He had seen eyes tracking him as he came up the aisle, heard grumblings, a pointed comment here and there that Tommy Ottmeier had been struck by a built-in bookcase in a house constructed by Hayes Associates; see, there is Hayes himself … . This was nonsense of course. He had not built that bookcase. In fact, at no time in recorded history had he, Micah Hayes, ever held a hammer. That was filthy work for menial underlings.
The service began, arched over the sadness and joy of the occasion, then drew to a close. Micah Hayes’s thoughts had skated away. Were elsewhere. On his stomach. On other prospects. On a new property he had acquired near Park City. It was quite near an avalanche chute, but no matter; he knew which gears to oil in order to get the variances he needed to build his next farm of faux chateaux there for the Gentiles who were flowing in from out-of-State. They wouldn’t be looking uphill towards the avalanche potential, only downhill toward the bars.
At the end of the service, the congregation stood and waited to file from the church; the family first, from the front row, then each row in turn following them down the aisle. As the pew in front of Hayes emptied out, a man stopped abruptly, turned, and stared at him. The man’s eyes bulged with anxiety. His skin was the color of paste.
“Mr. Hayes,” the man said. “I am Jim Schecter. I work for the county. I’m … an engineer.”
This is the limit! Hayes thundered inside his head. The fools are attacking me at church! He fought to keep his face blank, his manner impassive.
“I inspected the roof of your new stadium,” the man was saying, his voice now rising and tightening, as if he was about to cry. “I—I think you know what I’m telling you.” He cleared his throat, glanced backward along the row of people he was keeping waiting in the pew.
Hayes turned and looked also. The entire Raymond clan had taken note, all eyes and ears focused sharply on the interchange. Hayes could see the whites of Enos Harkness’s eyes clear around his pupils. Katie’s eyes were half closed, her lips curling upward. Ava was focused in fury on this … engineer. Hayes looked back at Ray, whose eyes were blank, unreadable.
The man squeaked, “I … was wondering if you’d … ah, like to see what a seismic retrofit can look like. I’m … um, going to the City and County Building to do my inspection there. I invite you to come along. Six o’clock this evening. I …” He paused, gulped, stared at his feet, his hands, his agitation growing. “There will be a geologist along as well, meeting me there. Her name … her name is Em Hansen. She says she has something to tell you about the feasibility of your new building site. The Towne Centre project. Right next to your new stadium!” Suddenly, Schecter’s face contorted with anger. “I know you used your influence to silence Sidney Smeeth. You should be ashamed! And that bookcase! Unspeakable!”
Hayes blurted, “You’re raving!”
Schecter struggled onward, beginning to stutter, although he looked like he might faint at any moment. “I’ve … I’ve told M-miss Hansen to come a little later. Six-thirty. So you and I c-can talk first. M-maybe there are things sh-she doesn’t need to know about. Do you understand me?” He stopped speaking. His eyes gaped even wider. He seemed to rise up on his toes as if threatening and at the same time, begging for comfort, an answer, admonishment.
Hayes fixed a commanding look on the man. “I’m sure I don’t have time for such twaddle,” he grunted.
“Six o’clock,” Schecter said, his voice going into a sing-song of recitation. “The building will be locked. The guard won’t be there—called away, I understand—but I’ll leave the east door unlocked for you. Remember that. East door.” With that, the man departed, almost leaping from the end of the pew like a flea.
Which is what you are on the hide of mankind, Hayes decided, rage filling the whites of his eyes with a tracery of red. He turned and looked behind him. Dozens of people had heard the interchange, and not a one now looked friendly.
WENDY FORTESCUE STARED into her monitor, adjusting the crosshairs along one more small aftershock that represented the release of perhaps a dinner table-size area along the Warm Springs branch of the Wasatch fault. She had a bad feeling. That bad feeling had lingered with her all week, had grown rather than lessened. The aftershocks just weren’t significant enough. It was too quiet, just like the whole Salt Lake segment of the fault had been since long before they began to record seismic activity. She feared with every bone that the fault was winding up for something much, much larger than it had dealt out on Monday.
Big quakes—ground-rupturing quakes—had, in pre-European times, ripped the Wasatch fault systematically, and doubtless would again. The towering steepness of the Wasatch Range, and the repeatedly torn apron of debris flows and alluvium that flanked it, attested to that. But those giant temblors had always shaken a landscape that had no structures, no buildings that could collapse. Wendy knew with certainty that when the next giant struck, buildings would fall. The older homes would collapse, their chimneys toppling through roofs as outer walls crumbled. Hospitals would fall, and civic buildings. The City and County Building might ride it out, but the state capitol, with all its countless tons of massive crystalline rocks, not braced by seismic retrofit, would be demolished. Perhaps the dome itself would plummet on the legislature, squashing the damned fools who refused to fund its retrofit. Highway bridges would collapse, and roads would split, making it impossible for emergency vehicles to do their jobs; and the airport control tower would rack and runways would crack, thwarting the arrival of aid. Power would fail, and water supplies would dwindle as lines and underground pipes ruptured. And far west of the city, Great Salt Lake would slosh like a bathtub, ricocheting shock waves from one side to the other, generating inland tsunamis that would crest the levees. And, as the valley slowly tipped to accommodate the addition of several new feet of real estate, that lake would flow eastward, flooding first what was left of the airport runways and next back up the waters of the Jordan River and City Creek, inundating the city itself. The brave new spruced-up center of the city would be hardest hit as its older brick and stone buildings tumbled, and businesses would close under the strain of interruptions and the cost of rebuilding.
She thought of the thousands—no, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands—who would die, and of all who would be sick, and hurt, and homeless. And she wept.
31
I HOBBLED UP THE STEPS TO THE MAIN GUARD DESK IN THE City and County Building, past the splendid travertine wainscoting, across the intricately patterned tiled floor. I had taken my time coming in from the sidewalk, where the taxi had dropped me. I went slowly, making certain that if anyone wished to see me, they would. The bulletproof vest I wore beneath my down parka was making me sweat, and it was difficult to swing my crutches, but just now comfort was not foremost in my mind.
Once past the guard’s desk, my progress became somewhat easier. I boarded the elevator, tensing as the doors opened. I got off at the fourth floor, for fear my enemy might be on it. I proceeded to the stairs that would take me up to the tower.
At the door to the stairs, I tapped three times, then once. Heard two faint taps in reply. I opened the door.
Jack was inside, waiting for me in the darkness. He moved up the stairs ahead of me as silent as a wraith.
My heart pounding in my chest, I distracted myself with thought. Now he’s a ninja. A new Jack Sampler persona for the archives. What next? A dipsomaniac granny carrying a birdcage?
At the next door, he whispered, “Ready?” He tugged at my vest, making sure it was firmly in place, then checked the metal collar I wore beneath my turtleneck shirt.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I whispered back. I smiled. I was not concerned about bullets from someone who used their hands to strangle or a SUV to crush, but the weight of the bulletproof vest felt comforting, as if Jack himself were wrapped about me.
“Radio?” he whispered.
I tapped my breast pocket.
Jack pointed over his head. “Jim’s already up there.”
> “Good,” I whispered. “How’s he doing?”
“Not so good,” Jack replied. “But he’s a little guy. I can carry him down when we’re done.”
“Ray?”
“It took a little persuasion, but I got him here.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything. I called his superiors and requested his services. He’s up past the bells, on the wooden part of the stairs. Above Jim. Hiding where Enos can’t see him.”
“He has the radio?”
“Yup.”
I shook my head doubtfully. “He’s a good cop. It’s a shame. Anything happen yet?”
“No.”
“Hayes?”
“No show.”
“As expected. He sent Enos?”
“Enos came. He’s up there with Jim.”
“Did he use his keys to get in?”
“No. He knocked. Jim opened up for him.”
“Then where are the keys?”
“Exactly. I covered things as best I could, but this place has way too many doors and staircases. Watch your back.”
“Who’s protecting Jim?”
“He’s wearing a vest, too. And Ray’s up there, remember.” He smiled wryly.
“Jim’s taking too much of a chance.”
“He welcomed it. Seemed to perk him up.”
“Okay,” 1 said. “Any more visitors, you make like a ghost and let them through.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Show time,” he said, and gave me a little kiss, again in the center of my forehead. It was a friendly thing. An affectionate thing. An intimate thing. Something that seemed to happen naturally between us. “Remember,” he whispered, “don’t go up above the clock faces.”
I waved one crutch a half inch. “Not on a bet.”
He opened the door.
I stepped through.
I hobbled up to the next level and ducked underneath the air duct. Waited, staring up at the thin steel rods that drove the hands around the mammoth faces of the clock. I lowered my gaze and turned slowly 360 degrees, checking out every shadow and blind angle in the place, taking special note of the two doors that led out onto the catwalks along the roofs, leading to the twin flagstaffs. If cornered, I must remember not to feel tempted to run out onto one of those. With the steep pitch of the roofs, it would be a quick trip down five stories to the walkways below.
“Hello?” I called.
High above my head, I heard Jim cough. “Em Hansen?” he said, his voice bouncing down the cold face of the masonry.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be down in … five minutes,” he said uncertainly.
A minute ticked past. I heard their low conversation. Enos and Jim, discussing engineering. Was I dreaming?
Two minutes.
Nothing. Jim and Enos had completed their discussion of the seismic retrofit. Jim asked about moment frames, as I had suggested. Asked if indeed Enos had been the one who had specified the frame for the new stadium. Enos said he had. He sounded calm, though somewhat dejected. Hardly murderous.
Three minutes. Enos’s voice still droned on, just talking. Did that mean he was innocent of both murders? Had I misgauged? Was he hoping to catch me after Jim left, or ask to meet me elsewhere? Ray thought him innocent, so deeply that he had misunderstood my assertions. The puzzle must fit, but perhaps with the pieces in a slightly different arrangement.
From which direction would the attack come?
I glanced all around me, watching, wishing my eyes could slide around the sides of my head. Glanced again at my watch. Wondered whether my precautions had been sufficient. Considered pressing the button on the radio, just to hear it squelch above me, just to make certain Ray could hear what I thought he would soon hear. But I didn’t want to give away his position.
Four.
After another furtive look at my watch, I glanced overhead, checking again to make certain that no one could drop anything on me. I was clear. But it was not the stairs overhead that worried me most.
Thirty more seconds ground, one at a time, deep into my skull. It’s taking too long. It isn’t working!
A tick. A whirring noise issued from the hydraulic tank, and the arms above it began to move, rising, pulling, moving the long steel cables that rose high overhead, where Ray waited. As the armatures began to descend, the bells chimed, ringing, clanging, filling the dark column of space with sound. Under the cover of their titanic noise, I saw something from the corner of my eye: the door to the catwalk that led to the flagstaff opening, the flag whipping against a dark sky, framing a silhouette—
Fast, coming like a bullet—
I dropped one crutch, whipped my hand for the radio, pushed the button, knowing its sound would be lost in the bells. Fear cut through me like ice.
The bullet resolved into a shape—
Katie!
She flew at me from the shadows, hands up, teeth bared, growling, her fierce strength and jealous beauty focused on my throat.
I opened my mouth to scream Jack’s name, but the bells swallowed my small sound like a furnace consuming a moth.
I lunged sideways, fell—
She landed on me, her full weight writhing on me, eyes afire, pelvis grinding in ecstasy as her hands closed around my throat—
Jack yanked her up so hard that I came with her, tugged to my knees.
She whirled, arms windmilling, clawing like a cat.
I hit the button again, screamed “Ray!” though my knotted throat.
Jack whipped Katie’s muscular frame into a wrestling hold.
I struggled to my feet, staggered, caught my footing, leaned onto the crutches.
I heard footsteps thrumming along the steel catwalk and down the stairs. Enos coming. Ray at full gallop. Jim stumbling along behind.
Enos arrived first. “Katie!” he moaned, “Stop! Please! For the love of God!” Then, to Jack, he cried, “What are you doing to her?”
“Arresting her,” Jack said, his voice strained as he continued to fight her astonishing strength.
“Let her go!” Enos screamed. “I killed Pet Mercer, not her! Take me!” He fell to his knees in agony. Bent his head. Locked his hands over his cranium. Began to sob.
Ray hit the bottom step and charged into the melee. “Katie!” he screeched, a big brother scolding his baby sister. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
Katie suddenly slumped against Jack, the fighting cat transformed in a blink to a pathetic kitten. “Ray! Make them stop it!”
Ray lunged at Jack.
My crutch was still in my hand so I swung it. Got him right in the shin. It made a very satisfying smack and he went down hard.
Ray rolled, grabbing at a leg bent in pain. He stared up at Jack, who was now handcuffing a thrashing, growling Katie to the steel bracing of the stairs. Ray whined, “What are you doing, man?”
“Arresting your little sister for the murder of Sidney Smeeth,” Jack said almost calmly. “Although I’m gonna hafta add on the attempted murder of Em Hansen. Naughty girl, Katie; mustn’t do.”
Ray looked up at me. He looked again at Katie. He looked lost.
Katie’s face twisted into a mask of hatred. “Kill her, Ray!” she roared. “Use your gun. You’re a cop. You know what to do! She attacked me. Look! You saw her! She just assaulted you with her crutch! Are you going to take that from a woman? Kill her, Ray! She wants to change everything! She wants to break up our family! Take from us. Take from us! You have to kill her, Ray! Kill her! KILL HER!”
“And why did you have to kill Sidney?” I asked. “Did she threaten to expose him? She almost said it all, exposed your husband right there on nationwide TV, a ruin to all your years of planning, and pushing, and hating. Or was it just the joy of knowing you could do it? There you are, a dog off the leash. Everyone thinks you’re out jogging for your morning exercise. And there she is. The meddlesome bitch is opening her gate. One instant and you’re through the gate …”
Katie’
s face twisted further, knotting around her teeth in a snarl. “You spawn of the devil! I’ve worked hard to get Enos positioned! It wasn’t easy with a hopeless fool like him, but I got him in there. Got him a job. Had to push him every inch of the way! Who cares about a few cracked welds?” She began to kick at Enos. “You couldn’t just get up there and paint over those cracks? What’s the matter with you? It’s the system! You’ve ruined everything! I worked hard! I’ve got sweat equity in this city!”
Enos hung his head and absorbed her blows.
“And Pet?” I asked.
Enos looked up at me but didn’t really see me. “She said she knew,” he said miserably. “I couldn’t let her put Katie in the paper, could I?”
I looked at Ray, who now lay sprawled out on the floor, almost relaxed, his eyes glazed. “Let’s go home now, Katie,” he said very softly. “Let’s go home. Mama’s got dinner ready.”
KATIE AND Enos rode away in the back of a squad car with lights flashing. The members of the media who had arrived to chase the radio calls watched them go, cameras flashing into the night, like a bad dream gone Disneyland.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the City and County Building, leaning on my crutches, rubbing at the bruises on my neck that Katie had managed to put there in spite of the protective collar. I was almost glad for the pain, as it cut through my weariness and confusion, reminding me that what I had thought to be true was true.
Jack put a hand on my shoulder. “Okay for now?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It’s gonna hurt worse later. We’ll get you some rest. Quiet. When you’re safe enough, you’ll get the shakes, and work it out of your system. Then you’ll be better by and by.”
Jim Schecter stepped up closer, a shy man ready to take flight. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry that you got hurt. But I’m glad to get the story out. At last.”
I smiled and nodded. “Keep up the good work,” I told him. “People don’t like to be caught at their games, but it’s a job worth doing.”
His lips curved into a smile, even though his eyes still registered pain.
Fault Line (Em Hansen Mysteries) Page 28
