Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  Well, wounded, yes, but not alone…

  No. No. Art repeated it again, over an over in his head, telling himself that there was no way, absolutely no way he could…

  Then you die. And he…

  Art looked to Simon, who had let his hands come away from his ears and was blinking and twisting, his body rocking where he sat on his knees, blood dotting one side of his face. Art’s blood.

  Oh, God, why?

  Do it! Now! Before it’s too late!

  “Simon,” Art said, grimacing as he pushed with his feet until his back was against the wall. He let his weapon slide out of his hand and to the floor. “Simon. Can you hear me?”

  “Simon hears Art. My friend, Art. There’s a loud noise.”

  Art nodded. “Simon, I want you to do something for me. All right?”

  “For my friend Art.”

  “Simon…” Forgive me. Please. “…take out your cards.”

  * * *

  “So,” Angelo Breem said, then cleared his throat, all the while Anne’s gaze crossing the distance over the U.S. Attorney’s desk to peck at his frightened eyes whenever they chanced contact with hers. “We are extremely sorry for what has happened. But, you have to understand, this was an orchestrated ploy. We were as much victims of it as you and your husband.”

  If her jaw had been removable it would have detached itself and taken the elevator to the lobby. Was he really saying this? Was this an apology? Did he learn tact from some Nazi?

  “So…you are free.”

  Lomax, standing behind Anne, could only shake his head. “Breem, you are one smooth fellow.”

  “Pardon?” Breem said.

  Anne slowly stood from her chair, still wearing the smock from her time in detention. “What are you doing about Art?”

  “Well…”

  The door to Breem’s office opened, and Janice Powach poked her head in. “Agent Lomax. Call for you out here. Urgent.”

  “Be right back,” Lomax said, and left the office to take the call. “Lomax here.”

  “Sir, it’s Nels Van Horn.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, I’ve got some strange message on my machine. I think you should listen.”

  In the office, Breem stammered through what efforts were being made to find Art, to notify him that all charges had been dropped. Anne would not release him from her stare. Not until Bob Lomax burst into the office and grabbed her by the Arm.

  “Bob? What is it? Where are we going?”

  He pulled her toward the door. “Sears Tower. No time to explain. Come on.”

  * * *

  Keiko was now at the elevator core, where the base of the T began. She was about to begin her advance past the elevators when, moving from right to left, Art Jefferson bolted from one of the alcoves, arms dangling, and dove for the other.

  She fired a quick burst at him, aiming low, but saw the bullets stitch along the base of the far wall. But even above the roar of the wind she heard a cry borne of a terrible pain rise from where Jefferson had landed.

  They were hers. Him now, the kid later.

  Keiko moved with cautious steps toward the alcoves at the top of the T.

  Every square inch of skin on his arms felt as though someone had bathed them in hot oil, and had then taken a wire brush to them. Art pushed himself to the back of the alcove, though it wasn’t very deep. His arms lay almost limp at his sides, hands in plain view, his skin covered by curving streams of blood. He lay there and looked out of the alcove and saw Keiko Kimura ease into the space where she could see him and, in the opposite alcove, Simon.

  Keiko gave Art a good look, her weapon covering him, and then a less careful once over of the kid, who sat on his knees, some sort of book thing that hung around his neck held in both hands. He looked to be reading from it. Good. Whatever kept him occupied.

  She looked back to Art. She had quick work to do.

  “Hey, big man,” Keiko said, a tributary of the wind pushing strands of black hair across her face. She brought the straight razor close to her cheek and touched the wound ever so gently. “Keiko’s gotta give you something.” She eased into the alcove, facing Art fully now, standing over him near his feet, the submachine gun held low and casual, the straight razor her weapon of choice. “Cause you gave her something.”

  Her nails were blue, Art saw, and she made a face at him that might have been mistaken for a smile, but only because she was showing teeth. He saw it as a silent growl.

  “I’m gonna cut you bad, big man,” she said, and took another step toward him, between his legs now. “Real bad.”

  “Mayfly!” Art said as loud as he could, right at Kimura’s face, and she instantly puzzled over his use of that word.

  Why in the hell would he say that?

  But Simon knew why. He had his cards out. He had been listening. Art had said ‘mayfly’. And it said on his card: IF ART SAYS MAYFLY, THN TAK TH GUN OUT FROM UNDR YOUR SHIRT AND HOLD IT LIK ART SHOWD YOU AND POINT IT AT TH STRANGRS BACK

  Art was his friend. The card told him what to do. He took the gun out and held it with one hand like Art had shown him. He looked over the long top part like Art had shown him. At the end of the long top part he saw the stranger’s back.

  He was doing what the card told him. But there was more on that card.

  “Say goodbye to your face, big man,” Keiko said, beginning to bend toward Art, the sharp flat blade of the razor coming his way.

  “Kiwi!” Art screamed.

  For a second Keiko paused.

  Simon glanced at the card again.

  IF ART SAYS KIWI THN PUT YOUR OTHR HAND ON TH GUN LIK ART SHOWD YOU AND PUT YOUR FINGR ON TH TRIGGR LIK ART SHOWD YOU AND PULL TH TRIGGR

  Simon let the cards drop so they dangled by the lanyard around his neck, and he put the other hand on the gun like Art had shown him, and he put his finger on the trigger, and he pulled the trigger—

  BOOM!

  Bending as she was, the bullet that might have hit Keiko Kimura mid-back instead ripped through her spine and traversed her torso toward the front, cutting a swath of vital muscle from her heart and pushing her onto Art Jefferson like a puppet whose strings had been snipped.

  The straight razor fell onto his chest. He felt a warm ooze trickle onto his stomach from the front of Keiko Kimura. She wheezed once, but never moved. He rolled her off of him with a lift of one knee.

  In the alcove opposite him, Art saw Simon sprawled back on the pile of flattened cardboard boxes, the gun on the floor, his tiny head shaking from side to side. Art wriggled his way to his feet and went to Simon. “Are you all right?”

  “That was a loud noise,” Simon said.

  Art went to his knees and put his head against Simon’s. “Have you got your cards?”

  Simon took them in hand.

  “Take the card you just wrote, with ‘mayfly’ and ‘kiwi’ on it, and tear it out.”

  Simon did, pulling the three-by-five piece of sturdy stock away from the tiny ring binders with a zipping sound.

  “Fold it up,” Art told him, and when Simon had he said, “And put it in my pocket. Good. Like that.” No one is going to think you did this. I pray to God you forget that you did this.

  Simon looked to the gun on the floor, eyes dancing all around it. “Loud.”

  Art struggled to his feet and had Simon get up with him. “We’ve got to go up.”

  “Up, up, up!” Simon said.

  A smile beat through Art’s pain. Let that mean he forgot. Please.

  “You follow me,” Art said. “Understand?”

  “Simon follows Art.” Art was his friend. He would follow a friend.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Downfall

  Art and Simon emerged onto the roof with little trouble, and Art could see that Kimura had likely spent some of the time before ambushing them opening doors that would let out to the helipad.

  And as Art stepped into the wind that slid across the roof like an endless, invisible Tsunam
i, he suddenly wondered if the helicopter he could see sitting a dozen yards away, its rotors turning, three men jumping from it and running his way, might not be there for her. If it was, he had just fought a losing battle.

  He was both right and wrong.

  A youngish man, blonde hair whipping in the tumult, came close to Art, and the first thing that was obvious was that he carried no weapon.

  “Jefferson?!” the man yelled.

  Art nodded, his arms held awkwardly against his body.

  “Pritchard sent me!”

  “Who are you?!” Art asked.

  “That’s not important!”

  “It is to him!” Art said.

  The man looked to Simon, who huddled behind Art, something in his hands. “My name is Sean!”

  Art turned to face Simon and crouched. “Simon, this is Sean. He’s a friend!”

  A friend. Art was telling Simon that Sean was a friend. A friend could tell you who was a friend. Simon took the pen clipped to his cards and flipped to the proper spot. Beneath POOKS UNDRHILL he wrote SHON.

  “What’s that mean?!” Sean asked.

  “It means he trusts you!” Art answered.

  Sean stood from his crouch, as did Art. “Where’s Kimura?!”

  “Dead!”

  “Where?!” Sean pressed.

  “In the Skydeck! By the elevators! Why?!”

  Sean waved the two men with him past. They disappeared into the building.

  “What’s that about?!” Art asked.

  “Listen, Jefferson… You’ve got to trust us!”

  “I’m giving Simon to you, dammit! What more do you want?!”

  “It wouldn’t have worked any other way!”

  Art grimaced at Sean. “What are you talking about?!”

  The two men returned, carrying Kimura’s lifeless body and her weapons. They took it to the helicopter and strapped it into a passenger seat in the back, sitting up, as if pretending to be alive.

  “Jefferson, believe that he’ll be all right! No matter what you see!”

  “What?!” Art asked, confused, something in Sean’s eyes making him understand just a little. If Kimura is found, they’ll know she didn’t get him. This way there might be a chance people would believe that she got him…and they wouldn’t need to look. That comforted Art, but only briefly. But when she doesn’t turn up, won’t people start…

  “We’ve got to go!” Sean said.

  Art nudged Simon so he would come around to his front, and when he did he felt the slender body press against his. He knew. He knew what was happening. At least some of it.

  “Simon, I want you to go with Sean! He’s your friend! Right?!”

  “Right,” Simon said, his voice barely audible in the turbulence.

  Sean put his hand out, and Simon put his in it. They began to walk toward the helicopter. Art stepped forward, pulled by the departure, and said as loud as he could, “I love you, Simon!”

  Simon paused, pulling on Sean’s hand, and his head swung back toward Art, the green eyes sweeping up until they met the big brown eyes for the briefest instant. But in that instant, Art knew that Simon understood.

  A minute later, the helicopter lifted off into the horrid wind, the pilot fighting it until he had his bird heading out toward Lake Michigan.

  * * *

  The phone in the puzzle center did not make Pedanski jump this time. It was an expected call on a normal line.

  “Pedanski.”

  “You found the envelope I left for you?” Brad Folger inquired.

  “I did.”

  “Start faxing it now,” Folger instructed him. “To Senator Grant first, and work down the Intelligence Committee from him. Then the rest.”

  “Okay. Are you—”

  “I’m across the street right now,” Folger said.

  “You’ll be all right.”

  “I can’t be any worse,” Folger said, then hung up.

  Five minutes later, fax machines in dozens of Senate and House offices began spitting identical pages. The first words were: By the time you read this, G. Nicholas Kudrow, Deputy Director, COMSEC-Z of the National Security Agency, will be the focus of a federal investigation into violations of wiretap statutes, extortion, tampering with evidence of a felony, and assorted other crimes.

  * * *

  Over water now, Sean began to get himself and Simon into harnesses, as did the other crew members. Keiko Kimura was left alone.

  “Do you like to fly, Simon?” Sean asked.

  Fly. Like the birds. Way up. “UP! UP!”

  Sean nodded. “Yeah. You got it.”

  * * *

  The desk sergeant of the evening shift looked up when the well dressed man approached with a woman by his side. “Can I help you folks?”

  Brad Folger nodded and took a breath. “Yes. Some time back there was an accident…”

  * * *

  The lights were barely lights anymore, Art thought, and he wondered if it was distance or blood loss that was making the strobe of the helicopter go faint. But in the next instant he had no trouble seeing what happened.

  Far over the water, about where he thought the helicopter was fading, a brilliant flash lit the mist below, and then a trail of yellow orange spun wildly against the dark sky before trailing off into the fog, pulling a ribbon of fire with it.

  Art ran against the wind to the edge of the helipad, and was about to scream to God above to not let it be true when what Sean had said just minutes before struck him and completed the picture. Trust us… Believe he’ll be all right. No matter what you see…

  And he understood. Nothing could be expected of the dead. Nothing but silence. The dead were truly the only ones who could rest.

  It was too far off and too windy to hear, but Art could imagine the remains of the helicopter slamming into the water, pieces coming apart. The Lake had swallowed larger things. Some it still kept.

  * * *

  “What was that?” Anne asked Lomax, staring through the patchy fog out over the lake. “It looked like fire.”

  “I don’t know,” Lomax said, but then he didn’t really care, either. He had only one thing on his mind. Get to the Tower. Get to his number two.

  * * *

  First they had to get the elevators working again. Then Lomax had to get through a gauntlet of Chicago PD intent on keeping everyone below 103. Once they were persuaded to get a move on and clear the building up to the roof, he escorted Anne to the helipad where Art had been found huddled in the stairwell.

  “Oh, God,” Anne said as she knelt next to him.

  “Paramedics are on the way,” a cop said.

  “Art! Art!” Lomax said loud and right in Art’s face.

  “Babe. Do you hear me?” Anne prodded.

  Art half opened his eyes. “I tried. I tried. But they got him. And the helicopter went…went…”

  Anne put her hands on either side of his face as his eyes slid shut. “ART!”

  * * *

  At home, in his study, with a fire glowing warm across the room, G. Nicholas Kudrow sat at his desk after his wife went to bed and picked up the phone. It was late, but there were calls he had to make.

  “Hello?” a somewhat gruff and groggy voice said.

  Kudrow smiled before speaking. He was not conscious of doing so. “Senator Grant. Kudrow here. I need to speak to you about—”

  The abrupt click and return of the dial tone unnerved Kudrow, but he told himself that there were those in any position of power who were prone to fits of weakness.

  He simply moved on, going to the next number in his book.

  “Yes?” an equally disturbed voice answered.

  “Senator Franklin. Kudrow here. I—”

  The hang up came quicker this time. And in the next call about the same. And in the one after that even quicker.

  After the sixth silent rebuff, Kudrow walked over to the fire and slid his book of names and numbers through the mesh spark screen and into the flames. He watched it become e
mbers, changed from what it had been to something very different.

  His life was over. He knew that. Not over as in the end of breathing or waking each morning, but simply over as he had known it. That he accepted quickly, the best way to accept anything that was bound to be difficult.