“OK,” Howie finally said, looking up at us. “We’re as ready as we’re going to be. It’s ten forty eight; we’re set to go at eleven. We’ll have the printout about six minutes after the time period is up, so we’ll get the first one at eleven twenty-one. That won’t do us any good, because we’ll have nothing to cross-check it against. We’ll have the second report at eleven thirty-six. There’s no way to tell how many reports we’ll need to eliminate all but one.”
He seemed to be a smart and confident guy, which made me feel better that he knew what he was doing. I liked him, and if he screwed it up, I was going to kill him.
But the bottom line was that we would not have anything to cross-check for forty-eight minutes. Since each minute seemed to take about four hours, we were looking at a long wait.
I didn’t want to e-mail Bryan, because I didn’t want him to use up computer power in responding. There was also no need; he knew what he was supposed to do, and would do it as long as he could.
I called Barone and told him what was going on, and asked him to send backup officers and position them in various areas in the three counties we were looking at. I wanted us to be able to get to Bryan as fast as possible once we knew where he was.
And then my mind wandered back to Brayton, again probably because I didn’t want to think about Bryan, counting on us, waiting in that room.
Ordinarily, in a situation like that, I would write down everything I knew. It helps me to think clearly, to make sense out of things that sometimes seem nonsensical. I didn’t have time for that now, so I couldn’t get my mind around certain questions.
Why would Carlton have been killed? He was no longer a factor in the mining operation; Hanson had already bought the land from him. Was it revenge by the townspeople? That hardly seemed likely. Was it to keep him quiet? Quiet about what?
What could Carlton have told Gallagher, and why did it send him to the drilling site? And what was he doing feeling around in the dirt, and looking at the drilling equipment?
They were questions I would answer, but they would have to wait. It was eleven twenty-one, and the first set of lists was being printed out.
Sarah handed them to us. They were different sizes, and probably averaged about six hundred addresses on each one. We spread them out in front of us on large desks, looking over them, and discussed the best way to go about the cross-checking.
But for the time being we were unable to do anything with the lists.
That would wait for the next list, which would provide something to cross-check them against.
Then it would be showtime.
The situation was way out there beyond the Planet Surreal.
Bryan could see that, even through the haze of fear that was enveloping him.
He was sitting underground, running out of air to breathe, counting on TV programs to save him. On the same table as the remote control was a glass of water and two pills, which he would use to kill himself at the first sign of impending suffocation. And the last person he would probably ever hear speak was on television, trying to sell him a miracle kitchen gadget.
He had a million questions that he wanted to ask Lucas, most of them about Gallagher and the situation in Brayton. For a short while Lucas had been so upbeat about it, and then he stopped mentioning it.
Bryan wondered what had happened, why it had gotten to the point where this thing with the television became what seemed to be his last chance. Had Gallagher refused to intervene, and had Lucas now given up on that?
But Bryan did not want to send an e-mail asking those questions. The computer had long ago told him that it was on reserve power, and he wanted to conserve what little he had left.
He wished he could go online and learn how he would feel when the air started to run out. Would there be a period of time where he felt only short of breath, and slightly dizzy? Would it allow him time to take the pills, and alleviate the suffering? And how long would the pills take to work? All of these questions would go unanswered.
Bryan considered writing a final message to the world, on pencil and paper, a medium that didn’t slowly reduce its “percentage of power” remaining. He had thought about it frequently during the previous six days, but didn’t know that there was anything special he wanted to say. Or that anyone would ever find the note, or his body.
So all he planned to do was switch the dial at each fifteen-minute interval and wait to be rescued, or to die.
The second set of lists came right on time, six minutes after the time period ended.
Nobody said a word; we all just launched ourselves into the job of cross-checking it with the first lists. It was a tedious, time-consuming job, made even more daunting by the tremendous pressure we were feeling.
My approach was to take the first address on list one and try to find it on list two. If I did, I’d put a checkmark next to it on both lists. If I didn’t, I’d put an “x” by it on list one, but I didn’t cross it out, in case it was on list two and I had just missed it.
It was so slow that I had the sinking feeling that we were going to fail, even if the process worked. I wanted to speed up the work, but I was haunted by the fear that in doing so I’d miss something. If Bryan’s address was on there and we passed over it, just once, then all hope would be lost.
It took me an hour and five minutes to get through my list, and I found thirty-seven addresses common to both lists. I was the first one finished, Julie was second, and the others were all done within fifteen minutes of me. The strain everyone was under was evident in their faces.
While we were working, other lists were being generated, as other fifteen-minute segments concluded. Since we only had to cross-check them against those names that were common to the first two sets of lists, this would go much faster but still take some time.
* * *
It was two o’clock in the afternoon before we narrowed it down to a manageable number. At that point we had seventeen addresses in the target area, though I was suddenly flooded with the fear that maybe we weren’t looking in the right place at all.
We had only narrowed it down to northwest Jersey because of the weather outages. What if the information we had been given was wrong? What if there had been outages someplace else? Bryan could be in Connecticut, or New York. Or what if Bryan’s particular outage wasn’t weather related at all? What if it was a local glitch?
But we were where we were, and seventeen was a limited-enough list to get started. I called Barone, and told him to start sending officers to the locations.
I was torn, not sure whether to go out in the field myself or wait for another list that would narrow it down further. I decided to wait, at least for one more list. And then I’d be on the move.
But first I had to make sure that Bryan believed we would save him, so he wouldn’t take his own life. If I was wrong, and I knew that could very well be the case, it would be a last, terrible betrayal.
We’re coming for you, Bryan … it won’t be long now.
You can count on it.
The rally was set for 6 PM, and it would be huge.
That became obvious when people started arriving before noon. They joined those already camping out there, and by two o’clock, with four hours still to go, the crowd had swelled to almost six thousand.
Edward Holland and Tony Brus agreed on a plan to clear the land of people. Holland would speak at the beginning of the rally, asking everyone to leave. Neither man had any real hope that his words would be effective, and Brus would have his officers on the scene, ready to move in if it became necessary.
Brus had instructed his officers on procedure. The goal was to get the people out of there and then quickly construct barricades to prevent them from coming back. There was no desire to arrest people; these were not criminals and should not be treated as such.
Brus had originally had the idea to fence off the area before people could arrive, but it was impractical, since so many protesters were already there and others arrived so earl
y. This was going to be a first of its kind for Brayton, and Brus told his second command that it would “permanently change the way we’re viewed by the people who live here.”
But even a town as small as Brayton has procedures in place for situations like this, and they spent the late morning going over them, and talking about how they would react to various scenarios that could come up.
When they were finished and ready, Brus called Holland. “Mayor, we are as prepared as we will ever be.”
“Good. I’ll speak to them, and alert them as to what is going to happen. If they don’t listen to me, you move your men in.”
“You’re the boss,” Brus said, signaling his reluctant agreement to go along with the plan. He thought this was a serious overreaction, even after the Carlton murder. On the positive side, if it all went the way he expected, Holland wouldn’t ever get another vote in Brayton.
“Tony, I know you think I’m overreacting on this,” said Holland. “But the downside to doing it is that people will be pissed at us. The downside to not doing it as that people can die.”
“OK,” Brus said, “I can see that.” He knew that Holland did not want any citizens of Brayton to be killed. He also knew that Holland especially did not want them to die on his watch.
The reports coming in from the field were not good.
Barone called to say that officers had already checked out nine of the seventeen matches and come up with nothing. I took down the list of the ones that had been checked out, so that I could check them off our lists.
“What are they doing if the houses seem to be empty?” I asked.
“Hey, Lucas, you think I’d let them leave it at that? Our people are instructed to enter and search the homes, whether people are not home, or not cooperative. We’ll deal with the fallout later.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“I’ll keep you posted as reports come in.”
I got off the phone and saw that the next group of lists was coming out. We got started on them, and I didn’t eliminate the homes that Barone had reported were already checked out, just in case the officers missed something.
Thirty-five minutes later we had the pared-down list. There were six homes on it, four of which had already been checked by Barone.
Which left two possibilities, one of which was only fifteen minutes from where we were. I called Barone and gave him this new information, and he said that officers were only ten minutes from the other location. He was close to there as well, and would meet up with them.
He would also send some as backup for us, but we were closer than his officers were, so we’d likely get there first.
When I got off the phone, I said, “Let’s go. We’re covering one of the two; Barone’s got the other.” I turned to Robbins. “You know how to get to this address?”
“Yes.”
“Then come on,” I said, and the four of us were off.
The address was in Mount Freedom, a small town northwest of Morristown. Robbins was only partially familiar with it, but told us he thought the address was on the outskirts of town, in mostly undeveloped farmland.
I drove, only because I got in the driver’s seat first. Emmit got in the back with Julie, and Robbins sat in the passenger seat. I drove in a way that emulated Emmit’s technique, which is to go so fast that the front wheels start to leave the ground. It was all open road, so I turned on the siren and let it rip.
I didn’t turn on the GPS, trusting Robbins’s assurance that he knew the way. This appeared to be a major mistake when at one point he said, “Turn right here—no, wait.” But he soon seemed to get his bearings, and told us he was positive he knew where he was going.
And he did.
We turned off on a small dirt road and pulled up to a farmhouse, small but in good condition. There was a car parked outside, and a pickup truck that looked like it had been a while since it was serviceable.
We got out of the car and ran to the front porch. I rang the bell and no one answered. I rang it again … no response.
So I nodded to Emmit, and he kicked down the front door.
The four of us went inside and started looking around. “We’re looking for doors in the floor,” I said. “Move every piece of furniture; the door might be hidden.”
So we searched, with Julie screaming Bryan’s name periodically, even though there was no way he could hear us even if he were there. The house was a small one, and we covered every piece of floor at least three times, then went out and looked around the yard.
I could see the satellite dish above the garage, so we went in there and searched just as carefully.
Nothing.
Bryan was not there.
My phone was ringing; it was Barone.
By five o’clock the number of protesters had exceeded ten thousand.
Even though there was no official program, a number of people had gotten up and made impromptu speeches from the stand that had been constructed for the occasion. Everyone knew that Mayor Holland was going to speak at six o’clock and Alex Hutchinson after that.
Holland had not arrived, but Chief Brus had, and was walking among the protesters. The courtesy with which he was greeted, and the almost festive atmosphere, confirmed his conviction that Holland was overreacting to the perceived danger. For God’s sake, Brus thought, half the children in town were there with their parents. Would people about to commit violent acts want their children there?
Holland was an idiot.
Brus’s strategy was a simple one. He would execute Holland’s order and send his men in to clear the place out. If they went peacefully, then that would be the end of it. Holland would take some political grief for having done it, but he could cover himself by claiming to only be concerned with the safety and welfare of the citizens.
If they resisted, Brus would not instruct his men to forcefully remove them. Holland would go nuts, and would demand the use of tear gas or other irresistible force. There would be a public disagreement between the two men, and Brus would not back down.
The net result would be that it would cost Brus his job; Holland had the right to fire him, and would exercise that right. But it would firmly and permanently elevate him well above Holland in the minds of the townspeople, and would be the perfect kickoff for his candidacy for Mayor.
It may not have been a win-win for Brus, but at the very least it was a no lose–win.
So all Brus had to do was sit back and watch Holland dig his own political grave and Brus would move in once he stopped shoveling.
At first, Bryan didn’t recognize what was happening.
He sensed that he was breathing slightly faster than normal, but he couldn’t tell if that was because he was feeling intense anxiety. He was pretty sure that extreme nervousness caused quickened breathing, but it was hard to remember.
And it was really important that he remember.
But after a few minutes, there could be no denying it. The air he was breathing was less satisfying; he needed more of it. That’s why he was inhaling faster and faster, but it wasn’t getting the job done.
In full-fledged panic, he turned on the computer, to see if there was a message from Lucas, providing a reason to hold on. There was none, so he quickly typed one of his own. The pills were three feet away, sitting on the desk, next to a glass of water. Waiting.
Then the computer went black and stayed that way. It was obviously out of power; he wasn’t even sure if the e-mail he sent went out. The battery had run out, as had Bryan’s life.
He picked up the computer and threw it against the wall, smashing the now useless machine that had been his lifeline. The exertion made him breathe even harder.
It was the moment of truth; if he was to take the pills, now was the time. He had resolved to do so, and felt that he could do it when faced with the certain prospect of death by suffocation.
But in the moment he hesitated. It was death he was afraid of, death in any form, and until he took those pills there was the remote possibi
lity it could be avoided.
So he debated it in his mind, in seconds that felt like hours.
And then he felt strangely peaceful; it’s counterintuitive, but a brain deprived of sustenance will create such a feeling.
And with the pills on the desk, he slumped to the floor.
“Negative,” Barone said. “It’s a goddamn garden apartment.”
He was telling me that the other of the two matches that the satellite lists had yielded was a dead end, that there was no underground shelter there.
He was telling me that Bryan was going to die.
There was literally nothing we could do. Either we had been wrong about the general location that he was in or we had missed something in our rush to go through the lists. The latter possibility seemed more likely, but it didn’t matter.
There was nothing left to be done.
Julie started to sob softly, and I felt like joining her. I had spent a goddamn week trying to find a killer, and in the process I had killed my own brother.
Emmit, not the crying type, smashed his hand into the car so hard that it made a serious dent. He had given it his all, had even taken a bullet that day by the missile shaft, but it hadn’t been enough. At that moment I wished I had taken the bullet and fallen down the shaft and never …
And then thinking about that time at the abandoned missile shaft reminded me of what Willis Granderson of the Morristown police had told us the day he sent us to check out that shaft. He had laughed and said that he knew people who built houses near an abandoned one, set it up as a shelter, and used it as a guesthouse. He laughed and said that he had guests he’d like to put underground like that.
The backup officers Barone had sent were just pulling up, six officers in three cars. I started screaming at them, and at Julie, Emmit, and Robbins, “LOOK FOR AN ABANDONED MISSILE SHAFT! SPREAD OUT AND LOOK FOR A MISSILE SHAFT!”
I saw Emmit’s face light up in recognition; he was there when Granderson made his comment, and he remembered it as well. “Come on!” he yelled, and quickly indicated where each of us should look, so as to spread us out to make the search as efficient as possible.
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