by Nancy Holder
“We just arrived. I’ll touch base as soon as we interview him.”
“Keep me posted.” Tess hung up. She was a good captain, just what the traumatized 125th needed, but Cat knew her best friend was feeling the pressure of her promotion at the worst time in the recent history of New York crime prevention. Tess didn’t need a serial-killer beast case on her plate right now.
Or ever.
Joining Vincent at the curb, Cat put her phone in her pocket and saw the anguish in his eyes. His gloved hands held a cherry-wood box with the desperation of a drowning man clasping the only piece of driftwood in a frozen sea.
“I don’t know why I can’t track whatever is doing this.” Guilt and a misplaced sense of responsibility wafted in the air with the vapor from his breath.
She placed her hand over his. “It’s okay, Vincent.”
But it wasn’t. She, he, J.T., and Tess all knew that the situation would only worsen if NYPD had to rely on traditional methods of solving crimes to stop this thing. How many years had the four of them suppressed evidence to keep the world from knowing about the existence of beasts? They were on a collision course with not only the 125th but every law enforcement agency in New York, the FBI included. And FBI meant her biological father, Bob Reynolds, a major player in Muirfield, the code name for the beast-creation program. He had justified his criminal activities—killing beasts and innocent humans alike—as a necessary part of his plan to wipe all beasts from the face of the earth. Although he had sworn he would never go public because he wanted to protect Cat, there was always a possibility that in his sick logic, he would decide she would be safer if he revealed everything he knew. Then Vincent could kiss any semblance of a normal life goodbye forever.
“J.T.’s barely slept in a week trying to figure out what’s going on.” Vincent sighed as if that were his fault.
Anything beast-related, Vincent took on as if he, and not the government, was responsible. He carried a massive amount of guilt for agreeing to become part of Muirfield by serving as a test subject.
“And I’m sure he’ll break the case,” she said, projecting a confidence she wasn’t currently feeling. For a cop, each new crime in a connected chain of previous crimes felt like a defeat.
Together they faced a one-story house that, like them, had seen better days. Grubby white paint was peeling off the exterior walls and the porch had sunken in like a deflated soccer ball. A flag-shaped sign on the front door read THE RILEYS GOD BLESS AMERICA! in bleached red, white, and blue letters. The mailbox was flag-themed, too. Cat glanced at the box in Vincent’s grip.
“Tess is going to the crime scene,” she said. “She can monitor the situation. We’ve finally got one in our jurisdiction, so she’s the captain in charge.”
The New York Chief of Police had organized a task force comprised of special-crimes squads from the larger precincts, but most of the precinct captains seemed more interested in protecting their turf than in working together to solve the murders. Tess, as the newest captain, was fighting to hold her own. It frustrated her that she couldn’t reveal everything she knew—that this was undoubtedly beast-related—a situation made all the more irritating because no one seemed to give credence to the few details she was able to share. She was new and she was a woman. Ergo, she must not know what she was doing.
He nodded. “That’s good. With Tess we’ll have direct access.” His face masked emotions he wasn’t sharing. She knew him so well, knew that he was keeping something back, and wished he would unburden himself. They had seen each other in their darkest hours… or so she had thought. But right then Vincent was in a bleak place he hadn’t told her about, and she wanted to join him there. Not because she needed more tragedy and pain, but because she knew that if he let her in, she would bring him light. Maybe just one small candle flame’s worth, but enough to remind him that he was loved. And that he was not alone.
“Look.” He began walking down the gravel path through a rickety wooden arch. On either side, snow coated skeletal bushes and a sturdy oak tree, an outstretched limb sporting two long pieces of frayed rope and a splintered wooden board—a homemade tree swing. Neglected, forgotten, unused.
But that wasn’t what Vincent was looking at. On the right side of the path, frosted with silvery white, a single red rose graced an otherwise barren rose bush. It was a lush velvety crimson, and as radiant as a jewel. Spring in the heart of winter.
Even in the darkest place, there is hope, the rose seemed to whisper. And as Cat admired it, she turned to Vincent, took off her glove, and cupped his icy cheek.
“I had a dream,” she said.
He smiled very faintly. “I did too. I dream it every day.”
“Mountains? And just a small dog.” When he nodded slightly, her heart overflowed and she murmured in a rush, “Vincent, I love you.”
He swallowed hard before replying, “I love you too.”
“Whatever this thing is, we can deal with it together,” she said. “We are dealing with it together.”
His lips parted. Then he inclined his head and kissed her, wrapped her hand with his, and placed them both in his pocket.
“It’s so cold today,” he murmured. “Your hand’s like ice.”
“You know what they say: ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’”
He gave her fingers a squeeze and she leaned against him for a moment. Then she put her glove back on. They were on police business, and it was a somber occasion. Still, it was so wonderful to wake up beside Vincent without double-checking for the whirr of helicopters that life was truly like a waking dream, even with all that was going on.
Together they walked up the path and Cat gingerly stepped onto the porch. A frayed American-flag welcome mat contributed to the pervasive patriotic theme. She held up her badge as she pressed the corroded doorbell. She heard no sound, and was about to knock on the door when it opened.
From yesterday’s phone conversation, Cat knew that Maurice Riley was sick. Terminally ill, in fact. He had six months at most, he had told her. But she was still shocked by the cavernous hollows in his cheeks and the eggplant-purple circles under his eyes. He was wearing a white collared shirt, a pair of charcoal-gray trousers, and polished loafers. He had dressed for the occasion as well. In his left hand he held the letter he had told her about—the primary reason they were here. It had been Vincent’s idea to make a special presentation to Maurice Riley in addition to the interview.
“Mr. Riley,” she began. “I’m Detective Chandler. And this is—”
“I’d know you anywhere, Dr. Keller,” Riley cut in. He tried to smile, but his lower lip quivered. “Roxie sent me pictures.” He held out his hand, then glimpsed the object Vincent was holding. His eyes welled and he took a step back. “Please, come in.”
“I should have come before,” Vincent said as they entered his home.
Cat took in a worn sofa in a cabbage rose pattern, two chairs upholstered in frayed brown corduroy, and a fireplace containing ashes. Over the mantel, a large golden frame surrounded a studio portrait of a young woman in army dress uniform, with light brown skin and chestnut eyes shining with pride. It was Roxanne Lafferty, from Delta Company, one of Vincent’s comrades in arms in Afghanistan.
And a fellow Muirfield victim.
A gold plaque mounted to the bottom section of the frame read ALL GAVE SOME BUT SOME GAVE ALL.
“How could you come any sooner, son? I saw you on TV. You talked about your… amnesia.” Mr. Riley hesitated on the last word.
“I should have found a way,” Vincent said, hinting that the amnesia story was a lie. He gestured with his head to the box he was holding. “For her, I should have done it.”
“Well, you’re here now.” Mr. Riley’s voice wobbled a little. To Cat, he added, “You’ll want to see the letter.”
“First things first, Mr. Riley,” she replied, although yes, she wanted to cut to the chase. She was itching to meet up with Tess at the crime scene. Instead she was standing there on idle and she
was not a patient person. She wanted to fix things as soon as she knew they were broken. That was why she had become a cop—to solve her mother’s murder, yes, but to fight for justice for other victims as well.
Catherine and Vincent took off their coats, caps, and gloves and laid them on the arm of Mr. Riley’s sofa. Mr. Riley cleared his throat.
“We missed this part,” he said to Vincent. “We missed all of it. But I guess you know that. That’s why you’re doing it.”
“That’s right, sir.” Vincent helped Mr. Riley sit down on the sofa. Then former specialist Vincent Keller knelt on one knee and opened the box, lifting out a triangular-shaped wooden frame with a glass face. It encased a reverently folded American flag, stars up. He offered the flag to the dying man, in a traditional ritual that had been performed for over a hundred and fifty years at American military funerals.
“Sir,” Vincent said, “on behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.
“This flag flew over the firehouse where my brothers worked as firefighters before they died in the Twin Towers.”
The man choked back tears as he received the archived flag, holding it against his chest as the tears came. At a military funeral with honors—such as Lafferty had been given—the flag in the box would have been the one that had draped the fallen warrior’s casket, and would have been folded graveside by soldiers as “Taps” was played. Then it would have been presented on bended knee to Lafferty’s next of kin. But Roxanne’s mother had been too distraught to attend the service, and Mr. Riley had stayed home with her. When the time came for them to receive Lafferty’s flag through the mail, it had never arrived. Mr. Riley had mentioned that fact to Cat on the phone, and Vincent had been so incensed that he had decided to give Mr. Riley one of his most treasured possessions. The flag had been given to Vincent’s family at the funeral for his brothers, and Vincent had accepted it. J.T. Forbes had kept the flag safe after Vincent had enlisted in the army and left for the war.
Left for his destiny.
The man saluted, and Vincent stood and sharply saluted back. Vincent was no longer in the army, nor did he have any love for the military that had betrayed him, but Cat knew that he was returning the salute for Mr. Riley’s sake.
And for Roxanne Lafferty’s.
“Please,” Mr. Riley said, and he handed each of them a shot glass filled to the brim with amber liquid from a ceramic red, white, and blue tray. Cat smelled whiskey. She was on duty, but like Vincent, she honored the moment, throwing back with the two men, then turning her glass upside down on the tray.
They shared one more silent moment, and then Mr. Riley said, “The letter.”
Catherine reached into the pocket of her coat for a small pack of evidence gloves. She drew out a pair and slipped them on. The atmosphere in the room grew tense. Mr. Riley held out the letter, and Catherine delicately took it from him with both hands. He had read the words to her over the phone, but they still chilled her:
Dear Mr. Riley,
We are a small group of concerned patriots who have banded together to fight a terrible conspiracy at the highest levels of government. One of us knew your daughter, Roxanne Lafferty, in Afghanistan. We know that you were told she died in the line of duty.
That is a lie.
The government pumped her full of poison and turned her into something unspeakable—a monster. She was last seen in the infirmary shackled to her bed, completely out of her mind with pain and fury. One of us, known as “Private X,” attempted a rescue but failed.
We know that she never saw combat again, even though you were informed that she died in a firefight.
We would have contacted you as soon as this happened, but we had no access to her records to find her next of kin, and so there was no way of connecting “Maurice Riley” to “Roxanne Lafferty.” We realized that she was your stepdaughter when the article about you ran in last Tuesday’s New York Post, and it mentioned her by name.
We talked it over for a long time before we decided to contact you. There have been six murders in New York in the last six weeks where the injuries look similar to atrocities Private X witnessed in Afghanistan. We think someone got out of there—someone who has been mutilated like your daughter—and is out of control, like your daughter was. We think you may be in great danger—if not from this abomination, then from the government that created it. One of the six murdered people—Karl Tiptree—was one of the scientists who participated in the manufacture of the “serum” that destroyed your daughter’s life. We have been investigating the histories of the other five in an attempt to link them to this travesty. We are confident that we will succeed.
The generals tied up loose ends in Afghanistan… with bullets. Private X barely got out alive and has stayed all these years under the radar. But he is ready to tell you everything he knows. We want justice for your daughter, and we want to stop this thing from butchering more people, even the guilty. Please join us, Mr. Riley.
On behalf of the people of the United States, you have our sympathy, and our respect. We’re waiting to hear from you.
Sincerely,
FFNY—The Freedom Fighters of New York
At the bottom of the letter was a phone number with a 212 area code.
Vincent had been reading over Cat’s shoulder, and she felt him trembling. She turned her head and looked up at him. His face had gone chalk white, and when she raised a brow, he averted his gaze and moved to the mantel. He stared up at Roxanne Lafferty’s portrait, perhaps unaware that his shoulders were square and his spine was ramrod straight. He was standing at attention. All that was missing was another salute.
“I’m assuming you called the number,” Cat said to Mr. Riley.
He scratched his forehead with skeletal fingers. Cat wondered if the rings under his eyes were from illness or anxiety, maybe both.
“I’ve called it a hundred times. There’s never been any answer. No voicemail. I checked with the phone company and they say it’s not a valid number.”
We’ll see about that, Cat thought. The NYPD had resources that were unavailable to private citizens.
“What New York Post article are they talking about?” she asked Mr. Riley.
He sighed and picked up a newspaper off a coffee table that was cluttered with prescription bottles. It was folded to a small square of text that included a photograph of Mr. Riley standing beside a thin little dark-skinned girl dressed in a fuzzy pink sweater and lavender snow pants. She was holding a small, colorful piece of paper.
FATHER OF ARMY WOMAN K.I.A. FULFILLS PROMISE TO DAUGHTER OF “LITTLE SISTER”
Last Tuesday, Mr. Maurice Riley, a resident of the Bronx, presented Aliyah Patel, 8, also of the Bronx, with a gift certificate to Palmieri’s, her favorite ice cream parlor, good for fifty-two ice cream cones—one every week for a year. Riley’s daughter, Private First Class Roxanne Lafferty, who was killed in Afghanistan in 2002, was the “Big Sister” of Aliyah’s mother, Gheeta Patel, in the “Big Sister Little Sister” mentoring program. Lafferty promised Gheeta Patel that if she read fifty-two books before she graduated from high school, she would buy Gheeta an ice cream cone every week for one year. They wrote out a contract and both signed it. Sadly, Gheeta Patel passed away in 2010, leaving behind her daughter, Aliyah.
Riley recently discovered the contract while he was cleaning out his garage. With the help of social worker Angela Alcina, he was able to contact Aliyah’s aunt, Indira Patel, who is her guardian, and present the gift certificate to Aliyah on behalf of her mother.
“Her favorite flavor is chocolate-chip cookie dough,” Mr. Riley said.
“This was so kind, Mr. Riley.” Cat was moved.
He made a face. “Not as sweet as it looks. That aunt of Aliyah’s is a piece of work—the poor kid was covered in bruises. I called social services on her. And Miss Alcina, too. They all sai
d they’d investigate but every time I call I go straight to voicemail. Last time I called—yesterday—Miss Alcina’s message mailbox was full.”
Cat took note. Theoretically, she would never have enough time to follow up on that—it wasn’t relevant to her investigation, and it was out of her jurisdiction—but she knew that before the end of the day, she’d be making a few calls.
“What about Karl Tiptree?” she asked. “Have you learned anything about him?”
“I read his obituary on my computer,” he said. “It didn’t say anything about a serum. It said he was a ‘consultant.’”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Vincent muttered.
Mr. Riley’s eyes traveled to Lafferty’s portrait. Then he picked up one of the shot glasses and passed it from palm to frail palm. “Do you know what they’re talking about? That my little girl was turned into a monster? What does that mean?” He swayed as he walked. He was so agitated that Cat worried about his blood pressure; she reminded herself that Vincent was a doctor, and he would intervene if he thought it was necessary.
“I haven’t slept since I got this note. I don’t know what to think. The world is full of crazies, you know? But if it’s true… if someone did something to her…” He trailed off. “Do you think they’re trying to tell me that she’s still alive and she’s doing these things?”
Cat slid a glance at Vincent. He was clearly conflicted, yet he kept his silence. She understood his reticence, but she had a thousand questions of her own. When they had first connected, he had told her that he was the only surviving genetically modified supersoldier of the army’s Delta Company. But over time they had learned that there’d been others. Cat’s biological father had a list of them, and he programmed Vincent to kill them one by one. Now this. “FFNY” was wise to fear for Mr. Riley. However, they were also putting him in danger by linking him to the tragic events in Afghanistan.
