by Jack Soren
PART TWO
Saturday
5
New York City
10:05 P.M. Local Time
WITH A FINAL thump on the thick glass, Emily Burrows fell back into the Town Car’s creamy silver leather upholstery, the heel of her hand red and sore from pounding on the glass for over five minutes straight, her throat raw from screaming. The panic rifling through her body aside, she’d never been in such a luxurious car before. At almost six feet tall, her slender frame fit easily into the space, a new experience for someone who spent most of her life banging her head on low ceilings. As her panting eased, she was about to start a renewed assault on her prison when a melodic voice spoke by her ear. She snapped her head around, confirming she was alone in the ample space.
“Over here, Miss Burrows,” the voice said.
It was coming from one of the three LCD screens set into the wood grain panel along the front of the compartment, door-to-door smoked glass above it, similar to the glass on the doors and behind her. Unlike most tinted glass, she couldn’t see through these at all.
This car was made for kidnapping. The thought renewed her panic and her breathing sped up. She swallowed hard and fought futilely to calm down.
“Please try to relax, Miss Burrows. Have a drink.” With that last, a seamless panel opened, revealing a few bottles of water in a refrigerated compartment. Against her better judgment, her dry throat made her grab one of the bottles and gulp down half of it.
Just then, the LCD screen showed the image of a well-appointed study, rows and rows of bookshelves in the background. Sitting at an expensive-looking desk was a man in a black suit, white shirt, and thin black tie. The man wore a mask over his eyes and nose. The kind of mask worn at luxurious masquerade balls: Short, colorful feathers sprouted out the top of the mask, and loops of jewels hung down from the bottom.
On the desk in front of the stranger sat a copy of her book: The Monarch’s Reign. She could see that more than half of the books behind the stranger in the rows of shelves were also versions of her book. All of the translations and formats were there: hardcover, softcover, book club, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and on and on.
A psychotic fan? Is that what this is all about? If nothing else, she was glad he was just an image on a screen. Actually being in that room would have been too much to take.
“Better?” the man asked, an almost gentle smile below the bizarre mask.
“Better? No, it’s not bloody better! You won’t get away with this,” Emily said, looking at the screen, but slowly reaching into her bag. The water had calmed her somewhat, at least enough to think. She slipped her cell phone out of the bag and attempted to dial without looking at it.
“Please stop wasting time. Your phone won’t work in there,” the man said, seeming disappointed rather than angry.
Emily stopped moving for a moment when her ploy was spotted. She looked up and saw a tiny camera in the corner of the car’s cab. She dialed 911 anyway. After a moment she saw he was right. There were no bars on her phone at all. Bollocks.
“Who are you? What do you want? Why am I here?” Emily spouted.
“I just want to talk. I think it will be quite beneficial for both of us,” the man said.
“Well . . . you better talk fast. That was a police detective I was with when your thug grabbed me,” Emily said accusingly, tossing her phone back in her bag. The detective was taking her down to the chief medical examiner’s office on First Avenue to be questioned about the subject of her book when a woman nearby had screamed, distracting him. He’d told her to stay put on the sidewalk while he went to see what was happening, then the thug grabbed her and pushed her into her current prison. The screamer was obviously a ruse.
“Yes, Miss Burrows, I know. Time is shorter than you could possibly imagine. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Be reasonable and you’ll be back on the sidewalk in just a few minutes. I need your help,” the man said.
“My help? Are you bloody insane? Why would I—” Emily briefly wondered what would happen to her if she wasn’t reasonable.
“Or should I call you Miss Denham?” the man said softly. Emily’s bluster evaporated, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open at the use of her real name.
Thoughts raced through Emily’s mind. How much does he know? Does he just know the name or does he know everything? She knew there was only one way to find out.
“Why . . . why would you call me that? My name is—”
“Emily Katherine Denham,” the man said. “Daughter of Sir Richard Denham, curator of the British Museum in London. Thirty-two years old, you studied law and criminology at Oxford University until you were expelled in your third year for . . . poor judgment. Your father used his influence to get you a posting with Interpol as the editor of their Web site, which you did for three years before resigning and dropping out of sight. Shortly before Emily Burrows, ex-Interpol operative showed up in New York. You spent the next two years researching and writing The Monarch’s Reign, which was published two years ago. Did I miss anything?”
Emily drained the rest of her water and then slumped into her seat, deflated.
“You said it would be mutually beneficial. Beneficial how?” she asked.
“Much better,” the man said.
A buzzer sounded beyond the obscured glass above the LCD panels. Almost instantly the glass whirred down from the top a few inches. A gloved hand pushed a metal case through the opening.
“Take the case. It’s yours,” the masked man said. She was tempted to jump up and look at who was in the front seat, or scream, hoping the glass wasn’t as thick up there. Not that anyone would notice even if she was right. But with the revelation of her past, especially the mention of her father, she needed to play this out at the moment. He hadn’t said as much, but the implication was clear—extortion. Honor was everything to her father and his world. If the truth about her past came out, it would destroy him.
She took the case and put it on her lap. The window whirred back up into place.
“Open it,” he said.
She did. And stared speechless at the contents.
“I trust I have your attention,” he said.
Emily lifted one of the packets of money out of the case and riffled through the bills to be sure it wasn’t a couple of banknotes with newspaper between them. It wasn’t.
“What exactly do you want from me?” Emily said, still mesmerized by the cash.
“To give you an opportunity. An opportunity to finish what you started,” he said, gesturing with the copy of The Monarch’s Reign.
The fear and anxiety in her chest now had a new comrade—excitement. Can it be?
“I want you to reveal The Monarch’s true identity.”
The words were so heady and powerful, she thought she might pass out.
“But first, we have some work to do. Or rather, you do.”
The other two LCD screens snapped to life, showing several disfigured murder victims. Emily was dizzy with the roller coaster of emotions she felt from the fear of abduction, to the elation of a dream come true, and now to this—revulsion and horror.
“Pay attention, Miss Burrows. You have much to learn.”
EIGHT THOUSAND MILES from New York, as Emily was released from her limo prison, Nathan Kring, CEO of Kring Industries, took off his mask. He rose from behind his desk and slowly walked to the floor-to-ceiling smoked windows overlooking his compound’s courtyard. He stared at the jungle and then the ocean beyond, the sun just rising in the distance. Paradise.
Any normal man would have been satisfied to forget the world and spend the day on the beach working the burning sand through his toes. He wasn’t any normal man. And the disease racing through his dying body would soon overcome the serum pumped into him that allowed him to appear normal. But he wasn’t the only one that
was dying.
Kring Industries was practically in its death throes, thanks to the past six months. The past six months—and The Monarch. The view outside his pseudo-castle’s window and a few small companies scattered around the world were all that were left of the billions in enterprise his father, Bertil Kring, had left him. Nathan could just imagine his father’s smug face as he watched his prediction come true. If he were alive, that is. The corner of Nathan’s mouth twitched slightly at that last thought. To anyone else it might have just appeared as the first signs that the serum was wearing off. He knew better.
It was a Hail Mary, a final-ditch effort to prove his father wrong, the only thing he really cared about. If not for that, he’d willingly give in to the pain and anguish that was now his daily life and embrace the sweet relief he was staving off. He had to triumph—had to live—to have time to rebuild what he’d pissed away.
But at what cost?
Nathan, whose pride was immeasurable, had not only swallowed it, but had all but bootlicked over the past six months for his one last chance to triumph and fulfill his life’s destiny. The only obstacle in his way now was a faceless thief hiding in America.
Nathan shook off the doubts trying to overtake him and redoubled his confidence in his plan. All the pieces were in place and there was no turning back now. Doubts were pointless. He would prevail—prevail and more. And in a matter of days he’d crush the life out of the one thing standing between him and his survival.
The Monarch.
6
NYC Office of the Chief Medical Examiner
10:15 P.M. Local Time
SAC JOSEPH WAGNER pushed through the cold metal doors into the OCME’s morgue. Cummings’s body lay on a metal table against the far wall. The room was chilled but not terribly uncomfortable. It was actually a little warmer than the frosty April night outside the First Street building. Wagner noticed Dr. Spangler hadn’t started the autopsy yet; the familiar Y incision so Cummings’s torso could be peeled open like an orange was absent. Several X-rays hung on light boards on the wall above the corpse.
“Cecil! You back there?” Wagner called, easing by the corpse and staring at the X-rays. He couldn’t tell a rib from a finger, but the sight of that tube within the corpse’s chest cavity was bizarre.
“I’m right here, Joseph. No need to shout,” Dr. Spangler said, coming out from his office in the back. He was dressed in a rubberized smock, his hands encased in rubber gloves of the same green latex. A visor was on his balding head, the see-through face plate raised up.
“Sorry,” Wagner said, putting away his reflex to shake hands when he saw what Spangler was wearing. “Haven’t started yet?”
“I started an hour ago. I just finished moving cadavers around and making apologetic phone calls to the NYPD, CIA, and several insurance companies. Do you have any idea how many cases were in front of this one? I don’t like being pressured. You might mention that to Director Matthews the next time you see him.”
“I’ll be sure to—” Wagner started to say before a voice came from behind him.
“Duly noted, Doctor.”
Director Matthews was in the doorway. Among the people behind him was NYPD chief of police Marvin Powers. The only one in the crowd who looked halfway happy was Evans. Wagner knew the more the shit flew the happier Evans got. He must be delirious with this one.
The crowd moved into the room, revealing another crowd behind them of lower echelon cops and agents. With the press swarming the lobby, Wagner wondered if they were breaking some New York by-law ordinance.
“Whoa, whoa,” Spangler said, holding up his hands to stop the audience trying to form a U around the corpse for a good vantage point of the coming dissection. “About half of you need to leave.”
Standing by the corpse, Wagner noticed he wasn’t included in the challenge. He thought that made sense, since it was only his career riding on this case.
Matthews sent Evans back out, but refused to reduce the numbers any further. Wagner knew Matthews would love to send Chief Powers out as well, but he’d probably had enough shit storms for one day. Even so, he was pretty sure clear weather was still a long way off.
Matthews and Powers joined Wagner beside the corpse, Powers staring first at the X-rays and then at the tube protruding from the corpse’s mouth.
“Anytime you’re ready, Doc,” Matthews said.
Spangler looked at Wagner and then shrugged. He picked up his pneumatic saw and revved the motor a few times before pulling his visor down over his face.
“You might want to back up a bit, gentlemen,” Spangler said. He powered the saw and sliced into Bob Cummings’s dead flesh.
Several minutes later, secrets even Cummings himself hadn’t known were on display for all to see. Matthews looked bored, but Powers looked like he’d just been on a long sea journey. He was an administrator, not a street cop. Wagner thought he belonged in here about as much as the press.
“To preserve the corpse, I’m not going to fully expose the object,” Spangler said, putting down his saw. “We can continue what the killer couldn’t finish and just slide it out. Carefully.” Spangler slipped his hands under the tube like it was a giant stick of unstable dynamite.
“Very carefully, Doctor,” Matthews said, stepping forward. “It must come out intact.”
“And so it shall,” Spangler said without looking up. Matthews obviously didn’t intimidate him at all. Wagner wondered what a world like that was like. “Joseph, could you help me?”
Wagner didn’t move. He was fine with watching an autopsy, but he had no desire to touch the bastard.
“Oh come now. A big strong man like you afraid of little old dead body? I find that hard to believe,” Spangler teased. Wagner would have let him tease on and not have moved, but then he saw Matthews’s stare. Worse, he saw Powers regaining his composure and attempting a grin.
“What do you need me to do?” Wagner asked, stepping forward.
“Pry open his mouth and feed the last bit of the object down his throat. Make sure it doesn’t catch on anything.”
“Okay.”
“As soon as we’re done, we’re taking it over there, to the basin to rinse off the bodily fluids before they do any more damage.”
“Right,” Wagner said, reaching for Cummings’s jaw with his bare hands.
“Wait!” Spangler shouted. Wagner almost jumped. The only thing that made it worth it was the yip that came from Powers.
“What?”
“Put on the gloves behind you first. In the box.”
Wagner did. He found it a lot harder than he thought it would be. When he was finally ready, he gripped the corpse’s jaw in his hands, trying to ignore how cold the flesh was even through the gloves.
“And . . . now,” Spangler said softly as he pulled the object. Wagner widened the corpse’s bite and carefully fed the end down into his ruined throat. It was the strangest last meal he’d ever seen.
With little trouble, the object came free of the corpse. Spangler carried it over to the basin, sprayed it with cool water, and immediately patted it dry with a few soft towels. He leaned in and raised his visor to get a better look at the object.
“My word,” Spangler said. The other men came around and stood over the table. “Hold down the edges, Joseph, while I unroll it.”
“Gently, right,” Wagner said.
“Even more so than before,” Spangler answered. Wagner held the edges down and Spangler unrolled the object until it was completely flat. Everyone bobbed their heads back as if they were too close to see it properly.
“Jesus,” Wagner said.
“Son of a bitch,” Powers said.
“Magnificent,” Spangler said.
“What the fuck are we looking at?” Evans, who had snuck back in the room, said from behind them. No one chastised him.
&n
bsp; After a moment they all turned slowly in unison and looked at the opened corpse. Then at the same time, they turned and looked back at the object. When their silence stretched on into minutes, Wagner finally shook himself back to reality.
“Get that curator down here, Mike. And I mean now,” Wagner said.
“Check,” Evans said, heading out and almost running into a guy in T-shirt and jeans, wearing an NYPD gold detective’s badge clipped to his belt.
“Sir?” Everyone turned to the door. and Wagner realized the detective was talking to Powers.
“What is it?” Powers asked.
“Uh, there’s a problem with the package, Chief,” the detective said, eyeballing everyone in the room as if he were asking for privacy.
“Out with it. We’re all on the same side here,” Powers said. Wagner knew of at least two people in the room who wanted to disagree with that.
“Well, Detective Minelli just called. He’s had a little problem.”
“Damn it, man. What kind of problem?” Powers’s anger was palpable and seemed to be pushing the detective farther into the hallway. Wagner knew he just didn’t want to look foolish in front of them. He also knew it was too late for that.
“He . . . he lost her, sir.”
Powers winced and exhaled. When he opened his eyes, Matthews and Wagner were staring at him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this personally,” Powers said, heading out of the room.
“See that you do, Chief,” Matthews said. And the way he said it kept Powers from replying with anything but a nod.
“Goddamn amateurs,” Wagner said.
“We’ve got a bigger problem than him,” Matthews said.
“Such as?”
“The press. If they find Miss Burrows before we do, they’ll run with this harder than Obama’s birth certificate. We’ll never be able to control the release of the story.”
Wagner knew of a couple tabloid reporters who were running with the story based on the envelope contents alone already. The only reason it hadn’t hit the airwaves in full force yet was that the bigger broadcast news outfits were running the contents of the file folder past their legal departments. But time was running out.
