by PT Reade
GRAVE WALKER
A Thomas Blume Novel
P.T READE
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“A sibling may be the only enemy you can’t live without.”
- Anonymous
PROLOGUE
They were dead.
All of them.
Cops, criminals, I couldn’t tell. They were strewn across the floor like ragdolls, bloodied and ruined.
A section of ceiling fell ahead of me, and somewhere in the distance a siren sounded.
I staggered through the destruction, trying to tear my eyes away from the death all around, but as always, it called to me, mocking my choices.
How had it come to this? What had gone wrong?
I didn’t have the answers, but that was nothing new. I’d been two steps behind ever since I set foot back in this country. Hell, I was so far behind the pace that it felt like I was running a different race.
Amidst the stinging smoke and rubble, I saw the doorway I needed, and the fire in my veins grew hot.
There were no delusions of morality anymore. As I drew my gun and stepped forward, there was no hesitation or crisis of conscience. It was simple. Primal.
The man I came down here to confront. The man I had chased for almost a year. The man who had taken it all from me. He was going to pay.
For everything.
ONE
I snapped awake from the dream. Or was it a nightmare?
The squeal of the aircraft landing gear tugged me from my reverie. Last thing I remembered, I had been staring out the window, about half a miniature bottle of whiskey shy of being drunk, when I must have drifted off. The cry of rubber on runway had been a rude awakening.
The light streaming through the oval window seemed hollow and sharp here, causing me to squint. Back in London, it would have been softer, more welcoming.
Or maybe I’d indulged in a few too many drinks during the flight, and I was imagining it. The Jack Daniels and Coke mixtures I’d been making had become more Jack and less Coke the closer I got to the States. Perhaps I was anxious about returning to where it all began and seeing the faces of my past. Or perhaps I was just an old drunk who couldn’t go eight hours without the booze.
Either way, I was back on American soil for the first time in a long time.
The pilot made his usual announcements, and I remained seated as everyone around me bustled to their feet and reclaimed their carry-ons from the overhead compartments. I rolled my head slowly along the headrest of my seat, wondering if I was ready to step foot back in New York, where it all began. I’d been in London for almost a year, not nearly enough time to wash away the mixed feelings the Big Apple had long ago planted in my heart.
Really, I had no choice but to come back. The demise of my previous employer had not specifically pointed me back home, but it had given me the nudge. Somehow, chasing the one case that dragged me to London had, ironically, pointed me back to New York. After a year of ghosts and dead-ends, I was ready to get some answers. The truth had been gnawing at the edge of my conscience for so long, taunting me with the fate of my family.
With the aisle traffic clearing out, I got to my feet and took down my small carry-on bag. As I struggled with it, I realized that I might be a little more inebriated than I thought. But of course, I thought. Different continent, same demons.
One thing about New York, though. There was just a feeling you got from knowing that you were there, a feeling unlike anywhere else. More than anything, I was just glad to see a bright and gleaming East Coast sun blazing down on the tarmac as I exited the plane and moved along the air-bridge. Trudging slowly towards the baggage claim, I saw much more that reminded me of what I had once loved about this city. Giants jerseys, Yankees caps, and advertising for Broadway shows.
And oh God, the delicious smell of greasy, overpriced pizza. My stomach instantly started growling.
I made my way towards the final security checkpoint that would then lead me out into the central hub of JFK International. I took out my wallet and passport, trying to be as ready as I could when I reached the kiosk.
The terse lady behind the counter barely looked at me as I slid them through the slot at the bottom of the glass. She examined them inquisitively for a moment before looking up at me with a little too much scrutiny for my liking. She then shrugged and pushed my wallet and passport back before yelling out “Next!”
The famed American hospitality.
Glad to be out from underneath her scowl, I continued on and made my way to the restrooms. Jetlag and an impending hangover threatened, so I went straight to the sinks. I splashed cold water onto my face and then wiped the excess water away with a handful of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. I stared at myself for a moment, wondering if this was real—if being back in New York was nothing more than some surreal dream.
Nope. The ragged-looking reflection in the mirror was proof enough. I was sporting three days’ worth of scruff and my hair was in disarray, somehow making the gray streaks around the edges more pronounced. However, I still carried the strong jaw and sturdy build of my father. The steel blue eyes and dark hair, though, were pure mom. At my age, I wondered if all of that gray was just the natural progression of time or the high stress my job often placed on me. Maybe a bit of both.
I stepped back out into the growing bustle of JFK airport, wondering if there were anything else I could do to procrastinate. What else could I come up with to delay the inevitable?
Stop being a coward, I told myself. Aren’t New Yorkers supposed to be tough and mean? Isn’t that the stereotype?
Yes, it was the stereotype. But I was pretty sure it was a stereotype that did not apply to New Yorkers who had escaped overseas when life had gotten too hard for them.
With the familiar heaviness of a few drinks gone to my head and an even more familiar sense of uncertainty, I made my way through the terminal. I headed for the exits, just minutes away from setting foot into the city that had given me so much and taken so much more. And while they had not died in New York, the city had practically taken my wife and son as well.
And that’s what it came down to. The driving reason I pushed down all the uncertainty and fear. I was back in New York for one reason, and I’d be damned if I left before confronting the man who killed my family.
TWO
It was relatively early in the morning, so there wasn’t too much of a crowd blocking my way to the baggage carousel. I grabbed my suitcase and joined it with the carry-on strapped over my shoulder.
As is the case with just about any airport on the face of the planet, an anticipated few minutes to the exit turned out to be much more. After a while, I was unable to ignore the smells of pizza and ended up dropping six dollars for a slice that looked and felt like cardboard. I ate it in a few quick bites and then started to feel claustrophobic in the airport. Although I knew the waiting streets would be no more open, I felt the need to get out of there, to be outside and officially starting whatever crusade I thought I was here for.
A minute later, as I was passing a Thai restaurant and a bookstore (wondering just how many varieties of food people thought they needed in a single airport to be happy), when I noticed two security guards appear out of a small door to the left. They were not speaking, and their gazes were set dead ahead. They also appeared to be walking in lockstep, side by side. I knew this meant that something was afoot—that they were headed to a scene where something was happening. Or about to happen.
A few steps closer to the exit, I became sure t
hat they were following me. Or was it the booze making me paranoid?
Get it together, Tom.
No. There was no fault in my judgment this time. The two security goons were doing their best not to appear obvious about it, but there was no mistaking it; they were tailing me. To be sure, I stopped by a small Apple kiosk, pretending to look at the iPods, iPads, and other gadgets I couldn’t afford. I watched them in the reflection of the glass case along the top of the display and saw that they walked further on along the other side of the corridor and then stopped. They stood side by side, still not talking, glancing at me from the side of their vision.
I left the Apple kiosk and within a few steps, I could see the exit up ahead. But as I shifted to the right, as if I intended to head towards a Mexican restaurant, the two guards did the same. Up ahead, I spotted a group of people milling around and taking pictures—a large family traveling on vacation, I assumed.
I started in their direction, and taking the risk of seeming rude, I cut right through them and quickened my pace. When I made it through the other side of their impromptu photo session, I glanced back and saw that this had caused the guards to misstep. They spotted me just as I resumed a regular walking pace, but they were still on the other side of the gathered family.
Not wanting to seem too guilty, I didn’t glance long. I stepped into the flow of foot traffic just like any other person in the airport. Walking to the exit, I finally made it outside. Beyond the cool, calm environment of the air conditioned terminal, I was suddenly hit by the familiar assault on the senses that was New York City. Taxis and buses churned by, horns were blaring, and marshals blew their whistles—ushering the ubiquitous yellow cabs back and forth. People of all shapes and sizes swarmed the sidewalks while the howl of a police siren echoed from somewhere in the distance.
The heat of the summer was almost smothering. Even at this hour, it was building, mixing with the exhaust fumes like a sticky blanket covering everything it touched. To any outsider, it would have been almost overwhelming, but to me it felt like home.
I didn’t have time to get nostalgic, though. Instead I tried to blend in with the cabs and shuttle buses all along the curb, as well as throngs of people who were coming and going.
A quick glance over my shoulder. No sign of the two guards.
I walked to the far end of the airport sidewalk, perfectly content to catch one of the rattier-looking cabs that might be overlooked by pickier travelers. I didn’t bother looking behind me for the guards again. Now that I was outside, I was beginning to think that I’d simply gotten paranoid. I’d been in New York no more than fifteen minutes. What could I possibly have done to attract the attention of airport security?
Just as I was starting to feel foolish in thinking the security guards had been pursuing me, I saw two cops up ahead. They were no more than ten feet away and were now walking in my direction. One of them looked directly at me and spoke into the shoulder-mic on his uniform.
Shit. Sweat started beading on my forehead, and I couldn’t help but wonder if someone from London—perhaps someone I had crossed and not even known it—had made a call to the NYPD. Hell, I’d put away enough scumbags in this city as a detective that there would be no shortage of locals wanting a shot at me either.
“Mr. Blume?” one of the officers said as they closed the distance between us.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“How was your flight?”
“Fantastic,” I said sarcastically, knowing full well that he was stalling for something. But what?
“Good,” the officer said. He peered over my shoulder, and I saw something like recognition in his eyes. I turned to look behind me and saw the two guards that had been following me in the airport.
Not so paranoid after all, I thought.
“Mr. Blume, I need you to step into the vehicle, please,” the cop said, his hand dropping to his hip…and firearm.
I had been so caught off guard by the cop that I hadn’t even noticed the van that was parked along the cub directly beside me. It was black, and the windows had been darkened out.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
The two cops and the pair of security guards had now created a box around me. Even if I were interested in making a scene (which I wasn’t), there was no way I’d get away from them. The best thing to do was to just go along with it.
“Please just come along with us,” the officer said.
I shrugged, a nervous churning beginning in my stomach. As the cop opened the sliding door along the side of the van, I tried going back through my mind and looking for anyone in New York that had a beef with me. Maybe a family member had heard I was coming back in town and had arranged this all. Corrupt cops were nothing new.
Were these guys being paid off?
It was an impossible situation, and I knew that any scenarios I came up with would likely be wrong. So I stopped trying. I simply stepped into the van and waited to see what surprise awaited me on my old stomping grounds. I clenched my fists as I got in, prepared to fight if I needed to.
As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, and as we hit the overpass, the clawing skyscrapers of Manhattan came into view. I eyed the skyline and recalled the past I had worked so hard to leave behind.
Welcome home, I thought.
THREE
The van was questionable at best, which automatically sent my old police instincts into overdrive. What really screwed with me, though, was that the two cops from the airport had climbed in behind me and were sitting across from me on a bench seat. In the front, a shaven-headed man with muscles like tree trunks glanced back at me through the rearview mirror. Other than myself and my three unlikely companions, the van was empty. I could see no evidence of criminal activity as we rumbled downtown.
“Okay, so who’s going to tell me what this is all about?” I asked. “Because if this is a tour of the city, you guys are missing all the sights.”
No one answered my attempts to lighten the mood. As I looked from one man to the next, I knew that the driver would be the only real threat. Both officers looked to be nearing fifty. While they were both equipped with side arms and cuffs, I was pretty sure that a well-placed right hook would drop them like rocks.
“Is this just how they greet ex-cops back in the Big Apple now?” I joked. “Look, I’m a fan of Broadway as much as the next man, but isn’t this a bit theatrical?”
Still, no response. I stared at one of the officers, waiting to see if I could figure him out. But all the cop did was look to the front of the van, not intimidated, just doing his best to ignore me.
“Tough crowd,” I said and gave up.
These three were not going to give me any information. Whoever had hired them had told them to stay tight-lipped. I wasn’t going to get any answers until the van stopped. That was enough information for me. It let me know that no one in this van had any intent of inflicting pain or death upon me. Yet.
Rather than trying to rile these men up in the hopes that they might angrily reveal some information, I relaxed as much as I could in my seat and looked out of the window. The New York City skyline rolled by like it had in so many movies, but as any local knows, movies just can’t capture the majesty of the city as you’re driving into its heart.
Damn, I’d missed this place. For all its flaws, it was my home.
I watched the route the driver was taking, and within ten minutes, we were on territory that I knew well. As familiar buildings and street names passed by the window, each landmark seemed to churn up a series of memories that I had not reflected on in what seemed like forever.
We passed Sumner Street, where I used to hang out with friends at the age of ten or so, buying baseball cards from the mom-and-pop sports collectibles store. Not too far after that, we passed a building that until about fifteen years ago had been the National Theater, where I had not only seen my first movie, but years later also dared to put my hand on a girl’s leg for the first time.
The memories scuffle
d through my mind like drunken wanderers in a strange place; disorganized and chaotic. It was hard to imagine that those things had happened to me. They seemed like events from another life that belonged to someone I had never met.
I was struck by another pang of nostalgia five minutes later as the van drove by the apartment complex Sarah had lived in when we met. As an NYPD detective eager to prove himself, I had stumbled into a case that had almost cost me my life. Instead I had met an English reporter with a penchant for getting herself in trouble. I had berated her for putting herself at risk, and she had criticized me for being an “over-protective American.”
Three weeks later, we were having dinner twice a week. A month after that we moved in together. Eventually our son. And after that, it all happened far too quickly…all the way down to their deaths.
Sarah…
I blinked the memories away and pushed myself back into work mode. Knowing it would do no good, I asked again: “Where are we going?”
No one bothered to answer, although I did manage to get an amused look from the driver.
I continued to watch through the window. I knew where we were—it was an area I had spent a lot of time in while a resident of New York—and I started to get a very bad feeling. We were in Midtown, a strip called Clinton, AKA Hell’s Kitchen. It wasn’t too far away from where I had been raised. A series of thoughts raced through my mind, but before I could really sort through any of them, the van signaled right, pulled down a thin alleyway, and then came to a stop.
I looked at the towering brick walls on either side and the abandoned alley behind. If this was a hit, it was the perfect place for it.
The cops looked to the driver, and all three of them nodded to one another. The secondary cop—the one that had not spoken a single word since stepping in front of me at the airport—pulled the lever in the sliding door and rolled it open. A dingy street and a brick wall greeted him on the other side.
