by Oliver Stark
Carney gave him the street name. ‘There is no number for the garages. It’s just a row of dilapidated real estate. There’s a garage on the corner, we’re going to meet up there and see how the land lies.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Harper.
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
The Brooklyn Library
March 15, 9.09 a.m.
Denise and Aaron Goldenberg sat side by side at two large oak tables. Each of them had the handwritten ledgers for a five-year period. They were flicking through at a pace, their fingers sliding down the pages. All they needed to find was the name of someone who had borrowed the book on Josef Sturbe and this could lead them to Abby, to saving Abby. It wouldn’t be conclusive, but it might give the investigation something.
Denise saw the name Josef Sturbe on the page. She felt herself tingle. ‘I’ve got one here,’ she called out.
‘Who is it?’ said Aaron Goldenberg.
‘Her name’s Hannah Sternberg.’
‘Age?’
‘I need to check her reading card.’ Denise crossed to the large files and searched for Hannah Sternberg. She took it out. ‘She’s about fifty-two now.’
‘Not our killer.’
‘Maybe not, but she’s interested in the Nazis — look at this record.’
Aaron pulled Hannah Sternberg’s reading record. There were several books on Nazis and the ghettos and the Holocaust.
‘She might have been trying to find something,’ said Aaron. His face contorted in pain. ‘But it’s not her, is it? We’re not going to find my Abby. Never, never, never.’
‘Don’t give up now,’ said Denise.
‘I can’t stand it. I miss her like… You could never understand.’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ said Denise. ‘But this is all we’ve got, so let’s keep searching.’
Aaron calmed himself. ‘Yes, for Abby. Because we must always have hope.’ He clenched each fist slowly and continued to search.
Denise’s phone rang a few minutes later. It was Tom Harper. ‘How are things in the archives?’
‘It’s okay, we’re getting through quite fast. Not many people read this book. One so far, a fifty-two-year-old woman.’
‘Keep going,’ said Harper. ‘I’ve got a lead. Set of garages on 118th in Bed-Stuy that we think Heming used when he was in hiding. It just might be the place.’
‘Be safe,’ said Denise. ‘You want help?’
‘I don’t want Aaron around if his daughter’s there. Keep in touch.’
‘Okay,’ said Denise.
‘Call me if you need me.’
‘I will,’ said Denise.
They continued to search. Aaron raised his hand in the air fifteen minutes later. ‘I found another name. A man called Albert Moile.’
‘Go check his file,’ said Denise.
Aaron looked through and found the library record card for Albert Moile. He looked across. ‘If he’s still alive, he’s ninety-five,’ said Aaron.
A moment later Denise’s finger ran down the page and stopped. She saw the name Josef Sturbe again and moved her finger across the ledger to the borrower’s name. She looked down at it and felt her body chill. ‘I’ve got a name,’ she said, with a tremble in her voice. ‘It’s the killer. I know who it is.’
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn
March 15, 9.45 a.m.
Harper arrived at the garage on the corner and Jack Carney was already there, waiting.
‘We’ve got a vague location point for the lock-up along this row,’ said Carney. ‘Let’s go.’
Harper and Jack Carney ran up the street searching for some sign as to where the killer was. They did two sweeps of the road but couldn’t see anything.
‘Where the hell are these garages?’ said Harper.
‘They must be somewhere around here,’ said Carney.
Then Harper spotted a broken wire fence and walked over. He looked at the edge. ‘Jack, check this. The wire’s been bent recently. The scratches on the wall are recent too.’
Harper pushed through the fence, quickly followed by Carney. They walked across the wasteland, their eyes scanning every building, before fastening on an old abandoned lock-up. Then Harper stopped. ‘Listen.’
Carney listened. ‘Banging.’
‘And voices,’ said Harper. They moved quickly towards the sound. Harper saw the garage. He looked at the bolts. ‘New bolts in a derelict area.’
‘This must be it,’ said Carney.
The banging became more intense and frightened. They could hear two women crying out for help and looked at each other. Carney stood by the door as Harper moved all around the building. He reappeared at the other side and shook his head.
‘No windows.’
They looked at the door. ‘You kick it in,’ said Carney quietly. ‘Let’s hope to God that they’re okay,’ said Harper. He motioned for Carney to move to the side, raised his gun and indicated the handle. Carney put his hand on it.
‘Let’s take a look,’ said Harper.
Carney depressed the handle and Harper pulled the trigger. The padlock split open and Carney pushed open the door. ‘NYPD. Put your hands in the air.’ Harper raised his gun and moved in. ‘What is that smell?’ he whispered.
‘Cyanide,’ said Jack Carney.
Harper scanned the room with his gun. He saw the two women directly ahead in a strange prison. He saw the pipes running across the length of the room and to the roof of the cell. Just like the gas van.
Inside the cell, the two women were screaming and shaking. They were pointing towards the back of the garage. Harper swiveled round and suddenly felt something hard against his skull.
Jack Carney’s gun was pressed tight to his head. ‘Drop your gun, Harper, or I kill you right now.’
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Lock-Up, Bedford-Stuyvesant
March 15, 9.58 a.m.
Harper stared into Jack Carney’s eyes. A hundred tiny inconsistencies and questions suddenly fell into place. He felt sickness in the pit of his stomach. Disgust so sudden and violent that he couldn’t speak.
‘The gun, Harper, or I kill you.’ Carney eased the trigger back.
Harper heard the click of the breech and he dropped his gun to the ground. His hands formed into large, heavy fists, and hatred and anger burned in his eyes.
‘Tom Harper, I thought you were better than this,’ said Carney.
Harper held his gaze and looked directly into the eyes of the ruthless killer.
‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Carney. ‘Move over to the cell.’
Harper edged backwards. ‘You’re dead, you fucking animal,’ he shouted. ‘You know that? There’s no fucking way out. You’re trapped, Carney, you sick fuck.’
‘Anger and hatred, Harper. You feeling it?’ Carney smiled. ‘This is the killer’s Luger. You were the only one who could work this out,’ he said. ‘I knew you were close but I’m not ready to give in.’
‘They all know,’ said Harper. ‘It’s over. Let these two go.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Carney. ‘Now they’re going to have a big problem on their hands. You went off on your own last night. The story is going to go like this — the killer lured you here and you heroically tried to save the girls. But oh, how close you must’ve come.’
Carney moved across to the canister of Zyklon B. ‘I add these pellets in here, they react with the air and Lucy and Abby will die. You will try to open the door and the killer will shoot you.’
‘It’s a good plan, but people know.’
‘Who?’
‘Everyone.’
‘You sure about that, Harper? Don’t bluff the master.’ Carney chuckled.
‘You got to give yourself up,’ shouted Harper. ‘You need help.’
‘I’ve got a mission, Harper. A mission.’
‘Open the cell,’ Harper commanded, but Carney moved across to the cyanide.
‘Lucy,’ called Ha
rper into the cell. ‘Is there any way out of here?’
She shook her head.
Harper turned and looked at the drained and emaciated figure of Abby in the cell behind him. He smashed his fist against the Plexiglass but it was too thick. It wouldn’t break. He turned and stared at Carney. ‘You can’t do this, you’ve got to stop. You’re a cop.’
Carney took the can across to the small tub. ‘This is the Zyklon B. Everything had to be authentic.’ He smiled. ‘It causes a slow and painful death.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘The heart has reasons that reason knows not of,’ said Carney. He turned to Harper and moved close to the Plexiglass. ‘And because I hate them. All of them. Jews, her, you, everyone.’ He opened the canister, pulled back the lid of the plastic bucket.
‘How long will it take them to die?’
‘Ten minutes, a little more,’ said Carney.
They heard the sound of the first pellets hitting the base of the bucket. Harper moved across to the door and barged at it with his full weight. He tried again.
‘You won’t rescue them,’ said Carney. ‘That’s not the story I’ve planned.’
Abby Goldenberg pulled herself to her feet with her last reserves of strength and moved up to the front of the cell. ‘I know what you are!’ she called out.
‘Do you?’ shouted Carney. ‘Well, I’m Josef Sturbe and you’re dead.’
‘Your mother was in touch with Lucy. Did you know that? You think you know everything. You couldn’t find her yourself, but Lucy found her. Lucy told her about the beatings, about the man you’d become. She was disgusted.’
Carney stopped and stared across to the cell. He replaced the lid on the pellets. ‘Fuck you, you’re lying. She’s dead. Fucking dead.’
Lucy was crouched in a corner. ‘She’s not dead, Jack. She’s alive. I met her.’
Jack Carney moved across to the cell. ‘Have you been telling secrets? Did you find my mother?’
Abby’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘She’s the only one who knows where your mother lives. You kill her and you’ll never find her.’
Abby was a smart kid, Harper thought. She was buying time. He looked around. What could he do? The gas ran through hastily welded scaffolding pipes, across and then above him.
‘Where is she?’ said Carney. ‘I want her dead. I want you all dead. Fuck her. It’s too late. It’s too fucking late.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Abby, drawing breath slowly at each sentence. ‘She’s been living right here in Brooklyn all that time. Knew who you were. She’s been keeping clippings of you, your whole life.’
‘Is this true, Lucy? Speak or you die.’
Lucy nodded.
‘Tell me where she is. She’ll be the next one to die.’ Then Carney looked at them and laughed. ‘You’re both lying. You’ll regret that.’
Carney turned and headed back to the Zyklon B. Harper jumped and grabbed on to the scaffolding pole with both hands. It snapped under his weight. Carney turned and shot. It hit the Plexiglass. Harper swung hard and low. He didn’t want to miss. The pole hit Carney’s legs and he fell. Harper moved to him, but Carney was good. The Luger pointed directly at him. ‘Go on, make another move, Harper.’
Harper stopped. ‘You’re not going to gas them, you fucking freak. You can shoot us all, but your sick little experiment isn’t going to work.’
Carney pulled himself up from the floor. ‘I don’t care a damn for her! Lucy, you understand? Fuck you all. Fuck her. I’ll show you. I’ll show her too. I’m going to be written about for years.’ He pointed the gun at Harper’s face.
Then at the door, he heard a shout. ‘Drop your weapon.’ They turned and saw Denise Levene step in the door. She raised her gun. ‘Move away from the bucket, victim,’ she shouted.
Carney let out a laugh. ‘You too.’ His hand started to turn.
‘Don’t try it, victim!’ she told him.
Carney saw her fear and smiled. ‘You wouldn’t dare — that’s your problem, isn’t it?’
‘Try me,’ she said. Denise remembered everything Mac had told her. She wasn’t afraid; she was the hunter — not him. She fired, two quick rounds, into the wall. Carney’s hand stopped moving. ‘Drop the weapon.’
‘You don’t want to kill your beloved detective, do you, Dr Levene?’ sneered Carney. ‘You shoot me and I’ll put a bullet through his head.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Denise. ‘It’s over now. We know — Blue Team knows. They’re on their way. We found you, Jack. We traced the book on Sturbe, traced your lending record. It’s all there. Jack Carney’s self-hatred. The Jew who couldn’t stand to be a Jew.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Carney.
‘And you know what, Carney? We understand how it happened.’
‘What do you understand?’ ‘You were searching for your mommy, weren’t you? That lovely Jewish woman who abandoned you. The one who gave you your Jewish blood then dumped you on a group of Gentiles. Confusing for a kid, wasn’t it? It’s not unusual, Jack, to become obsessed, to identify with your attackers, to try to destroy the part of yourself you think they hate. You’re not a special case, you’re just a boy who didn’t grow up properly — not emotionally. You learned to hate yourself.’
‘So clever and so wrong.’
‘Really? We found your mother, Jack. She borrowed the same books as you. Every book you read, she read a week later. She was looking out for you all that time. Must’ve been watching you. Desperate to contact you, but scared. Her name was Hannah Sternberg.’
‘Sternberg?’
‘She left you when you were five. I guess what happened was that you only vaguely remembered her name. There weren’t any adoption records. That’s partly why your parents hated your Jewishness. What they did was illegal: take a child off a twenty-year-old Jewish girl with no other options. So you searched for your mother, didn’t you? For a name you could only half-remember. Sterne, Sterne-be. Sturbe. You came across this Nazi, and he made sense to you, right? You thought it was some incredible truth about you. And you devoured it and replaced all that loss and pain with this monster.’
Jack looked shaken. He stepped backwards. He was finding it hard to take in. ‘Is she alive?’
‘She wants to see you, Jack.’
Carney lowered his head. ‘It’s too late,’ he spat. ‘It’s way too late for that Jewish whore to save you, any of you. I’m going to make you all pay for this. I’m going to finish this for good. I must complete the transformation. I have it all planned. There is nothing else to do.’ He fired suddenly without lifting his head. The bullet hit the door. Denise threw herself against the wall. It was enough. Carney rose quickly, pushed past her and darted out of the lock-up.
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
March 15, 10.33 a.m.
The orange truck was heavy over the potholes, the back end lifting and heaving on the old springs. Carney tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. He turned too quickly into 82nd Street. The van lurched high on its suspension and sat flat with a jolt.
‘Damn roads. City’s run by fucking monkeys.’
Still, that didn’t matter now, did it? He felt the walls moving in. Harper had survived. They all knew. Everyone would now be chasing Jack Carney. It had to be now. Nothing mattered any more. Not anyone, either. Friends, colleagues. Screw the lot of them. All except one.
There were still things he wanted to say to Lucy. Their separation had never made sense to him. All that talk about his behavior and her need for freedom. All that he had understood when she ended things was that she had rejected him because he was a Jew. And then she had started dating Capske — a Jew. The insult was unbearable, so much so that he could hardly let himself think about it. The implication was clear — it wasn’t his Jewishness that offended her, it was just him. Carney felt the anger rise again; he still nurtured the wounds as if they were fresh cuts.
He felt the weight of thirty yea
rs of being oppressed by the filth who now ran this country. He felt their betrayal as a stream of invective. The Nazi slogans and racist bile jumbled in his mind.
He hit the steering wheel hard with the heel of his hand. ‘Shit alive, I hate this fucking world.’ He drove on with a determined expression. Past an NYPD Charger with two asshole cops eating in the front seats. One Hispanic and one black.
‘Take a fucking look at that, Josef, that’s who we answer to now. The fucking parasites are leading the beasts.’
Carney patted his antique Luger pistol, pressed hard against his hip, raised his hand towards the officers and formed a gun with his fingers. They didn’t bat an eyelid as they watched the bright orange truck trundle by.
He turned into the street and pulled to a halt halfway down. He looked over at the big mansion on the corner. The location had been carefully chosen. The synagogue lay at the eastern end, but it would be empty today. The Museum of Tolerance to the west, however, would be full of Jew-lovers. It was the perfect target. He reached for a pair of binoculars and brought the façade into sharp focus. It was a nice building. Gothic. It looked like a French château. Another example of the fakery ruining the western world.
To the left and right, the leafless trees had green buds beginning to emerge. It gave him an uninterrupted view. He checked his watch. The doors to the Museum of Tolerance would open soon enough, the crowds would enter and then he would start his work.
Carney thought of himself as a security expert. He told people willing to listen that he was an ex-Marine. In truth, he’d never made the Marines and ended up as a cop. He had become a good cop too, keeping his leanings hidden and his need for power in check, satisfied by seeing the destruction of others through his work with Hate Crime.
Maybe the assholes who were running this investigation would get to him, but he didn’t think so. He’d outsmarted them before, but not on this scale. This would give the truth about the Jewish conspiracy the maximum chance to get proper billing. Every story needed a picture and this would be it, a shattered street and a screaming line of hostages. He would make them recite the eighty-eight words into the camera, standing tied up in a bomb-shattered street. That was how it had gone in his mind, over and over again.
