by Rick Mofina
“Forgiveness.”
“That makes two of us.”
Wyatt didn’t expect this. He said nothing.
“It was me, Ben. I’d lost touch with Reggie, then seeing him poking through garbage. It was me. I never checked on him. Never looked in on him. If anyone failed as back up, it was me. A good friend pointed this out to me and it took a while to realize she was right. It was easier for me to put it on you than to accept that I had abandoned him. You were in that crack house with him. I wasn’t there. Hell, I didn’t know you.” Sydowski let a few moments pass. “But I think I know you now.” Sydowski turned to him.
Wyatt said nothing.
Sydowski turned back to the window. “When I saw Reggie picking through trash he begged me not to tell anyone. I went to see him the other day to tell him he might have a civil case for his disability. That’s when he told me something I never knew. That he had a drinking problem. That he’d been drinking on the job and you knew. That you were covering for him, trying to get him into the program.”
Wyatt was looking at a landscape of a mountain range on the far wall.
“He told me it started in Homicide,” Sydowski said. “It was getting bad so he requested to get detailed to narcotics. Never told anyone. Not even me, his partner. Thought I’d see him as weak.”
Sydowski shook his head, rubbing his hands over his face.
“He told me he saw nothing the day he got shot. Couldn’t see a damn thing from his angle, but that he’d heard a kid. He wasn’t sure if he’d been drinking that morning. He panicked when the doctors first said he might never walk again. Got scared about his pension, the job, Fran, the kids. So he blamed you. Yet you never gave him up. You never said a word about Reggie’s drinking. You backed him up, and still do,” Sydowski turned. “Jesus, Ben. I was wrong. So goddamned wrong. I apologize.”
Wyatt said nothing. There was so much he wanted to say, wanted to vomit right back at him. Let him know the price he had paid. But he was overcome. With exhaustion, posttraumatic stress. Enduring what he and Olivia had endured. Life was too short for vendettas. He looked away.
“Olivia’s going to need time,” Wyatt said. “So will I.”
Sydowski had no rights here. No say in the matter.
“Sure, Ben. I understand.” Sydowski patted his shoulder and left.
Reed was the only reporter with access to Wyatt, who gave him the full account of Olivia being his girlfriend; how Vryke had locked onto her and how he had locked onto Vryke. At one stage, Wyatt told him he couldn’t have tracked Vryke without Reed’s information.
“Like you said, Tom, it was the key.”
In the weeks after Vryke’s story broke, the Star suspended Brader for harassing Molly Wilson.
Around that time, the Star revoked Reed’s suspension, giving him, instead, a three-week paid vacation. He used it to stay home and reconnect with his family. He also picked up on his crime novel. Reed and Ann went out to dinners and movies. He dropped by her stores. They began talking about a second honeymoon and future plans when he got a job offer from the New York Times. The job was in New York. National crime features.
“Take your time to think it over, Tom,” the editor said.
Reed was doing just that when a few days later, Violet Stewart, a senior editor at the Star caught wind of the Times pitch and called Reed with a heartfelt and fair proposal. She would give Reed an additional three weeks of paid vacation to think it all over. The Star was then willing to negotiate with him against whatever the Times, or any other news organization, offered him.
“We’d like to keep you, Tom.”
When Reed first met Ann in college she told him how she had dreamed of owning a children’s clothing store in Manhattan. Maybe this was an opportunity for both of them. He turned to her for advice.
“What do you think of these offers?”
“What about my offer, Tom? Nobody can match it,” she said as they buckled their seatbelts in the first class section of a 747 bound for Hawaii.
“Stay home and write novels?”
“Yes. The stores are doing just fine.”
Reed looked at Zach, playing with his newest computer game. He was doing much better since they had gotten rid of the mice and switched his office and Zach’s bedroom.
“I don’t know, Ann. What do you think about expanding your empire to New York?”
“Are you serious? I love New York. You’re seriously considering the Times?”
“I think we should seriously consider everything.”
“Glad you see it that way.”
“But we’ve got lots of time to think,” Reed said as the jet lifted off, pushing them into their seats. “For now, let’s have fun.”
A few days after Vryke’s death, a lawyer arrived at the San Francisco medical examiner’s office in the Hall of Justice. She was there to claim Vryke’s body and ensure interment in Florida. A plot had been purchased in a small cemetery in Brevard County not far from Cape Canaveral, the Kennedy Space Center, and the beaches where he had played as a boy.
The modest granite headstone would have Vryke’s name, date of birth, and death, over a few lines of inscription:
Revelation 24
It was Vryke’s monumental cyber-attack program that would eclipse R-23, for it was designed to adapt to technology under development. Not a soul knew of it, for it was lying dormant, its timer set for July 20, 2004, the thirty-fifth anniversary of the lunar landing, the day Vryke would be resurrected to give meaning to the final words on his headstone:
AND THE WORLD SHALL KNOW HIS NAME.
Dedication
This book is for
Ron and Mary
And if you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.
— Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil
ONE
The register at the San Francisco Deluxe Jewelry Store whirred as sales clerk Vanessa Jordan slid the credit card receipt to the woman admiring the custom order she had bought.
“Your husband is going to adore it,” Vanessa said.
“I hope so.” Her eyes glistened. “I wanted something special for our anniversary.”
Vanessa thought her customer was beautiful. She was wearing a tailored mauve suit, had lovely brown hair, pearl studs, a matching two-row necklace.
“Trust me, he’s going to love this. I’d be happy to gift wrap it for you.”
Studying the exquisite craftsmanship, the woman considered the offer when the store’s front door chime sounded, diverting Vanessa’s attention to the security monitor under the counter. The video screen showed two people waiting at the entrance. A big woman in a long beige coat standing behind a man in a wheelchair. Access through the front door required staff to activate a remote lock. The store’s guard had just left for his usual fifteen-minute break to get a bagel at the corner bakery. Vanessa followed the security procedure, scanned the other monitors, and inventoried the store: She had her customer at the cash register. Across the floor, a man in his sixties was alone, looking at watches. There was a couple in their late twenties near the engagement diamonds, cooing at rings. Through the window to the street she saw nothing unusual. Everything was fine.
Vanessa glanced over her shoulder down the hall at the manager, a kind soft-spoken man who wore frameless glasses. He was working in the back office, which had the same closed-circuit monitors and a speaker for the front chime. Upon hearing it, he left his desk to help, nodding an okay for Vanessa to open the door. She pressed the button under the counter. The woman and the man in the wheelchair entered.
At that moment, the customer at the counter had reached a decision. “Yes, I would like it gift wrapped. Will it take long?”
Vanessa didn’t answer.
“Excuse me, miss? I’d like it gift wrapped.”
Vanessa was staring at the front door. The manager had arrived behind her, adjusting his jacket, stopping dead in his tracks.
Once inside the store, the old man leaped from the
wheelchair. The woman pushing him folded it, wedging it so the automatic door could not lock behind them. She was over six feet tall, wearing a kerchief over her thick blond hair. She had large dark glasses. Her face was smeared with layers of freakish white makeup that no longer disguised the Adam’s apple of a man as his long coat snapped open and he produced an automatic assault rifle.
“This is a holdup! Everyone on the floor!”
Someone screamed. The gun came alive, exploding with rapid fire, destroying every security camera including those hidden in the store’s custom-made grandfather clock and the overhead light fixtures. The clinking of debris and spent shells filled the air. The wheelchair man stepped forward, silver talons of hair reached from his fedora, huge dark glasses hid much of his face, which resembled fiery red plaster. He opened his coat to a Kevlar vest with a hand grenade clipped to each side of his chest.
“Don’t touch any alarms,” he said to the manager, who ceased inching toward the counter.
The shooter replaced his empty magazine, let go a staccato burst above the manager’s head. Rounds ripped into the wall, smashing an array of expensive Swiss and Austrian clocks. Then he directed gunfire at every display case glass rained everywhere. The engaged woman screamed, her boyfriend shielded her with his body under a table. The old watch shopper lay face down on the carpet, his hands trembling above his white hair. The red-faced man came around the counter, pressed the muzzle of a handgun to Vanessa’s head while shoving a canvas bag in her face.
“Fill this with everything from the displays now,” he said, then turned his gun on the manager, thrusting a bag at him. “I know your vault’s open. I know what you have. And I want all your videotapes. Let’s go!” They disappeared into the back.
In front, Vanessa hurried from display to display, her fingers bleeding as she swept rings, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, watches, into the bag.
In seconds the manager returned, hands above his head. The wheelchair man was behind him, pressing his gun to the manager’s neck, clutching the canvas bag laden from the vault’s contents and security tapes. One of the grenades was missing from his vest.
“Please don’t hurt anyone,” the manager said. “You have what you want. Just go.” The gun’s grip thudded into his lower neck, dropping him to the floor. Vanessa cried out as everyone’s attention was jerked to the front.
Outside, a loudspeaker sounded the word “Police.”
The red-faced man hurried from the manager to the side of the entrance window, cursing at what he saw down the street.
“What is it?” said the shooter, darting to the window, eyeballing the problem. “Damn it!” He tightened his grip on his automatic rifle, scanned the customers and staff, assessing their situation. “What the hell are we going to do? How do we get out of this?”
The red-faced man went to Vanessa, seizing the bag from her. “You’re done. Get on the floor.”
He then squatted to appraise the female customer near the counter. In her thirties, well-dressed, nice figure, brown hair. Flawless skin that smelled real good as he leaned into her face to push his gun against her head.
“Did you drive here, lady?”
She nodded.
“Alone?”
She nodded.
“Is your car near?”
She hesitated, blinking at the black lenses that hid his eyes. The muzzle drilled hard into her skull.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“Do you want to live?”
“Yes.”
“Is your car near?”
“Yes.”
The woman felt herself being hoisted to her feet, felt the gun jabbing into her back, rushing her to the door where the man opened the wheelchair, then forced her into it as she pleaded in vain. At gunpoint, he ordered her to produce her keys from her purse, then her driver’s license, registration, and insurance information identifying her car, the make, model, year, color, plate number. He snatched her wallet, surprised as he fanned her cash. He flipped through personal items, credit cards, bank cards, pausing at the color snapshot of a boy. He looked ten or twelve, brown hair like hers.
“This your kid?”
Tears came. She squeezed her eyes shut, nodding.
“Where’s your car parked?”
“Please.”
“Where?” He thrust his gun against her neck.
“To the left at the end of the block. This side of the street.”
He drew his face within inches of hers. She stared into his dark glasses, seeing nothing in the blackness but the reflection of her fear.
“Make a sound and I’ll go to your home and kill your kid. Understand?”
He threw a blanket across her lap, the bags under the seat, then handcuffed her wrists to the armrests.
As she felt the metal clamping hard against her skin, her mind reeled. Did she kiss her son this morning? Her husband? Tell them how much she loved them? She saw their faces. Heard their voices. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t move her hands to brush them. This isn’t happening. It’s not real, I’m dreaming. Wake me. God, please wake me now.
The shooter’s head shook, his blond curls jiggling. “This is all messed up, man. Don’t be a fool. We’re not taking her.”
The handgun flew into his face, scraping his makeup-caked chin. “You’re with me. Or you’re dead. Right here. Right now. That clear?”
“Okay, okay, it’s cool. It’s your party.”
The red-faced man whirled, plucking the remaining grenade from his vest, holding it up. “Just like the one I left at the back.” He affixed a magnet and trip-wire mechanism to it at the front door’s inside handle. “The trip retractor sets automatically when I close this door. Open it from either side, it detonates, killing anyone within twenty-five feet.”
They left.
The heist took minutes. The victims remained inside the jewelry store. Glass tinkled in the aftermath. Vanessa wept softly. The old watch shopper’s hands were still trembling above his white hair. The manager’s mind blurred with worry for his customers. Grenades on the doors. Lord, help us. They took that lady. She was just buying her husband a special anniversary gift; now she is a hostage. Oh, God, please help her. Struggling to make sense of it all, the manager heard the engaged woman murmuring to her fiancé under the ruins of a display case, her words growing audible.
“Our Father, who art in heaven—”
They all flinched at the sudden pop of gunfire coming from the street.
TWO
Now what do we have here?
Waiting for the light to change, Officer Rod August saw a large, butt-ugly woman and a man with long hair and a goatee hefting a big old-timer from a paneled van into a wheelchair. The woman got behind the chair and pushed the old man down the sidewalk. The goateed man remained in the van, which was parked illegally in a red zone. No hydraulic lift, no commercial, delivery, or handicap designation on the plate or window.
What’s wrong with this picture?
The light changed. August eased his black-and-white SFPD patrol car forward. He pretended, from behind his sunglasses, that he didn’t catch the prison tattoos on the van driver’s arm, extending from the window with a stream of cigarette smoke. He let on as if he’d missed the tailpipe jitter of the idling engine. He memorized the California plate number.
It never hurt to be vigilant. There’d been a spate of burglaries in August’s zone of this business strip in the Richmond District north of Golden Gate Park. Out of sight to round the block, August radioed his dispatcher to run the tag. Routine. The job was 99 percent tedium, 1 percent adrenaline.
August yawned. The tag was probably nothing. Could be that Mr. Tattoo there was a good boy doing a good deed for Granny and Gramps. But what the hell? He had an hour before his meeting with his lieutenant to discuss his desire to detail into robbery. To move up the ranks. August had five years on the street and had developed the instincts of a detective.
Now Billy, his son, was talking about becoming a cop
, like the old man. August flipped down the visor to the small color school photograph of a blond-haired six-year-old, bright blue eyes radiating hope over a mile-wide grin missing a lower front tooth. You and me, pal. Partners. August got Billy this weekend. They were going to Big Sur, or to see a ball game, or just hang. Whatever Billy wanted. It was going to be great being with him.
Static crackled over August’s radio.
“Your number comes back ten-thirty from Bakersfield PD. Stand by.”
A roller. I knew it. Stolen. Gotcha.
“Complainant Victor Trang reported plates stolen from his 2000 Neon a week ago.”
August came around the corner, then crept up on the parked van. Its motor was still idling. Time to go to work. He put the transmission in park, called in his location, a description of the van: a white Ford mid-1990s, and the hero in the driver’s seat whose cigarette hand was tapping the side mirror. The tapping stopped when August activated his emergency lights, hit his siren to yelp twice. He unbuckled his seat belt, then his holster, gripped his Beretta, then used his loudspeaker.
“This is the San Francisco police. Shut off your engine and step out of the vehicle now with your open hands visible above your head.”
Nothing happened.
August repeated his order. Nothing happened. The side mirror adjusted. August caught a pair of cold eyes watching him. August’s game face betrayed nothing. All right, asshole. I’m not asking three times. August opened his door to shield himself as he stepped out, taking stock of the street around him. It was empty until he saw someone approaching.
Instinct told him to call for backup. Naw, hold off. I can handle this.
August’s radio crackled with the first report, from a barbershop, of shots being heard in the San Francisco Deluxe Jewelry Store. At that moment August recognized the wheelchair people returning to the van, which began swaying because the driver had suddenly changed his position inside.
