The First 48

by Tim Green

  “Here,” Mike said, taking a battle-ax off the wall.

  “Let me,” Tom said. He took the ax from Mike and swung it at the doorknob. He hacked away for several minutes, then kicked it again. The door sagged inward. Tom kicked it once more, and it burst open.

  He was breathing hard, but he pushed Mike back and drew his gun, going in first. Mike crouched down next to the doorframe, ready to cover him.

  There wasn’t a sign of anyone amid the heavy antique furniture, the musty smell of books, and the tang of gunpowder. In the far corner of the room, cut into the shelves of books that stretched to the ceiling, a doorway was ajar. Aiming at the door, Tom crabbed his way into the room. Mike followed.

  “He’s here,” Tom said, leaning over behind the desk.

  He felt Mike peering over his shoulder. Carson lay facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. The back of his skull had been broken open. The exit wound. A striking scarlet divot. Tiny droplets clung to the silver stalks of hair.

  Halfway between the desk and the side door, a pearl-handled .45 lay on the wooden floor. Mike walked over to it.

  “Leave it,” Tom said. “Just leave everything.”

  Tom tilted his chin toward the ceiling and cupped his hands. He stumbled into the hallway and bellowed until his face turned red.

  “Jane!”

  CHAPTER 58

  Tom heard stones clattering off metal. Rubber spinning grit and the roar of a vehicle’s engine. He dashed out into the hallway and out onto the battlement. The bloodred taillights of a truck whipped around the corner and down the drive.

  Tom ran back into the house.

  “What?” Mike said as Tom sprinted past him and down the stairs.

  Through the dining room. The great hall. The entryway. The front door and out onto the veranda. He heard Mike shouting his name, but he was halfway down the hill. The truck appeared and screeched to a stop beneath the blue light beside the dock.

  The dark shape of a man flickered out of the truck and into the boat.

  “Jane!” Tom yelled. The howling wind battered him. His eyes strained for a second shape. There was only one in the boat.

  Tom tumbled and rolled right up onto his feet, still striding long, eating up ground. The boat hoist creaked, and the waves began to pitch the hull as it was lowered into the water.

  “Stop!” Tom yelled.

  The figure in the boat never looked up. He was at the wheel now. The engine revved and a plume of smoke burst from the back and quickly disappeared. Tom hit the road, sprinting. The boat shot backward, out of its crib, the figure’s arms spinning the wheel. Tom was at the dock, beneath the light. The boat rocketed away, out into the dark heaving water. A young man stood anchored to the wheel, mounting the crests of water in an explosion of spray.

  The night swallowed him.

  Tom checked the truck. Empty. He went back to the house. Mike was halfway down the hill.

  “What happened?” Mike asked.

  “He’s gone,” Tom said. “I think it was Mark Allen. I don’t know.”

  “Jane?”

  Tom bit into his lip. He shook his head and said, “I don’t know.”

  He marched back up the hill. They searched the house for her. It was enormous. Closets and hidden doorways. Tom newly afraid at each new nook that they would find a body. They checked the dusty attic, with its thick rough-hewn beams. They scoured the cellar, its stone walls damp and discolored.

  The phone line had been cut, but Carson’s body was the only one.

  One of the bedrooms on the third floor belonged to Mark Allen. His West Point diploma hung on the wall next to a picture of him in his uniform with his arm around a beautiful woman with long dark hair and a long white neck that made Tom think of Jane. The woman looked older than Mark Allen; otherwise the warmth of their smiles would have made Tom think they were a couple.

  There was a leather briefcase beside a desk. Mike looked inside and pulled out some papers.

  “Lab reports,” he said, sifting. “Signed by Slovanich.”

  Tom couldn’t bring himself to care. He had to find Jane.

  “What do we do?” Mike said, stuffing the papers back into the briefcase and slinging it over his shoulder.

  “Carson said there were cabins all over the island,” he said. “We’ll search them. Every one.”

  They descended the side stairs into the dining room. The fire had died down to a bed of coals cloaked in gray ash. Mike looked at the dessert and coffee resting on the table.

  “I should have done something,” Mike said.

  “No,” Tom said. “I should have. I began to doubt.”

  “Look,” Tom said, pointing.

  On the wall was an old map in a wooden frame. The paper was faded and its edges were worn. On the map, the Hunt Club was represented by a large rectangle that matched its footprint. Across the island were other footprints. Cabins and buildings. Tom held it out in front of him and studied it.

  “She’s on this island,” he said. “We’ll go through every single one of them until we find her. Come on.”

  Tom lifted the frame from its hook and smashed the glass against the stone wall. Part of the glass remained, so he smashed it again. Glass tinkled to the floor. He jiggled the map free, then folded it and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Without looking back, he strode through the cavernous hall and out onto the veranda. The wind was gusting even stronger. Looking out from the veranda, they could see the narrow dock below at the water’s edge. In the single cone of blue light was the boat hoist. Empty.

  They started back down the grassy lawn. When they got to the road, Mike pointed at the truck. The maroon Land Cruiser.

  “At least we won’t have to walk,” Mike said.

  Tom opened the driver’s door and fished around.

  “No keys,” he said, striking the wheel. He looked at his watch. 01:17:08. “Can you hot-wire it?”

  “I can’t,” Mike said.

  “Well, damn,” Tom said. He struck the wheel again, slammed the truck door, and started off back up the road at a steady march. His legs were already tired, but that didn’t matter. He’d push them until they seized up.

  He took out the map and shone the flashlight on it without stopping. Mike hurried up behind him, puffing.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Besides the main house,” Tom said, pointing to the map, “most of the other structures are on the north end of the island. It’s about four miles to the first group.”

  He looked at his watch again. 01:13:53. He showed Mike.

  “My legs,” Mike said.

  “If you can’t make it,” Tom said, “don’t worry. But I can’t slow down.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Mike said.

  Tom clapped him on the shoulder, then doubled his pace, fighting the urge to jog or run. He knew that if he did that, his legs would seize up.

  Tom put his head down. At 00:57:42 he could no longer hear Mike’s shuffling feet and his labored breathing. The wind was his only company until Ellen joined him. They talked. It helped.

  CHAPTER 59

  Jane stirred. There was an ancient oak clock on the mantel. Bold Roman numerals and a yellowing face. Its ticktock could be heard above the wind moaning in the chimney. The apple-scented tobacco had lost its charm; it smelled dirty to her now.

  She was tired still, but determined to remain alert, though she didn’t really know how long she could. Maybe until the morning. Maybe until the storm passed. If it died out, she would take that formula and find the mainland. She was no expert with a boat, but she’d seen her father do it often enough to try. She wasn’t going to remain here any longer than she had to, no matter what Mark Allen wanted.

  The light from the one lamp let the shadows linger malevolently in the corners, and she had finally worked up the courage to leave her chair and try the switch by the door when a shape passed by the far window.

  Jane gasped and gripped the gun. Her hands grew slippery with sw
eat, but she knew enough to fumble with the safety, clicking it off. She slipped out of the chair and knelt down behind the arm of the couch, resting the barrel of the gun. Pointing it at the door. Footsteps moved slowly along the porch. A shadow passed the window. The door handle slowly began to turn.

  Random drops of rain were starting to fall from the sky. Tom checked his watch. 00:29:37. He looked back, shining the light. Its beam was fading, and there was no sign of Mike. Tom had no idea how much farther he had to go. His chest was aching now; his legs were numb. Only the sharp biting blisters rubbed raw by his leather boots let him know he was moving at all.

  Soon the wind brought the rain down in sheets. The road grew wet and sloppy. He glanced at his watch. 00:13:56. His heart gave a jump and he slogged on, his feet sloshing now in his boots. His shirt clung tight to his skin. He started to shiver.

  When he reached the driveway, he directed the dying beam of his flashlight at his watch again. It was too weak to read by. He fumbled for the light on the Ironman itself. 00:01:47.

  He drew the gun from his waist and started down the drive. The air grew rancid with the sharp smell of damp smoke.

  He stopped at a small clearing. The weak beam of light, flecked with rain, illuminated the fallen shape of a burned building. Heavy smoke was still floating upward into the downpour.

  He looked at his watch. 00:00:31. He started to run, stumbling down the muddy drive.

  That’s when he heard the shot.

  Tom started, and inhaled a ragged breath of air and rain. He saw a warm yellow square of light through the trees. Mud and stones splattered up from his heavy feet. He stumbled and fell, plowing up a puddle. A cabin came into view. More smoke met his nose. Somewhere his mind recognized it as the clean dry scent of burning firewood.

  In the faint yellow light that spilled from the window, Tom saw a figure slip off the porch. It had a shotgun. It stood in front of the window and raised the gun. Tom set his feet, aimed, and fired.

  The shotgun went off too. The window blasted to pieces. The figure fell. Tom shot again. The dark shape thrashed in the puddle, droplets of water spattering up into the face of the rain, glinting in the yellow glow of the window. Tom fired again and again. The dark shape lay still.

  “Janey!” Tom screamed.

  He staggered to reach the fallen form, and then he peered through the broken window. The quiet beep-beep-beep of his Ironman protested feebly under the press of the storm.

  CHAPTER 60

  Jane’s scream rose above the sound of the watch and cut through the heart of the rain and wind.

  “Dad!”

  She leaped from the porch. Her gun clattered off a stone as it fell to the ground. Tom dropped his .38 and staggered toward her. She hit him like a linebacker, buckling his knees. They grabbed each other and squeezed. Tom rolled to his side and over on his back in the mud, hugging her and crying with joy.

  “Janey.”

  He shifted his hands across her back, wanting to squeeze every inch of her. He stroked her hair, then let her go and stood, drenched from head to toe, laughing from deep in his chest. Even the sight of the dead old-timer with the big goose gun didn’t dampen his spirits.

  The watch continued to beep. That beautiful Ironman. He led her by the hand and they walked up onto the porch.

  “What is that?”

  He showed her. 00:00:00.

  “The first forty-eight.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head and laughed some more, hugging her again. Then he held her at arm’s length. Her eyes gleamed in the porch light as she looked up and out into the rain. Tom shifted his feet and looked down at the floor, then jumped. His wet shoes were slipping and mixing with the dark patch of dried blood. Little rivulets of water swirled red.

  “What happened?” Tom asked.

  Jane looked down at the blood.

  “I got away,” she said. “They tried to kill me. Then Mark . . . he shot that man. There’s another in the woods . . .”

  “Tom?”

  They both turned toward the driveway. Chugging down the lane was Mike. Dripping wet. His red goatee plastered on his chin. His ragged sheik headdress tangled down his thick neck. The briefcase still slung across his back.

  “Tom?”

  “I’m here,” Tom said. “I’ve got her.”

  Mike stepped up onto the porch. Dark wet strands of hair were plastered to his head. Water dripped from his small beard. His eyes were aglow.

  “Jane,” he said, hugging her.

  Tom hugged them both. He savored the warmth of his daughter and the heaving form of his big friend. Their heads rested together, skulls bumping like wooden blocks. Mike breathing loud and hard. Tom huffing too. Laughter bubbled up between them.

  Tom’s eyes were closed. His face warm.

  After a minute, an insane chortling swelled up in the midst of their laughing like a bad joke. Tom’s laughter ebbed. So did Mike’s. Jane’s stopped. It wasn’t coming from them. Tom’s eyes shot open and he spun around.

  The laughter became a howl. The monstrous form of a man, scarlet with blood, pink foam seeping from his nose. He staggered toward them, his hair and thick beard matted, his clothes torn. The long silver blade of a knife glinted above his red eyes, then slashed down through the yellow porch light.

  Jane crossed her wrists and stepped in, stopping Dave’s forearm in midair. Tom dropped to one knee and threw a full body punch at the solar plexus. A bloody spray erupted from Dave’s mouth as he fell back. He doubled over, and Mike pumped a quick shot into the top of his head. The enormous man shuddered and rocked, then dropped to the porch floor and went still.

  CHAPTER 61

  Even the burning welts across Mark’s back seemed to have their place, keeping him awake through the night. He yawned and pulled off the exit to get gas, coffee, and a cheap rain poncho. The man behind the counter had a mouth full of brown holes and bent yellow teeth. He smiled sharply at Mark and then winced and splayed out the inside of his lower lip in a strange tic. He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin and wiped his hand on the red vest that bore his name: CARTER.

  “You want a Danish to go with that there coffee?” Carter asked. “You get two for one before six. They’s yesterday’s, but they ain’t bad.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mark said.

  “There you go,” Carter said with a nod. “Some people, they turn they nose up at day-olds, but man, way I growed up, you’d be at the gates of heaven to get yourself one of these Danishes.”

  “I hear that,” Mark said. He turned and saw a thick stack of newspapers with Senator Gleason’s face taking up the top half of the page. SENATOR MISSING.

  Carter opened the plastic case. He put a thin sheet of wax paper over a Danish and scooped it up, handing it to Mark. The frosting had grown crusty and whole chunks of its swirls lay broken in the creases of the paper. The smell of the blueberry filling floated up into Mark’s nose. He took a bite.

  “Here’s your other one,” Carter said, reaching in and holding it forth.

  “You have it,” Mark said.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, I like it fine,” Mark said. He took a gulp of the hot black coffee.

  Carter angled his head away and partially closed his far eye. He splayed out his lower lip and winced, then rubbed his stubble and wiped his vest.

  “Look,” Mark said, taking another bite. A thin line of the syrupy filling dribbled down his chin. Mark swiped it up with his finger and stuck the finger into his mouth.

  Carter smiled.

  “Awful nice of you,” he said. He took a bite.

  Mark nodded and dug into his pocket for the money.

  “You want to top that coffee off, you can,” Carter said, handing back his change. On the corner of the dollar bill was a flaky crumb.

  “That’s okay,” Mark said, shaking the crumb free.

  “No, you ought to. I don’t let everybody.”

  “Thanks,” Mark said. He removed the plastic cove
r. Coffee gurgled in up to the brim of the foam lip.

  “You have a good one,” Mark said, raising his cup. The bells on the door tinkled as he left.

  Mark stood for a moment and breathed in deep. Even the scent of gasoline somehow seemed full of promise. The sky was just beginning to brighten in the east. Dark blue instead of black. The breeze brought with it a small mist. Cool but exhilarating. In the rear of the white Bronco the black sixty-gallon drum gleamed under the halogen lights at the pump.

  Mark got in, sitting with care, not leaning back, and drove out onto the highway. He shook his head, thinking of Carson. Everything the man had wanted was within reach. Not just the contract. That would revitalize Kale Labs; Mark’s plan went beyond that. It made him personally rich. Filthy rich. And it would make Kale Labs a company to rival Microsoft.

  Mark snorted and gulped some coffee. Carson had actually doubted his resolve. His craftiness. His fortitude. Mark had planned to surprise him with his plan. The millions he had used to buy Kale Labs stock on margin would become billions. When people started puking their guts out all over New York City? When old people started to die? Bioterrorism . . . It didn’t matter who got the blame. And when Kale Labs stepped in with a hastily conceived antidote? How much would the stock be worth then?

  Soon Mark rounded a bend in the gap between two massive hills, and there before him stretched the Tappan Zee Bridge. A massive web of steel, it snaked for nearly four miles across the flat dark Hudson River. The pointed peaks of its ridged back glowed with blinking red lights. A stream of taillights pulsed to the east while an opposing flow of headlights came west.

  On the far side of the bridge, the queue at the tollbooths had grown thick. Mark craned his neck to see what was taking a tractor-trailer so long to pay. By the time he was through, all remnants of night had been washed away by the thin gruel of dawn. The exit for the Central Westchester Parkway was 7. Lucky seven.

  He finished his coffee and stroked his lips with the tips of his fingers, thinking that it was destiny for him to have killed Carson. Carson had no right to talk about his mother like that. And now that Carson was gone, Mark understood an ancient adage. The king was dead. Long live the king.