“Is Dr. Bennett still working in the subway tunnels?”
“Sure thing. Been down here for almost twenty years.”
“Get him.”
Fooz disappeared into the shadows. McCall got a compress of water and wiped it over Control’s forehead. He was sweating and feverish. In another twenty minutes Fooz was back with Dr. Bennett, who still wore the same rumpled gray suit and carried his old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
Without a word Dr. Bennett took Control’s pulse and listened to his chest with his stethoscope. “This man’s breathing is shallow and there are dark bruises and lacerations on his arms. You didn’t do this to him, did you, Mr. McCall?”
“No. This is how I found him.”
“Your friend has been given sedatives, benzodiazepines. Probably clonazepam, too. It’s a wonder his heart hasn’t given up on him. My son works at the ER at the New York–Presbyterian in Washington Heights. I can take you there.”
“I have to leave him here.”
“You do what you have to do,” Dr. Bennett snapped. “If his fever spikes to 104 to 107 Fahrenheit, or what we call hyperpyrexia, call me. Otherwise, don’t bother.”
Dr. Bennett, who reminded McCall of the crotchety Doc Adams character in that western series Gunsmoke, left a bottle of Tylenol, nodded brusquely to Fooz, and strode out.
“He ain’t much for a bedside manner,” Fooz murmured.
“Can you get to a phone when you have to?”
“Oh, sure, that gal Alicia from Braker’s Territory, foxy and tough? She lets me use an unlisted number she’s got in case of emergencies.”
“If he awakens, call me.”
“You know I got your back, Mr. McCall.”
McCall walked out. He knew a postmortem would be going on at the house in the Virginia woods. Matthew Goddard would be searching all of the known Company safe houses in Washington, DC, Philadelphia, Boston, and New York.
But McCall didn’t think anyone would be looking for Control in a Sherlock Holmesian subway-tunnel home beneath the Manhattan streets.
* * *
Norman Rosemont walked into his corporate offices to find sixty messages waiting for him, all marked urgent. His assistant, Mark, was trying to prioritize them, remarking to his coworkers that his boss’s attitude to their current dilemma seemed to be ambivalent. Rosemont had more important matters to attend to. He had met two city health inspectors at the apartment building at 4:00 p.m., and right away he knew it was a waste of time. First he took them down to the basement. The furnace had only been patched up and was in need of a complete overhaul. The super for the building finally made an appearance and didn’t know anything about any health hazards. Rosemont took the inspectors to Mavis and Elliott Weinberger’s apartment and showed them the black mold under the sink in the kitchen and bathroom. He took the inspectors to Linda Hathaway’s apartment, where she brought Gemma out into the corridor and showed them the rat bites on her arms and legs. Rosemont took them up to his own apartment in 4B to show them the black mold there and told them there was more of it in 4A. The inspectors made notes and said they would be in touch with the owner of the building, which was Rosemont, but no one knew that. Then they left.
Rosemont was seething. He was sure they’d been bought off. So he decided to generate a petition signed by all of the tenants in the building. He didn’t bother with the super’s signature, but started on the ground floor at the other apartment there, which was occupied by Jesse Driscoll. The NYU student was happy to sign a petition that delineated all of the health concerns in the building, but he didn’t think it would do any good. Rosemont hustled up the stairs to the second floor and got Linda Hathaway to sign the petition. He wanted to write her a check to ease his own conscience about her daughter’s rat bites, but how would he even broach the subject? Across the hall Rosemont knocked on apartment 2A, where he met Connie’s husband, Donald, who was holding Mr. Toast as if he wanted to strangle him. Connie signed the petition and sang Rosemont a chorus from Promises, Promises before he could escape. On the third floor, Mavis and Elliott Weinberger welcomed him in for tea. They both signed the petition, and as he left, Mavis said that Anderson Cooper was sharp as a tack, but wasn’t he gay? Apartment 3A was vacant. Rosemont climbed up to the fourth floor and knocked on Sam Kinney’s apartment. There was no answer. On an impulse, Rosemont climbed the stairs to the roof, which he noted were wood. He pushed through the fire door and found Sam sitting on the roof on a folding canvas chair, smoking a cigar. Rosemont found another canvas chair and sat down beside him.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Sure. I try to come up here when it’s just after twilight, smoke a good cigar, just by myself. There’s no smoking in the building, except I think Donald Hewitt in 2A is a secret smoker, but in this building the air itself will asphyxiate you. What have you got there?”
Rosemont showed him the petition. “I got all of the tenants to sign this. You’re the last signature, except for that fat fuck of a super.”
“He’s not such a bad guy. Our Broadway chorus girl, Connie, says Miguel sends every cent he makes home to his family in Chile. They escaped that big quake a couple of years ago in Iquique. Maybe we should cut him a little slack.”
“Why should we? He doesn’t care that old Mrs. Weinberger’s lungs are as black as coal dust or that Linda Hathaway’s daughter was gnawed by rats. I’m going to deliver this petition to the New York health department tomorrow, and I’m not leaving until I get these health concerns dealt with. I’ve got clout there.”
Sam didn’t doubt it. “I’m glad you’ve had the chance to get to know your neighbors. They’re nice folks.” Sam signed the petition, put out the cigar in an astray on the folding table, and stood. “I’m going to turn in. I got to be at work at six in the morning.”
“I met your son yesterday. He was coming out of your apartment.”
“Oh, sure, he comes by now and then,” Sam said, not missing a beat.
“He seemed like a nice guy.”
They disappeared down the stairs to the fourth floor of the building.
* * *
The Equalizer stepped out of the shadows on the roof. He wasn’t too worried about being called Sam Kinney’s son. The old fart that Sam was talking to didn’t know the Equalizer wasn’t. He now knew Sam Kinney’s routine. Tomorrow night he would put his plan into motion.
And Robert McCall would lose his only friend in the world.
* * *
Mickey Kostmayer had been expecting the prisoners’ rebellion. They’d been whispering about it for weeks. None of the prisoners or guards had any idea that Kostmayer spoke Korean. The roads they were assigned to clearing had large rocks and massive tree limbs blocking them. It had been so bad that the North Korean guards had unshackled the prisoners so they could clear one stretch of impassable road. The guards carried Type 63 SKS rifles and were vigilant, but tedium and boredom had set in. The murmur among the prisoners had reached a fever pitch, and a moment later they charged their guards. The guards opened fire but were unprepared for the onslaught. Half of the rebelling prisoners were cut down, but the other half tore into their captors. The fighting was fierce and vicious. Too many atrocities had to be answered.
Kostmayer escaped into the dense forest bordering the road. He stumbled down a steep ravine until he came to a fast-flowing stream. Bullets erupted into the water, and Kostmayer went under. More bullets zipped inches from his face as he swam deeper. He didn’t know how many of the North Korean guards had come after him. Probably only one or two. They had their hands full quelling the rebellion.
Kostmayer came up for air about a quarter mile downstream. He turned and saw one of the North Korean guards running along the stream toward him. Kostmayer submerged again. The soldier reached the edge of the stream, firing down randomly.
He was looking the wrong way.
Kostmayer came out of the water and grabbed the guard’s foot, upending him into the stream. His SKS rifle skittered down the bank. Kos
tmayer grabbed the guard’s lapels. He hit him using the ancient art of Arakan, striking with the bottom of a clenched fist, resembling swinging a hammer. The guard was stunned. Then Kostmayer put his arms around the guard’s throat and held him underwater. A few seconds later the guard went limp. Kostmayer dragged him onto the mossy bank. The woods were thick and shielded them from surveillance. Kostmayer changed clothes with the guard, loaded his pockets with rocks, then dropped him back into the stream and saw him disappear from sight.
The North Korean’s uniform hung loosely on Kostmayer, but it was better than the gray jumpsuits he’d been wearing for weeks. He followed the stream until it emerged from the dense woods at the Yalu River. He was at the Chinese border. He could see Dandong across the Sino-Korean Friendship Bridge. He could try to cross on the bridge, but the border crossing would be tricky. Instead he slipped into the river and swam to one of the many islands between the two waterfronts. He made it to a no-man’s-land where there was nothing but a ten-foot fence. Granny had said that the border on either side of the Yula River was porous at best. He thought about Granny. Two of Kostmayer’s fellow prisoners had talked about a mass grave dug in the swamp about two miles from the prison camp. Their description of a white man with butter-colored hair had been chilling. Kostmayer had other evidence that Granny had been killed, little snippets of information he had gleaned from some of the guards’ conversations. Granny would have told him to keep focused on getting out.
Kostmayer swam from the island to the waterfront. From there he made it to a road. A truck stopped for him. The driver made no mention that he was dripping wet. Kostmayer explained in Cantonese that he had a special pass to visit his grandmother in Beijing. When he was dropped off in Dandong, he made his way to Zhenba Street and got on a train to Shenyang, from where he would go on to Beijing. He’d stolen a wallet in the train station so he would have some money. Once in Beijing, he would ditch the North Korean uniform, get some clothes, and contact the local Company man there, an American expatriate named Jensen. He would get Kostmayer a passport and onto a Cathay Pacific flight to New York City.
Kostmayer waited for the Beijing train. He and the other mercenaries had liberated over a hundred souls from the prison camp, but in his mind, Kostmayer had failed in his mission.
He had left Granny behind.
CHAPTER 37
Their lovemaking was more erotic than he remembered it ever being. As usual, Beth was the aggressor, raking her fingernails down his back until they drew blood. She wanted him to slap her. Then she was on him like a lioness until he turned her onto her stomach to enter her from behind. But she had a surprise for him. She reached under her pillow and pulled out a silken noose. Cross pressed his knee into the small of her back and slipped the noose around her throat. He applied pressure, choking her. She clutched at the noose, crying out, the sexual energy flowing through her. He brought her to a climax twice; each time after totally restricting her airways, bringing her to the moment of asphyxiation, he then loosened the noose. Cross knew when the carotid arteries were compressed, the sudden loss of oxygen to the brain and the accumulation of carbon dioxide produced feelings of giddiness and intense sexual arousal, which heightened the masturbatory sensations. It sent Beth into a semihallucinogenic state called hypoxia. Cross didn’t encourage this dangerous sexual practice. Beth urged him to do it one more time, but he had had enough. He threw the silken noose onto the floor and entered her. She took handfuls of his hair and curled them into her fingers until she almost pulled them out. Both of them climaxed. Beth screamed so loudly that Cross worried it might’ve awakened Lisa and David. He listened, but he didn’t hear running footfalls to the bedroom door. Beth whispered the sexual release had been exquisite.
Cross got up from the bed. It had been different when he’d strangled Ann Crosby. That had been cold-blooded and premeditated. With Beth he had to be careful that her sexual fantasies didn’t go too far. He went into the bathroom and showered. When he reemerged into the darkened bedroom, Beth was sobbing uncontrollably. He didn’t go to her. He just closed the door behind him.
Cross padded down the staircase. His suitcase was already waiting in the hallway. He poured himself a cup of coffee, buttered some toast and added honey, then walked into the living room. He picked up a framed photograph of the family at the Georgia Aquarium. Beth had been fascinated by the gentle whale sharks, only four of them in captivity in North America. Lisa had fallen in love with the dolphins, and David had been obsessed with the albino alligators.
He stared at the picture and knew that he had no feelings for his family.
He despised them.
He had seen too much suffering since his time with Doctors Without Borders. Innocents who could not be cured. Old people without a tooth in their head and children with all kinds of diseases. He had realized as a young doctor that he couldn’t save them all. By the time he had reached his late thirties, he knew they were beyond saving. So was the human race. He knew that was the ultimate nihilistic response. But unlike his Jihadist brothers, who worshipped, as far as he was concerned, a vengeful God, Cross believed existence had no point at all. Love or caring had no objective meaning; no comprehensible truth was to be found in human contact. Human beings were worthless entities.
Life had no truth to search for.
The Jihadists called the United States the Far Enemy, but there were no enemies. There was only apathy and indifference to pain and suffering. Americans were shallow, hypocritical, and petty, and Cross had no problem sacrificing as many of them as possible. His fellow terrorists—it occurred to him that he would soon also be called a terrorist—thought of themselves as having a divine purpose. They didn’t.
Cross would kill a great many innocent people.
And it would all be meaningless.
He finished the toast and coffee and went into the garage. He retrieved his Medicool vial cooler and protection case from the refrigerator and transferred them into the trunk of his BMW. They had Doctors Without Borders FRAGILE stickers on them, and he carried paperwork from the CDC authorizing him to carry the vials. It would take him over fifteen hours to make the journey from Atlanta to Boerne, Texas. He had vacation time from Emory University. His superiors knew he was working on a vaccine to combat Ebola, and they were excited about the “breakthrough” he was close to. Cross had flirted with the idea of taking a plane from Atlanta to San Antonio, but that would have meant checking his luggage at the airport, and luggage could be lost. His vials were too important to leave to some baggage handler to screw up.
Cross raised the garage door, backed out into the driveway, and got out of the car. He looked up at the second floor. Beth was standing in their bedroom window stark naked, looking down at him.
Giving the neighbors an early-morning thrill, he thought ironically.
She waved down to him, then retreated from the window as if suddenly realizing she made a pretty provocative figure. Cross looked up at the sky. Dawn was spreading orange fingers across the suburban houses. He got back into his BMW, turned around, and headed for Texas.
He knew he’d never see his wife or his children again.
* * *
McCall told the security officer at the gates of Arlington National Cemetery his name, which was on a list, and parked outside the beautiful administration building. He noted the flags were all flown at half-staff, beginning half an hour from the first service. The funeral for Josh Coleman wasn’t until 11:00 a.m., but McCall took some time to walk through the rows of the white grave markers, many of them adorned with wreaths and fresh flowers. In Section 1 he found the grave of Captain Edward P. Doherty, who had captured President Lincoln’s assassin. In Section 2 he found the grave of Major Lieutenant George Crook, who had captured Geronimo. In Section 3 he found the grave of Lieutenant Colonel F. Benteen, who was Custer’s subordinate at Little Bighorn. Nearby were the markers of Lieutenant Commander Robert B. Chaffee and Lieutenant Colonel Virgil I. Grissom, the Apollo astronauts who’d been kille
d in the flash fire in the Saturn IB rocket at Cape Kennedy on January 27, 1967. McCall visited the grave of Lieutenant John F. Kennedy, PT boat commander during World War II, where the eternal flame had been ignited by Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy at the center of a five-foot-circular flat granite stone. McCall recalled President Kennedy’s speech on Armistice Day, November 11, 1961, twelve days before his assassination, when he had said, “Man’s capacity to devise new ways of killing his fellow men have far outstripped his capacity to live in peace with his fellow men.”
McCall walked over to the Tomb of the Unknowns, which was up on a hill. He knew the tomb had been perpetually guarded since July 1937 by the Third US Infantry Regiment. McCall watched as the guard on duty took twenty-one steps down the black mat behind the tomb. He turned and faced east for twenty-one seconds, then turned and faced north for twenty-one seconds. Then he took twenty-one steps down the mat. He executed a sharp “shoulder-arms” movement to place his rifle on the shoulder closer to visitors to signify that he was standing between the tomb and any possible threat.
Somehow it was a stirring sight.
McCall made his way through the stark white markers to some trees near the site for Captain Josh Coleman’s grave. Mourners were already waiting for the funeral procession to arrive. There were also about thirty Army-band members, a firing squad comprising of a senior NCO officer and seven shooters, two buglers, a bunch of dignitaries, and a chaplain. McCall spotted a two-star general among the mourners. He also noted a good-looking gray-haired officer who he thought might be Colonel Michael G. Ralston, known to all as Gunner.
A man brushed past McCall. He looked up and said politely, “Pardon me.” He was a little taller than McCall, probably in his late thirties with brown hair with an athlete’s grace and power. He walked through the white markers to where the mourners were waiting.
Killed in Action Page 28
