silence on the other end unnerving. “And?” he repeated.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  “Say that again?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Tyson—”

  The call disconnected.

  Zach held the phone away from his ear for a moment, wanting to smash the thing into a thousand pieces. He took a deep breath, counted to ten in his head, then went to dial Tyson again. Instead, the phone vibrated.

  “Tyson, what the fuck—”

  “Zach, listen carefully.”

  It wasn’t Tyson.

  Zach swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah?”

  “You and I need to meet for coffee.”

  “I’m a little busy right now.”

  “Our usual place. Be there in two hours.”

  Before Zach could say anything else, the line went dead.

  thirty-two

  Eli doesn’t take any major highways. Instead he sticks to secondary routes, constantly watching the rearview mirror. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t play the radio. It’s so quiet in the car I want to break something, but instead I just sit in the back and stare out my window at the scrolling scenery of houses and businesses and lights and think about the blood first squirting out of Duncan’s nose and then his neck.

  It’s my fault. Duncan’s dead now because of me. Yes, it’s true, I didn’t kill him myself, but it was because of me that he got involved in this whole mess. If I hadn’t called him he would still be at the apartment, stationed on the couch playing a video games. Either that or watching some foreign flick on Netflix, some poorly dubbed ninja assassin thing. In a couple hours he would take a shower, style his hair, dab on cologne, get dressed in his stonewashed jeans and designer shirt and nice shoes, and then head out to some bar or club and flirt with the pretty girls and eventually hook up with one of them and either go back to her place or come back to the apartment and they would have a good time and then, in the morning, they would part ways and Duncan would crash until about noon when he would wake up and eat some junk food, picking up where he left off the previous morning.

  Only Duncan will never do any of that ever again.

  He’s dead—dead—and it’s all my fault.

  Or no—it’s my father’s fault.

  Eli, who was never around when I was growing up. Eli, who I had always known as Frank Smith. Eli, who was supposed to be dead, having shot himself in the head, only to suddenly become resurrected as a person who death follows in his wake.

  Yes, it’s Eli’s fault that Duncan is now dead, Duncan and everyone else who’s died today. Even Melissa and her husband and their boys—their deaths must somehow tie back to Eli, too.

  It makes sense, this line of thinking, but I also know I’m kidding myself.

  I’m the one who called Duncan. I’m the one who directed him over the bridge into New Jersey, then down that side street. Yes, it’s safe to assume we were being tracked from the beginning. If the cops hadn’t approached us then, they would have approached us at some point—and if not the cops, then maybe one of those businessmen with the briefcases filled with lethal syringes.

  Finally the silence drives me mad. It’s only been, what, ten or twenty minutes, but it feels like an hour.

  “Where are we going?”

  Eli doesn’t answer. He glances at me in the rearview mirror, only I realize a second later he’s looking past me, out through the rear window.

  Impulsively I follow his gaze. There are a few cars back there, but nothing that gives me a chill. Certainly no sedans with stone-cold killers bent on tracking us down and killing us.

  Turning back, I ask, “Well?”

  Still he doesn’t answer. I can see Ashley looking at him, no doubt wondering the very same thing.

  “I have to take a shit.”

  This time Eli does look at me in the mirror. “Are you serious?”

  Remembering then that I’m in the presence of a lady, I quickly backpedal. “Well, no. And apologies for sounding like a broken record, but where are we going? What’s going on?”

  Eli stares at me for another moment in the mirror. It’s only for a moment, so it’s hard to tell what’s behind the stare—disappointment, boredom, indifference—but then he flicks it away and shakes his head.

  “We’ll be there soon.”

  “Where?”

  But my father says nothing and just keeps driving.

  • • •

  We end up taking the Tappan Zee Bridge back into New York. Eli still doesn’t speak, but I can immediately sense a shift in his mood. His whole body goes tense. His fingers, already tight around the steering wheel, tighten even more. I’m not a specialist in subterfuge like he apparently is, but the meaning is clear enough.

  So far it seems we haven’t been followed. True, we’ve mostly stayed on secondary roads, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t cameras everywhere. It’s strange—for most of your life you know cameras are ubiquitous (the mall, the bank, the grocery store, even major intersections) and you don’t give more than a passing thought to their existence. Then, when you understand bad people are using those cameras to track your every movement, you become more conscious to the fact that those cameras are everywhere. And they’re even more plentiful at a bridge like the Tappan Zee.

  Traffic isn’t too bad at this time of night. Mostly everyone is using the E-Z Pass lanes anyway. A few others, like us, wait for the cash lanes.

  “Give me the hat.”

  Eli doesn’t look at me but holds up his hand, extended toward the backseat.

  Dumbly, I touch my head, confirming the fact I’m not wearing a hat. “What hat?”

  “The hat on the floor.”

  Ah, there it is—a New York Giants baseball cap. I hand it to him and he fastens it on his head and pulls the car ahead as the line progresses. Soon we reach the tollbooth.

  We get lucky. The employee manning the booth is a younger guy, about my age, who looks like he doesn’t give a shit. He’s probably worked for a couple of hours straight and just wants to go home. Or maybe he just started his shift and can’t wait for it to end. Either way, he barely even glances at us when he takes Eli’s money.

  So yeah, we’re lucky in that respect. But that doesn’t mean the people hunting us aren’t watching us right now from the cameras situated around the tollbooths. That doesn’t mean they’re not already waiting on the other side of the bridge. That doesn’t mean—and here my thinking goes complete Hollywood—they don’t have an Apache helicopter waiting under the bridge to rise up as we reach the middle and blast us into a million little pieces.

  Eli moves us forward. He keeps the hat on his head. He doesn’t speak. None of us do.

  I lean back and stare out my window
at the moon rising behind the clouds.

  • • •

  About five miles after the bridge, Eli turns off at a truck stop. He drives to the far corner where a few cars are parked. He stops the car beside an old Buick. Without a word or even a glance our way, he cuts the ignition and opens his door and steps out.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “I guess that means we should get out, too?”

  Ashley doesn’t answer me either. Seriously, it’s like I’m not even here. She opens her door and steps out. Not to be outdone, I open my own door and step out, too.

  The night has certainly helped the temperature drop. Ashley crosses her arms and hugs her elbows. Eli is already at the back of the car, popping the trunk.

  There are two black duffel bags in the trunk. He has one open, rummaging through it. Finally he pulls out a gold-plated lighter, very similar to the one the faux-businessman used to start the fire back at the Basement.

  “You smoke?”

  I shake my head.

  He considers this for a moment, then hands me the lighter. “Do me a favor and just hold on to this for now.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my lucky lighter. I want you to have it.”

  It’s such a strange request, I’m not sure what to say. I can’t remember the last time my father gave me anything.

  As I slip the lighter in my pocket, Eli moves toward the Buick beside us. He looks casually around the parking lot, then ducks down and reaches underneath the rear fender. A few seconds later he springs back up with a key, which he uses to pop the Buick’s trunk.

  “Can you bring those over here?”

  I heft first one bag, then the other, both of them weighing maybe fifty pounds each. “What do you got in these?”

  “Supplies.”

  “Like what?”

  “Guns. Ammunition. Explosives.”

  I pause halfway to the Buick, the two bags all at once feeling like they weigh twenty times more. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He doesn’t answer. His face doesn’t betray a thing.