by J. A. Kerley
“Talking about …killing …me sick …gonna puke.” He bent over, hands clutching at his stomach.
Day punched Jeremy’s head, sending him to his knees. “ …woman turned you into …puking pussy-boy …little queer …kill you and maybe …can be a man about it.”
Day pulled a curved gutting knife from his belt. He straddled my brother, grabbing Jeremy’s chin and yanking his head back.
“ …take it …death like a man. Daddy needs you …die like a man. The knife needs you to …”
Jeremy put his hands together. I thought he was praying, his last living action. His hands jolted toward Day’s face. The motion was hard and fast, like a punch. Day stumbled away, hands clawing at his right eye, grunting like a wounded animal. The knife tumbled to the floor. Day dropped to his knees.
I tried to speak but it came out as a moan. Jeremy crouched and picked me up like I was a child, carried me gently to the couch. I looked over his back, saw Day’s hands pressed to his face, blood jetting from between fingers.
My vision sharpened as the toxins dissipated. I studied Day’s face. Three inches of wood protruded from his left eye: Jeremy had concealed his beef skewer under his shirt, eluding Day’s metal detector. Day’s brain was emptying between his fingers. He lay on his side now, making noises more akin to a crying child than a wounded beast. We watched until Jim Day was still.
Then, something utterly strange: A burst of cricket sounds came from Day’s corpse. I was still breathing out the poisonous vapors, unsteady in my head.
The crickets started again.
“It’s his phone, Carson,” Jeremy said, pulling the device free of Day’s pocket and snapping it open. The screen showed a blurred movie of people in a tunnel. They had white circles on their heads. I heard laughter. The blur whirled to a group of people talking. Shelly Waltz centered the group. The camera moved on and the scenes became a muddy roar.
It wasn’t a movie, it was cell-phone video from the convention. The tunnel was a wide hall. The white circles were campaign boaters emblazoned with VOTE FOR PELHAM.
Jeremy studied the phone over my shoulder. The screen went black.
“Daddy’s new boy is sending postcards of his travels,” my brother said. “He seems a busy lad.”
FORTY-TWO
“I’ve got to get from Spanish Harlem to the conference, Shelly,” I said into my phone, heart pounding. “Something bad’s going to happen to Pelham.”
“She’ll be here at the hotel in minutes. When she arrives, she’ll be wrapped in a tight cocoon of security. We’re got cops and tech staff crawling everywhere, checking everything from the underside of the tables to the podium. What could go wrong?”
“One minute ago you were talking to a group of people in a hallway. You looked worried. Everyone around you has white hats.”
A stunned pause. “How’d you know that?”
I gave him the ten-second explanation. He said, “I’ll send a car.”
“Uh, Shelly? Jeremy’s here. He’s coming with me. It’s essential.”
“What?”
“Shelly, you’ve got to trust me.”
“Where the hell is Folger?”
“Jeremy says she’ll be returned today.”
“He can’t come here. You can’t expect me to –”
“I expect you to go the distance,” I said. “We’re almost there, Shelly. If it falls apart now, it falls apart hard.”
“I can’t let a serial killer in the same hotel as the person who’s probably our next President. No way.”
“Pelham’s in grave danger. Jeremy can help find that danger. Vangie gave her life for this moment, Shelly. Don’t take it from her.”
It was a lie and a below-the-belt punch, but it was all I had. Five minutes later the blue-and-white approached at what appeared to be mach one, siren, lights, horn honking. The cruiser banged up over the curb, Koslowski at the wheel. I pushed Jeremy into the back seat, jumped beside him. Koslowski shot a look in the rear-view, recognized my brother.
“Mary, Mother of God,” Koslowski whispered.
“Did Shelly tell you we’d be …’
Koslowski turned his eyes from the mirror, jammed the cruiser in gear and roared away. He kept his eyes straight, muttering, “I don’t see him. I don’t see a thing.”
I hunkered down and watched the phone screen. Twice the device burred, followed by a brief stream of video, our quarry sending mission feedback to Daddy. The pics – crowd shots and hotel interiors – lasted five to ten seconds before the screen went blank.
Koslowski fishtailed to the hotel’s rear delivery door. He shot a final glance at Jeremy. My brother pushed his hand through the open Plexiglas divider, thumb-flipped a bright gold coin on to the dashboard, spoke in a refined British accent.
“Spirited run, driver. Keep the change.”
I yanked him out by the collar. The service door opened: Waltz. He shot fierce eyes at my brother.
Day’s phone rasped. Waltz and Jeremy leaned close to see a grainy shot of a limo gliding to a curb, a door opening. Pelham exited, waving to the crowd.
“He’s at the front of the hotel,” I said.
We pushed through the crowded lobby, Waltz on my right, Jeremy on my left.
Waltz said, “Another doll arrived at Pelham’s headquarters this morning. It was the final doll, the solid one.”
“The mouth was painted over, right?”
“Judge for yourself.”
We sidestepped a group of reporters as Waltz pulled a clear evidence bag from his pocket, the doll looking out. One glance and my stomach slipped sideways: The entire head had been painted away.
Bullard was across the room, near the front window, watching Pelham’s progress. He held a phone or walkie-talkie in his hand, shiny black with a silver antenna. I figured he was sending progress reports to a command post in the hotel. I shot a look at Jeremy. Somehow in our brief walk he’d acquired a ball cap and reading glasses, an impromptu disguise.
The lobby was a flood of yelling, surging bodies, pandemonium. The smaller and security-cleared audience for Pelham’s address was dining in the meeting arena on the second floor, awaiting The Candidate. Pelham was still outside, pressing the flesh. The three of us were looking for cellphones, not difficult, every other person had one lifted, ready to record Cynthia Pelham’s entrance. Jeremy stiffened, stood stock-still. Focused his eyes on someone across the lobby.
“Jeremy?”
“Shhhh.” He kept staring.
Pelham entered the hotel, her entourage whipping through the revolving doors. She was encircled by staffers, NYPD officers, and two men whose earpieces marked them as Secret Service. My brother tapped my arm, pointed across the lobby.
“That kid over there. He’s afflicted. Look at his eyes.”
I turned to see a blond male in his late teens, tall and well built, a first-string linebacker. He wore a suit and tie, held a clipboard in one hand. He had a cellphone in the other, the same style as Day’s hi-tech model. His eyes looked absolutely normal to me.
“Daddy’s boy,” Jeremy sang.
I darted ahead of Pelham’s group, noted that Bullard had joined her entourage, doing the keep-back motion with his hands to hold the fawning crowd at bay. The kid was standing in the wide hallway in front of a door that said KITCHEN TWO. He shot me a glance. Jeremy was right, the kid’s eyes resembled frosted marbles. He saw no threat in me and aimed the marbles toward Pelham. He pointed the phone her way, thinking he was broadcasting to Daddy, not knowing the show was playing in the pocket of a guy two steps away.
“Excuse me, I’ve got to get into the kitchen,” I said. “The hors d’oeuvres are ready.”
“Sure,” he grunted, stepping away from the door, keeping the camera angled at Pelham. I swung the door open, held it with my leg. Just as Pelham swept past, I shot my arm around the kid’s neck and yanked him into the kitchen, yelling for Security.
Four guys were there in seconds, Waltz right behind. I had my knee in the
kid’s back and my arm around his neck. The security detail took control cautiously, the kid snapping like a shark, eyes wild, foam pouring down his chin. When the kid’s strength poured out, the cops put him in restraints, one cop emptying the kid’s pockets. He held up a plasticized card.
“An ID for a student newspaper. Never heard of the school.”
“Fake,” I said. “The kid attends or attended a place called Camp Wilderness.”
“I got a knife. Small, three-inch blade.”
“Plenty long enough to slice to the carotid,” Waltz said.
The knife, the cellphone, a few bucks and a subway pass were all the kid was carrying. I watched as he was toted off to a different kind of camp.
Waltz put his hand on my shoulder. “Jesus, how close was he to Pelham? Ten feet? Less?”
Day’s phone rasped in my pocket. Puzzled, I slipped it out. On the screen was a jittery shot of Pelham stepping into the second-floor meeting hall, walking toward the podium alone, people at tables standing and cheering. All guests and otherwise who had business on the secured second floor had been vetted and approved. Pelham’s circle of protection had melted away.
“How nice,” Jeremy said, looking over my shoulder. “There’s another boy in the game and he’s made it to level two.”
FORTY-THREE
Papers, photos, files, and reports surrounded Cluff as if scattered by an explosion, laying where they fell when he pushed everything from his desk but the files from the two juvenile facilities. He leaned close, giving them the third look in a minute, his anxious eyes moving from the Newark report on his left to the report from the Bridges juvenile facility on his right. He re-checked admission and release dates. Making sure the names were the same.
It don’t necessarily mean anything. People change …but why do I feel like there’s a siren screaming in my head?
He pulled his phone and started dialing.
I bolted toward the stairs, not caring who I pushed aside. I turned into the stairwell and felt a hard blow to my sternum. The rock-hard hand of a massive uniformed cop. Two other walls of beef stood beside him, giving me laser eyes.
“Show me ID,” the guy with his hand in my belly said. “You need special ID for the second floor.”
The cop beside him said, “I don’t see any kind of ID.”
Waltz ran up, breathing hard. “He’s with me, Barney. He’s OK. Let him go.”
“My orders are no one without clearance or an NYPD identification can go past –”
“I’ll take responsibility. Let him go!”
I continued up the steps, Waltz laboring behind. I saw my brother following and waved him back, hoping he saw my warning. I hit the second floor, the doors to the cavernous meeting room in front of me. I slipped into the room, saw a couple hundred women at round tables with carafes and glassware in front of them. Pelham was seated to the side of the podium, another woman droning at the mic, the introduction part of the proceedings.
“ …tireless advocate of the disenfran-chised …”
I looked toward the side of the room and saw Bullard, his phone raised, his eyes dark and angry. Bullard? Could it be?
I sidled along the wall and snatched the phone from his face. It was a bargain brand with no video function. Bullard wasn’t the one.
“What the fuck’s with you, asshole?” he whispered, snatching it back. “I’m trying to talk to Cluff. His signal keeps breaking up in here.” He put the phone back to his face. “You gotta talk louder, Cluff, I can’t goddamn hear.”
Day’s phone sounded. I studied the screen. A tight tunnel, empty, probably one of the service corridors. Where could it be?
“ …great pleasure to introduce the next President of the United States, Congresswoman Cynthia Pelham …”
I started to move away when Bullard grabbed my arm. I turned. He held up a finger, just a second, while frowning into the phone. I looked at Day’s device. The sender was still moving through the corridor, the video murky, undefined. The screen turned black.
Bullard closed his phone. He looked confused. “Cluff did more checking of Newark and Bridges. There were a half-dozen crossover juvie admissions to both facilities when Bernal and Anderson were working. One of them was named Jonathan Cargyle.”
“Cargyle?”
“Like that newbie in Tech Services. He was here earlier, working. Making sure everything was safe.”
I looked to the dais, saw a wide-smiled Pelham at ease in her element.
“ …gives me a feeling of satisfaction to look out over the faces of so many accomplished women. When I am President I vow that …”
“Cargyle?” I saw a mind picture of the innocuous kid who was never without tools or telephones. “What was he doing?”
“He was up on the stage. Checking the microphones or something.”
“ …making sure all women can achieve full equality in all fields of endeavor …”
I turned and saw Cynthia Pelham, a black microphone directly in front of her face. To the side, I saw Cargyle peeking through the curtain. He had a phone in his hand, held high, ready to send Jim Day the record of his triumph.
I started running to the dais. When I yelled, “Everyone down,” panic ensued. I was suddenly swimming against a tide of screaming bodies, women falling, folding chairs tumbling over, glasses breaking on the floor. Pelham held her ground. There was nowhere for her to run but into the tumult.
I saw Pelham’s Secret Service protectors fall beneath the crush of bodies. I was ten feet from the podium.
I pushed a woman aside, dove across another. Five feet.
I grabbed the microphone, cast-iron stand and all. Wires popped free as I sprinted to the window and launched it into the glass with every bit of strength in me, stand, microphone and wires tumbling. I saw it hit the storm-proof glass, bounce back like rubber, fall to the floor inside the room. I dove away, rolling desperately. A white flash enveloped everything. The floor shuddered beneath my body.
Only then did I hear the explosion.
FORTY-FOUR
As explosions go, it wasn’t very big, a few grams of plastique, a bomb tech would later estimate. Just enough to fit within the tight confines of the microphone. But enough to remove Cynthia Pelham’s face and everything behind it. I sat in a second-floor room as a paramedic tweezed a small shard of microphone casing from my hand, the only wound sustained in the explosion.
Waltz walked into the room, leaned against the wall. The paramedic closed his bag and left. Waltz’s face was expressionless.
“Where’s Jeremy?” I asked.
“In security headquarters off the lobby, under arrest. He tried to follow us to the second floor. He got looked at real close and didn’t pass inspection.”
“Did Jeremy resist?”
“Your brother surrendered peacefully. He wanted to call his lawyer, to have the attorney waiting at the station. I traded him the lawyer call for Folger’s whereabouts. She’s getting picked up now.”
“Lawyer?”
“Solomon Epperman, your brother said. Doesn’t matter. Epperman can’t do diddly for your brother. He’s about to be transported to lock-up.”
“How about Cargyle?”
“Whisked off to Bellevue. He was having some sort of episode, screaming about his father.”
“If Cargyle doesn’t go full tilt down the crazy pipe, I expect he’ll tell amazing tales. Get a good shrink on his case. Male.”
Waltz’s phone rang. His face went dead serious. Relaxed as he talked. Was grinning when he hung up.
“We got Alice. She’s fine. Covered with soot, but she’s kicking and bitching and not a scratch on her.” Waltz looked like he was about to swoon, this time in delight.
“I’m gonna check on Jeremy, Shelly. Tell Alice I’ll see her shortly.”
I got to the front door as my brother was put in the back of a cruiser. He seemed relaxed, resigned to his fate. Once everything got sorted out, my brother would return to the Institute.
Bullard
appeared at my side. His hand was out and I took it. “Good job today, Ryder. Good job on the whole freaking everything. Between you and old Cluff, it’s got a happy ending.”
“If I wouldn’t have insisted I knew everything and let Cluff dig,” I admitted, “we’d have been onto Cargyle days ago.”
Bullard could have agreed, but damn if he wasn’t magnanimous. “Maybe. But it wasn’t your call to make, Ryder, it was the Lieutenant’s. I’m heading downtown. Want a ride?”
I accepted and we pulled away with my brother ahead of us by three car lengths, two bull-necked cops in the front of the cruiser, Jeremy in back. The car holding my brother stopped at a light. Jeremy craned his head around, studying the city, knowing he’d never return.
“Pull over by that drugstore a minute?” I asked Bullard.
“No problem. Whatcha need?”
“Gotta buy someone a toothbrush.”
He angled to the curb. I started to hop out, but was distracted by horns behind us, a wall of sound growing louder, followed by a roaring engine, a diesel wound to max rpm’s, red-lined.
“What’s all the racket?” Bullard said. He glanced in his rear-view. Whispered, “Holy shit.”
The roar became a scream of tearing metal and breaking glass. We turned in our seats to see a garbage truck fishtailing wildly, ripping the sides from parked cars like a can opener, pushing vehicles from its path like paper. A smashed motorcycle was snagged on the truck’s bumper, throwing sparks. Black smoke boiled, locomotive style, from the truck’s vertical exhaust.
The garbage hauler tagged our bumper and spun us as it howled past, trash pouring to the street from its open compacter. The hauler rammed the cruiser carrying Jeremy. Metal sheared away as the cruiser swirled, cops tumbling out. The truck stopped in the middle of the street and the door exploded open. A naked man leapt out, bandoliers draping his body, assault rifles in both hands.
He screamed, “Hail Asmodeus!”
And launched a fusillade of bullets in all directions.
Bullard howled, diving behind the cruiser, me scrambling after him. Two crashed vehicles exploded into flames. The dense smoke was acrid and blinding. I heard screams of bystanders as they stumbled over one another to escape. The air stank of garbage and gunpowder.
