by Glenn Cooper
He had told her the bare-bones facts; there wasn’t time for embellishments: he’d found clues to the origin of the library at Cantwell Hall. Monk savants. Calvin. Nostradamus. Shakespeare. Somehow the watchers had gotten onto him. They had torched the house, killed the Cantwells. He feared they’d come after them next. They had to leave New York immediately. He omitted the Finis Dierum revelation: now was not the time. And he omitted being a lying, cheating scumbag: there might never be a time for that.
Nancy’s first reaction was been a return to anger. How could he compromise Philly’s safety? If she could see these problems coming, why couldn’t he? What were they supposed to do now? Go underground? Leave the grid? Hide out in Will’s fancy new bus? The watchers were ruthless. So what if the three of them were BTH? That didn’t mean there wasn’t going to be a price to be paid.
Will absorbed the body blows without fighting back. She was right-he’d come to the same conclusion.
They frantically packed a couple of bags and threw in some of Phillip’s favorite toys, their service pistols and a few boxes of cartridges.
But before they left, Nancy flew around the apartment, making sure things were turned off, the milk was thrown down the sink. She finished and looked at Will, who was sitting on the sofa, bouncing Philly on his knee, lost in his son’s laughs and gurgles. Her demeanor shifted. Her face softened.
“Hey,” she said to him softly.
He looked up. She had a small smile. “Hey.”
“We’re a family,” she said. “We’re got to fight to keep this.”
The taxi ride to Westchester gave them an opportunity to work the angles and try to come up with the semblance of a plan. They’d spend the night at her parents’ house. They’d tell them their apartment was being fumigated or some such BS. Will would call his old college roommate and lawyer, Jim Zeckendorf, to see if they could use his house up in New Hampshire for a few days. That’s as far as they took it. Maybe the biting winds off the lake would bring them some inspiration on where to go from there.
Mary and Joseph Lipinski said they were happy to have Philly drop out of the sky into their home for the night but seemed concerned that something was up with the kids. Nancy helped her mother bake a pie while Will brooded in the living room, waiting for his new cell phone to ring. Joseph was upstairs with the baby, listening to the radio and reading the papers.
Finally, Zeckendorf returned Will’s call.
“Hey, buddy, I didn’t recognize this number,” he started, his usual upbeat self.
“New phone,” Will said.
Zeckendorf was Will’s oldest friend, one of his freshman roommates at Harvard in a quad that had included Mark Shackleton. Shackleton evoked nothing but contempt and pity. He’d ruined Will’s life by sucking him into the Doomsday plot and linking him forever with Area 51.
But Zeckendorf was completely different. The man was a prince, and Will considered him to be something of a guardian angel. As Will’s lawyer, he had watched Will’s back his entire life. Every time Will had a lease, a mortgage, a personnel problem at work, a divorce, or, more lately, an FBI severance agreement, Zeck was there with unlimited free advice. As Phillip’s godfather, he promptly set up a college account for the boy. He’d always admired Will’s law-enforcement career and considered it a noble thing to be his benefactor.
More recently, he was also his lifeline. When Will escaped from the watchers with Shackleton’s Area 51 database, Zeckendorf was the anointed recipient of a hastily written and sealed letter, with instructions to open it in the event Will ever disappeared.
It was Will’s insurance policy.
Will had told the watchers he’d put a dead man’s switch in place with the location of the stashed memory stick. They had no choice but to believe him. As it happened, Will’s monthly check-in calls to Zeck were an excuse for the two old friends to keep in touch.
“Always delighted to speak with you, but didn’t we just talk?” Zeck asked.
“Something’s come up.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t sound so good.”
Will had never told Zeck any of the details. They both preferred it that way. The lawyer had pieced a few events together. He knew Will’s sealed letter had something to do with Doomsday and what had happened to Mark Shackleton. He knew it played into Will’s early retirement, but that was the extent of it. He understood Will was in some danger and that the letter was, in a way, protective.
He’d always been able to offer Will a perfect blend of lawyerly concern and an ex-roommate’s ribbing. Will could imagine the worried expression of Zeck’s smooth face, and knew he was probably compulsively straightening out his crazy-kinky hair with his hand, something he’d always done when he was nervous.
“I’ve done something stupid.”
“So what else is new?”
“You know my secrecy agreement with the government?”
“Yeah?”
“I kind of stepped all over it.”
Zeck cut him short, transitioning into professional mode. “Look, say no more. We should meet to talk about it.”
“I was wondering if we could stay at your place in New Hampshire for a couple of days if you guys aren’t using it.”
“Of course you can.” Then he paused. “Will, is this line safe?”
“It’s a clean phone. I’ve got one for you too-I’ll send it.”
Zeck could hear the tension in Will’s voice. “Okay. You keep Nancy and my godson safe, asshole.”
“I will.”
Will and Nancy had arrived in White Plains with little warning, so the Lipinskis insisted they go out to dinner rather than assembling a meal of leftovers. An apple pie was cooling by an open window and would be ready when they returned. Up in Nancy’s old bedroom, which she and Will used as their guest room, Nancy brushed on makeup in the mirror of her childhood vanity table. In the reflection she saw Will sitting on the bed, tying his shoes, looking tired and miserable.
“You okay?”
“I feel like shit.”
“I can see that.”
“Were they nice people?”
“The Cantwells?” he asked sadly. “Yeah. The old guy was a character. English lord right out of central casting.”
“And the granddaughter?”
“Beautiful girl. Smart.” He almost choked up. “She had a lot to live for, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
Will wondered if he’d just spilled a confession, but if Nancy had any suspicions, she let it pass. “Did Jim call you back?”
“Yeah. He’s letting us have his place up in Alton. They won’t find us up there. I’ve got a prepaid phone to give your parents so you can stay in touch.”
“At least Mom and Dad are happy. They’ve got Philly for the night.”
Frazier hated the lack of autonomy. He felt like a peon having to call Secretary Lester every few hours, but if he wasn’t regular as a clock, Lester’s aide would call him instead. The DeCorso business had sealed his fate. The shit was flowing downhill.
Lester picked up. It sounded like he was at a party, with background chatter and clinking glasses. “Hang on,” Lester said. “Let me find someplace quiet.”
Frazier was alone in his car. He’d kicked his men out into the cool night air for privacy. They were sullen, milling outside his window, a couple of them smoking.
“All right. I’m here,” Frazier said. “What’s your status?”
“It’s done. Now we wait.”
“Probability of success?”
“High. It’s high.”
“I just can’t have a screwup, Frazier. You have no idea how damaging it was letting your man get caught. This has gone all the way up. I heard that the Prime Minister got the President out of the crapper to scream down the phone at him. He went on and on about a breach of trust among allies, damage to the special relationship et cetera, et cetera. Then the Brits threatened to pull their naval support for Helping Hand which, I don’t need to tell you, screws up my life on multi
ple levels. You have no idea of the logistics that’ve gone into this. It’s almost as big as the Iraq invasion. The minute the Caracas Event is over, we’ve got to be ready to move. With the Brits or without.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Frazier said flatly.
“I wonder if you do. Well, your reward is coming. To keep the peace, the President’s agreed to open the kimono for the first time. He’s letting the Brits into Area 51. They’re sending an SIS team next week, and you’re going to be their host, on your goddamn best behavior. But I swear to you, Frazier, screw this operation up, and you’ll be their hostess instead.”
On the way back from dinner at an Applebee’s, Joseph stopped at a late-night UPS store to let Will mail a cell phone to Zeckendorf. Phillip was peacefully asleep in his infant seat. When Will got back in the car, he remarked on how chilly it had become. There was a sleety, cold rain falling. Joseph, ever cost-conscious, clucked, “Since Philly’s here, I’ll turn the heat on tonight.”
The family settled in for the evening, the oil furnace rumbling in the cellar like an old friend. They tucked Philly into his crib and Nancy went to bed with a magazine. The Lipinskis disappeared into their bedroom to watch a TV show, and Will was left to himself to brood in the living room, tired beyond belief but too restless to sleep.
Suddenly he was seized by a powerful urge for a drink, not a glass of Joseph’s ubiquitous Merlot but a proper glass of scotch. He knew that the Lipinskis weren’t spirits drinkers but he had a rummage around in case someone had bought them a house gift. Finding none, he helped himself to Joseph’s car keys and stole out of the house, destination, a bar.
He drove over to Mamaroneck Avenue, the main commercial drag, and parked the car at a meter near Main Street. It was a bleak, wet, miserable night and the street wasn’t busy. Ahead of him, he saw the only cheerfully lit-up building, the new Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and he headed for it, his collar up against the rain.
The bar was up at the top of the high-rise, on the forty-second floor, and Will settled into an armchair and took in the spaceship view. To the south, Manhattan was a finger of pinpoint lights floating in the darkness. The bar wasn’t busy. He ordered a Johnnie Walker. He promised himself he wouldn’t go overboard.
An hour and three drinks later, he wasn’t drunk but he wasn’t exactly sober either. He was vaguely aware that a group of three middle-aged women across the room were fixated on him and that the waitress was awfully attentive. Typical. He got it all the time, and he usually milked it, but tonight he was in no mood.
In a way, he had been hopelessly naive to think he could have signed a secrecy agreement and walked away from the Library without being saddled by its knowledge and a slave to its fate. He had tried to ignore it, live his life without thinking about the ball and chain of predestination, and he had been successful for a while, until Spence and Kenyon rolled into town on their bus.
Now he was in it up to his eyeballs, suffocated by the realization that Isabelle and her grandfather had to die because he had to visit them. And Spence had to persuade him to go to England. And Will had to retire because of the Doomsday case. And Shackleton had to steal the database and perpetrate his crimes. And Will had to be his college roommate. And Will had to have the athletic skills and brains to get into Harvard. And Will’s alcohol-wicked father had to get it up and be able to perform the night he was conceived. And so on, and so on.
It was enough to make you crazy, or at least make you drink.
He stopped at three and paid the bill. He was overcome by an urge to hurry back to the house, lumber into bed noisily enough to wake Nancy, hold her in his arms, tell her again how sorry he was and how much he cherished her and maybe, if she wanted, make love, make absolution. He trotted back to the car and ten minutes later he was creeping back into the warm and cozy Lipinski house.
He sat on the edge of the bed undressing, the raindrops pinging the roof. Philly was peaceful in his crib. He slid under the sheets and put his hand on Nancy’s thigh. It was warm and smooth. His head was swimming. He ought to let her sleep, but he wanted her. “Nancy?” She didn’t stir. “Honey?”
He gave her a little squeeze but she didn’t respond. Then another squeeze. Then, a shake. Nothing!
Alarmed, he sat up and turned on the light. She was on her side and didn’t wake up to the harsh glare of the overhead fixture. He rolled her over onto her back. She was breathing shallowly. Her cheeks were red. Cherry red.
That’s when he noticed his own brain was operating slowly, not a drunkenness, a sluggishness, like gears that were clogged with gritty sludge. With all his might he yelled, “Gas!” and forced himself off the bed to open both windows wide.
He threw himself over the side of his son’s crib and picked him up. He was limp, his skin like shiny red plastic. “Joseph!” he screamed. “Mary!”
He began to give Philly mouth-to-mouth while he ran down the stairs. In the front hall he grabbed a phone, threw open the front door then put the infant on the rough welcome mat. He fell to his knees. In between chest-expanding breaths into his son’s little nose and mouth, he called 911.
Then, he made a desperate decision. He left the baby on the mat and ran back inside for Nancy, screaming for her at the top of his lungs, like a man who was trying to wake the dead.
Chapter 29
Will heard his name. The voice was coming from far away. Or was it close but whispered? Either way, it caused him to snap from a disturbingly light sleep to the reality of the moment: a hospital room streaming with daylight.
At the instant of wakening he was uncertain whether he was patient or visitor, in the bed or beside it, having his hand held or holding someone’s.
Then, with a blink, it came back.
He was holding Nancy’s hand, and she was staring up into his bloodshot eyes and pitifully squeezing his thick fingers. “Will?”
“Hey.” He wanted to cry.
He could see the confusion on her face. The flashing, beeping ICU machinery didn’t make sense to her.
“You’re in the hospital,” he said. “You’re going to be okay.”
“What happened?” She was hoarse. The intubation tube had been removed only a few hours earlier.
“Carbon monoxide.”
She looked wild. “Where’s Philly?”
He squeezed her hand tightly. “He’s okay. He came out of it fast. He’s a little fighter. He’s in the pediatric wing. I’ve been shuttling back and forth.”
Then, “Where’s Mom and Dad?”
He squeezed her hand again, and said, “I’m sorry, honey. They didn’t wake up.”
The chief of police and the fire marshal personally peppered Will with questions all day, cornering him in the hospital corridors, pulling him out of Nancy’s room, ambushing him in the coffee shop. An electrical wire to the furnace blower motor had been disconnected, causing a deadly buildup of carbon monoxide. The safety cutoff switch had also been disabled. Compounding it all, the Lipinskis didn’t have CO 2 detectors. This was a deliberate act, no doubt, and Will could tell from their initial questioning that he was a “person of interest” until the discovery of a broken bulkhead lock led them to believe he was more likely a victim than suspect.
The fact that he was ex-FBI and Nancy was active-duty didn’t escape them, and by midafternoon, the Manhattan office of the FBI had pretty much elbowed the locals out of the way and taken control of the investigation. Will’s former colleagues circled him warily, waiting for the right moment to grill him.
They tagged him making one of his shuttles between his wife and his son. He was only mildly surprised to see Sue Sanchez approaching, her high heels hammering the floor. After all she was Nancy’s supervisor. On the other hand, he was repulsed to see John Mueller with her.
Will and Sanchez always had a relationship based on mutual distrust and animus. Years earlier, he had been her supervisor. By self-admission, Will was a piss-poor boss, and Sue was always sure she could do a better job than he. She got the chance when he
was busted down a grade for having an “inappropriate relationship” with another supervisor’s admin.
On a Friday she reported to him, on a Monday the roles were reversed. Their new chain of command was nightmarish. He responded to her by being asinine and passive-aggressive. If it hadn’t been for his need to stick it out for a couple of years to get his full pension, he would have metaphorically and perhaps literally kicked her officious Latina ass.
Sanchez was his superior during the Doomsday case, and she’d been the stooge dispatched to remove him when he got too close to Shackleton. A chain of puppet masters had used her as a tool, and she still resented not knowing why she’d been ordered to terminate him, why the Doomsday case had entered a deep freeze without resolution, and why Will had been given an absurdly attractive early-retirement package.
As fractured as Will’s relationship was with Sue, it was worse with John Mueller. Mueller was priggish, by the book, an agent more concerned with process than results. He was a ladder-climber, anxious to get out of the field as early in his career as possible and rise in the bureaucracy. He resented Will’s cavalier, insubordinate attitude and his moral transgressions, the drinking, the womanizing. And he was horrified that Nancy Lipinski, a young special agent with the potential to be a Mueller clone, had been turned to the dark side by Piper and had even married the scoundrel!
For Will’s part, Mueller was a poster child for everything wrong with the FBI. Will had worked cases to put bad guys away. Mueller worked them to accelerate his career. He was a political creature, and Will had no time for politics.
Mueller was the original lead special agent on the Doomsday case, and had it not been for his sudden incapacitating illness, Will would never have been assigned to the case. He would have never worked with Nancy. He would have never hooked up with her. The Doomsday case might have been solved. An entire chain of events would have been avoided if Mueller hadn’t had a little clot that shot into his brain.
Mueller had fully recovered and was now one of Sanchez’s pet poodles. When the call came in that Nancy and her family had been deliberately targeted, her first move was to get Mueller to drive her to White Plains.
