“I’m a cop, Doug. You used to know that.”
“There are plenty of cops I could call in. This isn’t about you, Jess. I need to handle this by myself; that’s the only way it’s going to work. If they think I’m not alone, it will scare them off.”
“All right. Ten o’clock, by the phone. How long should I wait?”
“One way or the other, it will be over by ten thirty. Probably before that.”
“Then call me and let me know you’re okay.”
“I will.”
“Be really careful,” she says.
“That’s the second time you’ve said that, and Nate used those exact words.”
“That’s because being careful was never your specialty.”
I head home, tailed by my protectors. When I reach my building, I am glad to see that the parking lot in front is crowded, which makes my parking in the rear lot seem normal. Once I do, I open the trunk and take a quick look to confirm I have what I need, and then walk around to the front of the apartment.
I make a stop to talk to the two cops in the patrol car, and the driver rolls down his window. “I’m home for the night, guys, so you can take off if you feel like it.”
“Not your call,” he says. “We’ll be here.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
I hadn’t expected that to work anyway, but it was worth a shot. It won’t affect me one way or the other.
I find it interesting and a little disconcerting the way Nate and Jessie both felt it was so important to tell me to be very careful. It makes me believe that I must have been seen as a hothead, somebody prone to unnecessary risks.
It doesn’t feel like I’m that way now, but I don’t know if I’ve changed, or if they were wrong in their assessment. It’s probably the former, and it might be as a result of my getting shot and having the resulting memory loss. I’m sure Nate’s taking a bullet has contributed to my more cautious approach as well.
The reason it’s disconcerting is that I feel like I’m an observer of myself, looking at me from the outside. I’m trying to figure out who I am, rather than knowing who I am. It is not a good feeling.
But what I’m going to do tonight, while some would lump it in with the overzealous label that it appears I’ve earned, doesn’t feel like that to me at all. I think of it as doing my job, and doing what I have to do to survive.
These people have nearly killed me once, and they should have every interest in finishing the job. I understand that I’ve put myself in this position, but creating a lure to defend myself, to have the confrontation on my terms, does not feel crazy at all.
I’ve got four hours to wait until I have to leave, which gives me some time to think of all the possibilities. I believe I have most things covered, and if it turns out that I’m wrong, I will most likely be able to abort the operation. I really don’t want to have to do that; it will just be delaying the inevitable.
One worrisome thing is that I remember the pavilion and surrounding area at Eastside Park as it was ten years ago. It had been unchanged for all my life before that, and I doubt that it would be any different today, but it could be, and I wouldn’t know it. I should have driven down there and checked it out; not to do so was careless, another sign that I’m off my game.
I keep staring out the window, just waiting for it to get dark. My protectors are still parked in front of the building, just where they should be. They’re probably taking turns sleeping, and counting the minutes until the next shift arrives. They don’t know it, but by that point they’ll be protecting an empty apartment.
When it’s dark enough for my purposes, I take the elevator downstairs, and then walk down the hall to the furnace room. I enter it, and then go outside through the back delivery entrance, the same exit we used to avoid the media when I went to Trenton for the press conference.
I walk to my car under cover of darkness, knowing that my guards have no idea that I’ve left the apartment. I get in the car and start it, then pull out without turning my lights on.
I’m on the way, and I’m a little surprised that I feel a strong rush of excitement. Not anxiety, or fear, or even concern.
Excitement.
Nate and Jessie are right about me.
The sky has cooperated.
A thin layer of clouds has reduced the moonlight but left me with enough light to function. Paterson’s traditional lack of funds for structural improvement has also cooperated, and the pavilion and surrounding area seem just as I remembered them.
The pavilion building is set between a large baseball field on one side and two Little League–sized fields on the other. I played on all of those fields very long ago, though it doesn’t seem as long as it might, with ten years removed. I’m not aware of any function the building ever had, other than to house a snack bar that was infrequently open, and which sold nothing even close to edible.
The main reason I chose it is that it’s virtually impossible to approach it without being seen. It’s on the lower level of the park, and the road down to it is a long and winding one, dubbed by kids as Dead Man’s Curve. The other entrance is off Route 20, but again it would be hard if not impossible to arrive unannounced.
I pull up close to the pavilion on the grass. It’s illegal to park there, but no one is around to stop me, and hey, I’m a cop. I then go inside the building, using my flashlight to refamiliarize myself with the layout inside. It’s just as I remembered it … basically one large room with no way in or out except through the front.
I leave my cell phone on the floor, about fifteen feet from the door, and go back outside. Then I find the darkest spot behind the largest tree and wait. It’s well before ten, but if I were in their shoes, I’d get here early to prepare and get the upper hand.
If I’m nervous about any of this, I’m hiding it very well, even from myself. I’m closer to relishing than dreading the upcoming confrontation.
Exactly at twenty minutes to ten, I see the lights of a car coming down Dead Man’s Curve. I’m going to be surprised and very annoyed if it’s actually Danny Peterson, arriving as ordered. My expectation is that it’s Bennett’s men, tipped off by Peterson that I would be here, unprotected.
The car parks on the street about a hundred yards from the pavilion, and I can see two men get out. They are both large, much larger than Danny Peterson. They are murderers, but they are not weasels.
They approach cautiously, stopping to make sure I am not in the car. I can see a glint of light off each of their handguns. They walk past the car and right up to the pavilion beyond it.
“Come on out, Brock.” One of them calls that out while they stand against the walls of the pavilion porch. “Let’s talk,” he says, but tucked into the walls for cover, with guns drawn, they don’t seem to be in talking position.
When they don’t get a response from me, they look around to see if it’s possible that I am not in the pavilion. But I am well shielded by the tree and the darkness, and they can’t see me. Should they move this way and approach, I will shoot each of them in the head. But they don’t. With my car in front of the building, they just take it on faith that I’m inside.
“Come on, Brock. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
I take out Nate’s cell phone and dial my number. A few seconds later, I can hear it ringing from its vantage point on the floor of the pavilion. I stop it after two rings, as I would have if I were inside, trying to conceal my hiding place.
The two men look at each other, probably realizing that I could be asking someone on the other end of that phone to send help, and that they had better move quickly. They move quietly and carefully up the steps of the building, and go inside.
Once they are out of sight, I move to my car and turn the bright lights on, shining toward the building. Then I open the trunk and take out a canister.
I have no doubt that the two men can see the lights from wherever they are in the building, but just to make sure I have their attention, I fire a shot off
the building’s front façade. I sneak off to the side, facing the front, and away from my car, where they now must be positive I am. I take the canister with me. In any event, the bright lights from my car will make it hard for them to look out and see anything.
I call out. “The roles are now reversed, assholes. Your turn to come out. And if you have your guns in your hands, you won’t make it two steps.”
Their response is to fire four rounds at the car. These are not the brightest bad guys in the world, because they neglect to shoot out the headlights.
When things quiet down, I call out to them again. “You don’t really listen well. So try this: in a little while you’re going to come out, but this time you’ll be coughing and your eyes will be on fire. When you do, throw your guns out first, or I am going to put a bullet in each of your heads. I don’t want to warn you again.”
With that, I take out the canister and fire a round of tear gas through the window. I then take aim at the front door, figuring it will take about twenty seconds for them to appear. I’ve got to give them credit; it takes closer to thirty.
Finally there they are, choking and gagging, and seeking fresh air. “Throw your guns in front of you!” I scream while firing a warning shot. They both do so, and then fall to the ground, still gasping. They are lit quite nicely by the car’s headlights.
I move toward them, gun drawn. I have a second handgun in case I need it, but I doubt I will. These will not be moving targets should I have to fire.
“Stand up,” I command, and they do so with some difficulty. They’re still feeling the effects of the tear gas. I give them a couple more minutes to recover and breathe normally, because I’m a really nice guy, and then say, “Now let’s have a little talk. Who sent you here tonight?”
They don’t say anything.
“Okay, let’s try another one,” I say. “What were Bennett and Gharsi doing together?”
Still not a word out of them.
“This is my fault for not explaining the ground rules. I am going to ask you some questions. If you don’t answer them, I am going to put a bullet in a place on your bodies. I’ll alternate; first a bullet in you, and then in you. I’ll call you Mr. Right and Mr. Left, and we’re talking about my right and left, not yours. All set? Now who sent you here?”
Not a word; they seem to be unconvinced, or maybe still unclear about the rules.
“Boys, understand something. I know that you came here to kill me tonight. If these roles were reversed and either of you was holding the gun, I’d be dead, and you’d be heading off to have a beer. So nothing I do to you will make me feel bad.”
I continue. “So this is the last time I’m going to ask you; who sent you here?”
They don’t answer, so I shoot Mr. Right in the leg. I place the bullet just above the knee, because I’m also a caring guy. He screams in agony and falls to the ground. Having been shot myself recently, I personally believe he is overreacting.
I turn to Mr. Left. “Your turn,” I say, “but let me give you a tip … you might want to try to cover your balls. It probably won’t help, but you never know. Now who sent you here?”
Mr. Left, quite possibly the brighter of the two, says, “Luther Castle.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“If he finds out I told you that, we’re both dead.” Mr. Right doesn’t confirm or deny that; he’s still moaning.
“If you keep talking and tell me what I need to know, I won’t say a word. And you’ll still be able to father children. It’s a win-win, except for the children.”
“You made your point; you win this round,” Mr. Left says.
“I win every round.” I would compare myself to a current boxing champion, but I don’t know any. I’ve got a hunch mentioning Evander Holyfield would make me sound dated. “What did Bennett and Gharsi have going on?”
“We don’t know,” he says.
“Uh-oh.” I point the gun. “Left ball in the corner pocket.”
“I swear, they don’t tell us anything,” he says, near panic. “Just that something big was going on.”
“How do you know that?”
“They were recruiting people; offering huge money.”
“How much money?”
“Seven figures,” he says. “For each guy.”
“For doing what?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows; there is going to be a meeting to tell the guys who sign on; everybody would hear it at once. But the deal is that once you agree to do it, there’s no backing out.”
“Where and when is the meeting?”
“I don’t know. They haven’t said yet. But I think it’s soon.”
“So Gharsi’s death didn’t end it?” I ask.
“I don’t know anything about Gharsi, but whatever it is, it ain’t over, that’s for sure.”
I ask some more questions, but I get very little additional information. I don’t think there is more to be gotten, but I can’t be sure. I could shoot them some more, but ultimately opt against it.
“Get out of here,” I say. “If anybody else comes after me, I’ll get the word back to Bennett that you talked.”
Mr. Left agrees, though he and I know he is powerless to stop Bennett from sending anyone else to kill me. I watch as he helps Mr. Right to their car, then when they drive off I pick up their guns. I go into the pavilion and get my cell phone, not the easiest thing to do with the residual tear gas still in there.
Once I’m in my car, I call Jessie. She answers with, “Doug?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “No need to do anything.”
I can hear her audibly sigh in what I hope is relief, but might be disappointment. “Did you find out what you needed to?”
“Not yet, but I’m getting there.”
I want to ask her if she would like me to pick her up so we could go out for a drink, but I don’t have the nerve. I guess I’m willing to take risks about some things and not others. I drive home and park in the back, then sneak in through the same door I used to leave. The guys in front will never know I was gone.
All in all, it has been quite an evening. I suspect it says something about my character, and my condition, but I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself this much.
“I called you at home last night,” Bradley says. “You didn’t answer.”
I called this meeting with Bradley and Bettis, and I’m already regretting that I did. “Sorry, I conked out early, and must not have heard the phone. I’m finding that I still need a lot of rest. Maybe I should start taking vitamins.”
“Then I tried your cell,” he says. “No answer there either. I guess if you could sleep through one, you could sleep through the other.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
“I’m an understanding guy, but I’m also a worrier.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, but I don’t like where this is going. The fact that Bettis is smirking makes me even more sure I’m heading to the edge of a cliff.
“And because I’m such a worrier, I sent the two cops guarding you up to your apartment, to see what was going on.”
I shrug. “I probably slept through the doorbell.”
“I’m sure you did, so I had them get the super to let them in. You slept so soundly, you were invisible.”
“I wasn’t there,” I finally and inevitably admit.
“Well, that’s a fucking news flash. You mind telling me where you were, and why you disobeyed a direct order?”
“I was out doing my job.”
“Your job is to do what I tell you,” he says in a less than friendly tone. “And I told you to let those guys follow you, so that they can protect you.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, but when I lead them around, I’m like the goddamn grand marshal of the Rose Bowl Parade. I can’t get anything done that way.”
“And what have you accomplished your way?”
“Quite a bit,” I say, and I lay it all out for them. I leave out the part about shooting
Mr. Right; it interrupts the flow of the story, and would also leave me drowning in paperwork.
“How did you get these guys to talk?”
“I reasoned with them. If I remember correctly, I was on the high school debate team.”
Bradley calls Congers, who is at the task force offices, and briefly describes what is going on. Congers annoyingly but properly says that he needs us to tell the story to his bosses, so another meeting is to be convened in Bradley’s office. It’s to take place in two hours, a sign that they view this as very important.
Congers arrives with Special Agent Metcalf for the meeting, and I go through the story again. When I’m done, they start firing questions at me. “What makes you think they were telling the truth?” Metcalf asks.
I shrug. “I can’t be sure that they were, but I would bet on it. I gave them plenty of incentive to talk.”
“Did they claim to have seen Gharsi since the plane went down?”
“I have my doubts that they’d ever seen Gharsi, or even know who he is,” I say. “Why? Is it possible that he’s alive?”
“We don’t have a body” is all he’ll say in response.
“Do you have access to these two guys again?” Congers asks.
I shake my head. “No, this was a one-shot deal, literally. I don’t even know their names. If they send other guys after me, maybe I’ll get another bite of the apple.”
Metcalf’s turn again. “But they didn’t give any indication what the ‘big thing’ that was going to happen might be?”
I am getting annoyed; they’re talking to me as if I’m an idiot. “You think they might have, but I neglected to mention it?”
“You’ve been neglecting to mention a lot of things, like the fact that you were setting this whole thing up.”
“While on the other hand, you’ve been briefing me regularly on everything you’re doing,” I say, and then, “What have you been doing?”
“Has your memory fully returned yet?” Metcalf asks, ignoring the question and the jab.
I shoot a quick glance in the direction of Bradley and Bettis; I give them a nod that it’s okay to tell the truth. The stakes are getting too big to leave the Feds out of it; they have resources that we can’t hope to duplicate. “The story that was in The Times was way off; I’m nowhere with my memory.”
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