The Shadow Artist

by James Grayson

  Being Christmas Eve, both shops were closed.

  Alex wondered what had happened in Bern and wished she could call Denise to get an update, but that wasn’t possible with Wainscott pointing her gun at her. Alex was surprised they hadn’t confiscated her cell phone yet. Too distracted, Alex thought. Visions of money plums dancing in their heads.

  After navigating a few tight alleys, Burke parked the Rover at the back of a three-story brick building and next to a full-sized tractor trailer. Not Volvo or Mercedes. Alex was disappointed. Burke took out his phone, dialed, and waited. “Here,” he said, and hung up.

  “Hope you’re rested,” Grant said, opening his car door to let in the damp, cold air.

  Climbing from the car, Alex spotted an orange and brown tabby with a stubbed tail darting from behind the truck and across the snow. A famous no-tailed Isle of Man Manx.

  She took it as a sign of good luck.

  Wainscott led them up a short flight of stairs to a green steel door and entered the building. They walked up another two gloss-painted, half-flights of stairs and through a second door. This led them into a large open space, the main floor of the building.

  The main floor of the bank.

  The detail was impressive. Tall ceilings, hand-painted in an intricate, gold-and-black design, and huge, bulbous light fixtures hanging by chains in the same colors. Yet the hardwood floors sat lonely, the only furniture a long, chest-high teller booth, devoid of any computers or papers. No rugs or desks.

  It was a giant, gold-crusted cocoon.

  At the very end of the space, on the floor, with his back against the wall, was Jack. Seeing Alex, he simply lifted his chin and nodded once. I survived.

  Lockard sat on a chair across from Jack, with an HK45 on his knee, finger bent on the trigger and barrel pointed at Jack’s chest. Lockard’s other hand was wrapped in a huge makeshift bandage, like something a soldier might use in the outskirts of Kabul. It was leaking water and blood down the side of the chair, forming a small, reddish pool on the floor.

  Lockard sat as still as a lion in waiting. No expression at all.

  When the four of them entered—Wainscott in front, then Alex, then Burke, and Grant—Lockard stood and looked straight at Alex.

  “This could have been easier,” he said, his voice echoing in the chamber.

  “Bloody hell, what happened to you?” Grant said, placing the attaché down.

  Alex leaned over, eyed the wrapping, and said, “Playing with the pet wolf again?”

  A corner of Jack’s mouth turned up ever-so-slightly.

  Well done. Alex took a step toward him but Lockard pointed his HK at her. “Stay there.”

  “Would you like me to fix that wrapping?” Wainscott approached Lockard.

  “It’s fine.” Lockard pointed at the attaché at Grant’s feet. “Let’s have a look.”

  Cozy little group, this Dream Team. Like a nest of crocodiles.

  Lockard nodded to Burke and Wainscott, and they pointed their pistols at Alex and Jack while he knelt at the attaché and opened it. After pulling out the synthetic hand, he inspected it while his own injured hand oozed red liquid on the floor.

  Jack had gotten him good.

  “Let’s go.” Lockard and Grant turned and crossed behind the teller desk to a set of open double doors at the back of the bank. Burke and Wainscott waved their pistols at Alex and Jack, and they followed.

  Jack stood, wobbled up to Alex. His face looked drawn and he had a large bruise on his cheek. She hoped her worst fears for him had not come true, that Lockard had held him for leverage and negotiation in this situation alone. That he hadn’t used Jack as an outlet for his own frustrations with the situation. Though, glancing at Lockard’s elephantine hand, Alex didn’t know why she was worried at all. Jack was a fighter to the end.

  He stared at Alex and said, “I regret not telling you about Edgar.”

  Alex shook her head, took his hand for a moment. “We’ll talk about that later, I’m just happy you’re OK.”

  “That’s sweet,” Burke said, rolling his eyes to Wainscott.

  Wainscott looked away, Alex ignored him, and they headed to the double doors at the back of the bank.

  Lockard stood in a short but wide hallway next to a couple of flat pull carts, same as those used for materials at Home Depot. A bottle of water and a towel lay on one cart. Behind Lockard, an enormous steel door stretched six feet wide and to the ceiling. Alex tried to imagine the piles of cash behind there, or maybe they had traded it in for platinum bars or diamonds. A billion dollars was a hell of a load to sit on.

  Lockard and Grant approached a metal-and-glass pocket in the wall that looked like a small document scanner. Alex had seen a biological hand scanner before, but never seen it used.

  Lockard handed the silicone limb to Grant. “Try this first.”

  Grant took the replica, pressed a green button to the side of the scanner, and placed the hand on the glass. A set of green, laser-like lights emitted from all sides of the scanner and Grant gave Lockard a skeptical look. His mistrust was confirmed when the scanner emitted a harsh buzz, like a spaceship self-destruct alarm, and blinked bright red three times. A woman’s voice with a Scottish accent said, “Initial scan fail. Please be sure to place your hand flush to the surface.”

  “It needs to read the prints,” Lockard said. “And keep your own hand out of view.”

  Frowning, Grant tried again, manipulating and pressing the hand down this time. After the green lights scanned the hand for the second time, a blue light flashed from the glass and the voice said, “Initial scan complete. Please commence second scan.”

  “That’s a tickle. It worked!” Wainscott said.

  “Of course it did,” Lockard said, looking at Jack. “Let’s hope loverboy hasn’t fucked it up for all of us.”

  Lockard peeled the corner of a strip of the duct tape from his wrist and unwrapped the slushy ice bag, letting the bloody sack fall to the floor. He then pulled the rest of the tape off his hand. The last strips stuck to the skin and the wound, causing Lockard to clench his jaw. He stared at Jack as he tugged off the final strip.

  “Bloody hell, he butchered you,” Wainscott said, glancing at Burke, who just shook his head.

  And there was the rub. Lockard’s hand was key number two. Jack had somehow mangled that key.

  Not good … and awesome at the same time.

  Lockard uncapped the water and rinsed the blood from his palm, drying it with the towel. With a large gash in the back of his hand and through his palm, it looked like he’d been crucified with a chef’s knife.

  Lockard looked at Jack. Jack shrugged. “Could’ve been worse.”

  Lockard stepped to the scanner, pressed the button, and placed his damaged hand on the glass. After a moment, the green lasers scanned his hand and flashed red. “Second scan fail,” the electronic voice said.

  Lockard exhaled loudly and tried again, cleaning the glass and re-rinsing his hand.

  A triple flash of red and the voice said, “Second scan fail.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Grabbing the pistol, he walked over to Jack and, standing inches from his face, stared at him. Before anyone could react, Lockard drove the butt of his pistol into Jack’s stomach.

  Alex lunged, but Burke was too fast, thrusting an elbow into her injured shoulder and tripping her to the ground.

  Jack doubled over and heaved, as Alex crawled next to him.

  “Fools,” Alex said, looking back at Lockard. “The machine is scanning the shape of the hand to match a previously stored 3D image.”

  “No shit,” Lockard said, “and your fucking honeypot destroyed the matching hand.” He held up his palm. A long rope of mangled skin flapped to the side of the wound.

  “We’ll never get in with that,” Burke said. “I should shoot him in the face.” He turned and pointed his Beretta at Jack’s forehead.

  Jack looked up, but didn’t blink.

  Pacing back and forth
, Lockard was unraveling. He stopped and tried to tuck the skin into the wound, causing it to bleed again. It reminded Alex of the stories of D-Day soldiers carrying their own arms around or trying to tuck their spilled guts back into their bellies.

  The man was about to lose it, meaning Alex and Jack had minutes until the Dream Team killed them. She no longer cared if they got the money. She just wanted to maneuver them out of there alive.

  Alex pushed to her feet. “Let me help.”

  “How?” Grant asked.

  She held out a hand to Lockard.

  Lockard stared at her with sleepy eyes. Then he held out his hand.

  “And the other?” Alex said.

  Lockard held up his good hand.

  Sure, she wanted to dig her fingers into the wound, make him pay for all this, but that would be foolish. It was four on two here, and Alex’s two were not armed.

  She turned his good hand over and signaled for him to do the same with the injured one. Inspecting both, Alex said, “You’ve done well to keep the swelling down. That’s good for the imaging. Also, there’s no fingerprint damage, though the dried blood may be a problem.”

  “Then why isn’t it working?” Grant asked.

  “This.” She turned the hands back over. “See this tendon? On your good hand?”

  “What about it?” Lockard asked.

  “Did you have a similar one here?” Alex traced a finger above the back of his wounded hand.

  Glancing at Jack, he said, “I used to.”

  She nodded at the silicone replica of the hand. “Any chance you have some of that silicone left?”

  “The materials?” Lockard asked, then looked at the others. “Across the street. Why?”

  “Because I can recreate the tendon using this flap of skin and trick the scanner with a mold.”

  “You want to cut me.” Lockard shook his head. “It won’t heal in time to be molded. It’ll bleed like hell.”

  “Not if I use duct tape.”

  They stared at Alex, the idea sinking in, perhaps.

  She continued, “Then I’ll smooth the mold to remove the impression of the tape. Should work fine.”

  Wainscott folded her arms. “I say we let her have a go at it.”

  “Easy, honey.” Lockard looked at her and back to Alex. “Okay. But Burke here will have his gun buried in the back of your skull while you hold the knife.”

  “I would expect nothing less.” Alex smiled.

  “And another thing.” Lockard pulled the knife from a sheath at his side. “If it doesn’t work.” He walked to Jack, who was sitting up again, and grabbed the back of his head, then held the knife to his throat. “I’ll cut the whole goddamn head off while you watch.”

  No pressure there, Alex thought.

  Lockard tossed a set of keys to Wainscott. “Go get the mixture.”

  “Why not just blow through the door with the explosives? You must have some of that Nobel 808 left.” Jack looked back and forth between Grant and Lockard.

  Alex didn’t know if Jack was worried about her sculpting abilities or if he thought an explosion would cause enough mayhem to give them a chance to act.

  “Because it’s in the vault, genius.” Lockard pointed at the door.

  “It makes no matter. This building was the original Douglas post office.” Grant waved a hand toward the ceiling. “A prewar construction, it held the kingdom’s bearer bonds in this vault for a decade. It would require a tank to force your way inside. Literally. Explosives would merely bury the treasure.”

  Alex said, “Which is how Draganic convinced the Isle of Man to issue the bank charter in the first place. They knew you couldn’t loot the vault without the banker being present.”

  “Or part of him, anyway,” Grant said.

  Lovely.

  “That moron insisted on being one of the human keys,” Burke pointed out. “It’s his own doing.”

  “Enough. Let’s get on with this,” Lockard said. “We’ll do it in the men’s room.”

  Three minutes later, Lockard stood stone still while Alex examined his good hand versus his bad one. Burke hovered behind her but did not keep the barrel of his Beretta shoved into her neck as threatened.

  “I need my sketchbook and pencils,” Alex said.

  “Why?” Lockard asked.

  “Because I want to create the mirror image in a series of sketches before making any cuts. It will lessen the likelihood of error.”

  “Get them,” Lockard said to Burke.

  Alex considered jumping Lockard as Burke left, but the prospect of winning the blade from him, immobilizing him with it, then using his HK to beat three other agents—all without putting Jack at risk—seemed ridiculous. Besides, her best chance for escape would come when the Dream Team was distracted by the money.

  So she examined Lockard’s hands instead.

  When Burke returned with her satchel and materials, Alex sketched Lockard’s good hand from several angles. He had large knuckles, thick fingers, a series of bulbous veins, and wrists as wide as a cricket bat. The man was all testosterone, one link away from missing.

  Anyway.

  The defining feature was the thick ridge of tendon that stretched from wrist to pointer on his good hand. Jack had destroyed this on the other. That said, he had also made a clean stab, a through and through, leaving the bones and other tendons in place. She would need to cut away the lengths of skin that were swollen to the sides of the entry point, and secure one of the strips underneath the healthy skin, thus recreating the tendon.

  “I can do it,” she finally said, “But it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

  Oh, well.

  “Try not to enjoy it too much.” He gripped the side of the sink and closed his eyes as he handed her the knife. Unflinching and silent, he stood stock still as Alex carved his flesh and recreated the missing tendon. She worked for a full hour and Lockard never made a sound.

  Fucking cyborg.

  In lieu of stitches, Alex secured the long strand of skin under the wound with a thin strip of duct tape—the stuff was amazing in a pinch—then closed the wound on the palm with another thin strip. After placing a final strip around his wrist to secure the ends, she rinsed off Lockard’s hand and her own, gave back the knife, and said, “Don’t flex it.”

  “Don’t worry.” He stuffed the knife back into its holster. “I can’t.”

  Good to know.

  They stopped in front of Wainscott when they returned to the vault. She’d prepped all the materials for a new silicone mold. One large paint bucket was half full of water and another was half full of the white thickening powder.

  “Ready.” Lockard held up his injured hand.

  Wainscott began mixing the mold as Burke poured the powder into the water. The mixture turned purple as she stirred. When there were no lumps or bubbles, she looked at Lockard and pointed at the bucket. “It’ll harden in seven minutes. Go.”

  Lockard bent to a knee, then eased his hand into the purple ooze.

  “Now, remember how we did the banker’s hand. Your fingers must remain a full inch from the bottom,” Wainscott said.

  “I know.” Lockard stopped plunging his hand and stayed rock still for nine minutes. The mixture hardened around his wrist and hand, and Lockard eased it back out.

  Burke and Wainscott then mixed another set of powder and water. This time, the mixture turned flesh-colored when churned. Once smooth, it was poured into the mold.

  “It’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

  So they sat there, two guns trained on Alex, two on Jack, and waited for the silicone hand to cure. Burke finally flipped the bucket and pried out the fixtures. He split the purple mold and worked the silicone hand free.

  “Perfect,” Wainscott said.

  Lockard looked at Alex. “What do you think?”

  She walked over and inspected the replica. Across the top of the hand and around the wrist, evidence of the duct tape showed and would have to be smoothed out. Also, the area
where she had recreated the tendon was quite swollen and would have to be carved back a bit. Alex knew these biometric systems allowed for a certain degree of difference from the original scan to account for slight weight gain or daily fluctuation of water retention. She just had to adjust the replica while keeping original proportions. Still, it was a long shot. She said, “A few minor adjustments and it’ll work great.”

  Lockard motioned for Burke to hand the replica to Alex.

  “Knife?” She looked at Lockard.

  “Right.” He unsheathed and handed Alex the knife again.

  Taking her time, Alex placed the silicone hand on one of the pull carts, and used Lockard’s healthy hand and her mirror-image drawing as models for the replica. She scraped away the excess layer of silicone where the tape was and smoothed the area clean.

  “Here,” she said, handing the replica to Grant.

  After reengaging the scanner with the banker’s replica, Grant placed Lockard’s replica on the glass. He pressed the button.

  Almost immediately, the scanner buzzed and the voice said, “Second scan fail.”

  “Shit!” Lockard glared at Alex.

  Jack gave her a look of concern.

  Keeping calm, she said, “Let me see it again.”

  Grant handed the replica her.

  Holding the silicone version up to Lockard’s good hand, Alex said, “It’s just swollen. Knife?”

  He hesitated before holding out the blade to her.

  Alex took it and again contemplated gutting him right then and there. Jack could jump Wainscott and get a gun, and she’d have Lockard’s in a matter of seconds. Problem was, that left two others armed and ready. In those seconds, Alex and Jack would be killed.

  Exhaling loudly, she placed the replica back on the cart and went to work, shaving and carving and smoothing all the edges and lines of the hand and the wrist to make it as close of a mirror image of Lockard’s good hand as she could. When she was finished, all eyes on her, Alex said, “This should work.”