by Jack Bowie
Braxton couldn’t remember seeing a notebook in the inventory. It was another strange omission. “Was there anything else you can remember?”
“No, I’m sorry. I just wanted to get moving on our project. Mohammed seemed so preoccupied I wanted to see what he was doing. I had a new idea for the simulation and was thinking about it on my way over to his apartment. Then I saw the explosion. It was horrible.” She started shivering and crossed her arms over her body, rubbing them as if to keep warm.
“The police came and I talked with that patrolman . . . and he said that Mohammed was dead. Why would someone do that?” Her eyes pleaded with him for an answer.
He reached over and placed his hand on top of hers. Her hand tensed and he feared she might pull away, but then it relaxed and she forced a weak smile.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’m going to find out.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“What about that Detective Fowler? Has he found anything?”
“Not really.” Braxton shook his head. He realized he shouldn’t go into too much detail. Fowler had gone out on a limb for him and he didn’t want any blowback on the cop. “I think he believed you, but all the evidence goes the other way. I’m sorry.”
Goddard took back her hand and placed it in her lap. He watched as her hope faded into acceptance and then sadness. He knew there was nothing he could say to bring back that smile tonight.
“It’s been a long day for both of us,” he said softly. “Why don’t I take you back?”
They rode back to the Parker House in silence. The taxi made a tight turn and she leaned into him and her head fell to his shoulder. It remained there the rest of the trip.
Once in the lobby, they turned to face each other. In the light, he noticed a track of mascara down the side of her face.
“Thank you for the help, Susan. I really did enjoy the evening. I’m sorry we hit a rough spot.” He waited for a word of encouragement that might mean he had not lost her completely. He couldn’t bring himself to ask her directly.
She hesitated, then answered softly, “Me too, Adam. Call me when you get back down to D.C.” Then she put her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss his cheek. She turned and headed for the staircase.
He stood in the lobby watching her disappear up the stairs. It had been a long time since a woman had affected him so deeply. No one, in fact, since Megan. He wasn’t sure what to do about it.
The rain had stopped, but the temperature had dropped, nearly to freezing, and Braxton stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets as he walked back down Tremont. The street was now deserted, his only companions an occasional taxi loaded with evening party-goers.
He stopped briefly in front of the Old Granary Burial Ground, then hurried on to the station. Thankfully, the train came quickly and his chill passed in the dry heat of the subway car.
The scent of her perfume rising from his jacket only intensified his loneliness on the ride back to the Square.
Chapter 31
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Saturday, 9:00 p.m.
HARDING WAS THINKING about his son’s last baseball game when he heard the snap of the deadbolt. The two men rose in unison and waited for Braxton to push the door open and turn on the lights. Instead, the door slammed back on its hinges and a huge figure stormed directly at them. Before Harding could react, he heard a shot from his right. The room instantly filled with debris and the target disappeared.
“Shit,” he whispered. He fired two shots through the storm of paper in the direction of the careening body and dove left for the door. They had to block any exit and reduce exposure from the hall.
He didn’t know who this intruder was but he would bet it wasn’t their target.
* * *
Terrel had had the flash while he was watching the Red Wings demolish the Bruins. Of course the quant didn’t converge. He had truncated the series too soon! He grabbed a stack of listings and rushed out the door. His friend wouldn’t mind if he used the computer and he might even get a chance to see this new girlfriend. He really did hope that Adam would find a new lady. The guy deserved some good luck.
It was hard keeping the pile of papers balanced, so after he flipped the locks he just kicked the door open and headed for the study. He heard a strange spitting sound just before the sledgehammer hit him in his chest.
“Ughhh!” he cried as the impact spun him around and threw him onto a nearby coffee table. The table collapsed with an ear-splitting crack sending a lamp and vase crashing to the hardwood floor, both shattering from the force.
“Shit,” he heard from his right as he was falling. Then two spits and the floor next to him erupted into a shower of splinters.
There’s someone else in the room! Someone shooting at me!
Cover. He had to find cover.
He felt Braxton’s sofa next to him on his left. Without thinking further he jumped into the air and dove over the back of the couch.
Two more spits. He heard them bury into the furniture’s deep padding just inches above his head. But they came from the opposite corner. Not back toward the door.
There were two of them! Why are they trying to kill me?
* * *
Harding rolled past the door, slamming it shut with his left arm as he passed. The light from the hall vanished and the room returned to familiar darkness. He came up in a shooter’s crouch, listening for any evidence of the new target’s location. What the hell had happened?
The room was silent, but there was no smell of death. The target was still alive. Who was this guy? What was he doing here? The contract was blown and the error would put a mark on his reputation. He’d probably end up owing one to his client. Dammit!
Concentrate! From his position by the door Harding had complete control of the room. He only had to wait for his quarry to make a mistake. He slowly scanned the Glock across the room.
There was motion straight ahead, then two shots from the corner to his right. Nathan again. They ended in useless thumps. The target was fast, but now he was pinned behind the sofa. Only a matter of time.
* * *
Terrel knew there were two of them: one at the front door, and another to his left. He didn’t think they had moved but how would he know? The blood pounding in his ears would have drowned out any other sounds.
He considered going after one of them, but quickly rejected the stupid idea. They were armed and he was certainly no Chuck Norris. Soon they would be circling to close in on him. How could he get out?
The room was pitch black except for street glow coming through the dining room windows. The windows. There was a fire escape outside the kitchen window! He and Braxton had stored beer there in the winter. If he could make it to the kitchen, he could block the door and slide down the escape ladder.
His heart was beating so hard it made his whole body shake. Bile seared his throat as he rose to his hands and knees and edged along the back of the sofa.
He was nearly to the end when his hand came down on a large shard of glass. He muffled a yell then yanked the fragment from his hand, wincing from the pain. About to set the piece down, he had an idea.
He squatted into a runner’s position. The door to the kitchen was on the right of the open dining area. The polished dining table reflected the light from the front windows and illuminated his path to safety.
Here goes. He shifted the fragment to his left hand and tossed it to the opposite corner of the room. When he heard the glass hit the wall, he pushed off and dashed toward the light. A bullet whistled behind him as he passed into the dining room.
He was going to make it! He knew it!
* * *
Harding heard the sound but did not react. He had expected a diversion. Nathan reacted as he knew he would, firing across the open area. Then, silhouetted in the glow from the windows, he saw a body racing toward the light.
“Always escape into the darkness,” he recited silently, “never the light,
” as he squeezed off two shots.
Terrel had almost made it to the kitchen door when the two 9mm hollow point slugs buried themselves in his back. They mushroomed on entering his body and devastated his entire chest cavity. His chest jerked forward, the bullets adding to his already considerable forward momentum. He hit the window at the end of the open dining area, shattering the glass, and splintering the frame. His body fell through the gaping hole, tumbled down the three stories, and impacted with a soft crunch on the concrete below.
“What a goddamn night,” Harding cursed as he motioned Nathan back to the door. “Clean up and let’s get the hell outta’ here.” He already heard yelling from the street below. Nathan pulled out his flashlight and checked the room to be sure they hadn’t left any evidence.
Harding listened at the door, then cracked it open to view the hall. Seeing it empty, the pair quietly exited the apartment and headed for the back stairs. They heard a crowd of tenants forming in the front lobby as they reached the first floor. Still unobserved, they left the building by the rear door that Nathan had located earlier in the day.
They were just pulling away from the curb when the first patrol car arrived.
* * *
When Braxton turned up Brattle Street at 9:30, he saw flashing police lights in the distance. What could have happened? His neighborhood’s crime record was low, certainly better than Central Square or North Cambridge. They hadn’t had any serious violence in over two years. Hopefully it was just a small accident.
His anxiety worsened when he discovered the activity was outside his apartment building. Police were everywhere, talking with on-lookers and scribbling in little notebooks.
As he walked closer, he saw an ambulance near the front door. Braxton hoped it wasn’t anyone he knew.
Another tenant, Charlie Milak, was speaking with a patrolman. Milak looked up, then pointed down the street toward him. The officer had finished speaking with his neighbor when Braxton reached the apartment entrance.
“Adam Braxton?” the cop asked.
“Yes, officer. What’s happened here?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident sir. You live in apartment 3B?”
“Yes I do.”
“Does Paul Terrel have a key to your apartment?”
“Yes, he uses the computer in my apartment sometimes.” He was getting a very bad feeling.” What’s happened? Has Paul been hurt?”
“We believe he may have entered your apartment and surprised some burglars, Mr. Braxton. He was shot.”
“Shot?” He reached for the wall to steady himself. Who would want to burglarize his apartment? What was Terrel doing in there anyway?
“How is he?” Braxton asked automatically, but the answer was clear from the sober look on the patrolman’s face.
“I’m afraid he’s dead sir. After he was shot he fell from your window.”
Braxton looked up and saw the shattered frame of his window. Below on the sidewalk a formless shape was covered with a blanket. He felt sick.
Paul is dead! Why?
* * *
It was eleven o’clock by the time the police left. Somehow he had managed to identify Terrel, give a statement as to his whereabouts, then assist the police as they searched his friend’s apartment for his parent’s address.
It had been unbearably painful going through his friend’s belongings. It reminded him of cleaning out the apartment after Megan left. He had felt a part of his life wither away as he sorted through the bits of clothing and worn-out gifts. But she had been alive; he had only driven her away. Paul was gone for good. Was this his fault as well?
“Sorry about the noise, Adam. I’ll be done here in a minute.” Jerry Shepard, the building superintendent, was nailing a dirty sheet of plywood over Braxton’s missing window. Shepard was an okay super; he was handy with tools, and friendly enough, although he did stick his nose into the tenant’s personal affairs a little too often.
“Sure,” was all Braxton could muster.
“It’s awful about Paul. I know you two were really close.”
“Thanks, Jerry. We’ll all miss him.”
“I can’t believe somebody broke in here. Did he get much?”
Braxton shook his head. That’s getting right to the point, Jerry. “Not much. Just a couple of old watches.” And the engagement ring Megan had returned. “But it was ‘they’. The cops think there were two of them. Mary Pritchard saw a couple of strangers in the building about 5:30.”
“I’m sure they’ll find who did it.”
“I hope so, but the detective in charge didn’t have many encouraging words. No one saw them leave and they didn’t leave much behind.”
Shepard finished the nailing and packed up his tools. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay in another apartment? 2B is empty. I could get you a cot or something.”
“No, thanks. I’d rather be here than in some strange place. I’ll be okay.”
“Whatever. You take care of yourself now. I’ll get that window replaced tomorrow.”
Once the super had left, Braxton realized how exhausted he was. The dinner with Goddard had been draining enough; as he looked over the wreckage of the living room, a complete helplessness fell over him. It was a familiar feeling, but one he had thought he had put behind him months ago. He couldn’t let it return.
He walked over to the small bar he had fashioned in a corner of his bookcases. Terrel had been a friend and a confidant. He had been too young to recognize his own mortality, but would listen intently whenever Braxton had discussed his. Terrel had been his closest, no his only, friend since the divorce. How had he let this happen?
He pulled one of Megan’s crystal glasses from the shelf and filled it from his favorite bottle of Talisker single malt scotch.
“To you Paul,” he whispered. Memories of Terrel flashed through his mind as he gulped a mouthful of the warm, biting liquid: camping trips in the White Mountains, late night discussions on work, fixing each other’s PCs when they went haywire.
Why did they pick his apartment? What did they possibly think was worth stealing?
He couldn’t shake the feeling that all this was his fault, despite the lack of any rationale for the guilt. It was just an accident, he argued, as he began to pace the room. The floor was still littered with the printouts from his friend’s project. Running his hand along the sofa, he felt the grit of gunpowder on the fabric. His shoes crushed pieces of the broken vase. When he reached the end of the room, he rubbed his hands over the cracked plaster around the bullet holes.
What had Paul stumbled into? From the look of the room, he must have put up some kind of a fight.
Braxton’s eyes were drawn to the bare plywood sheet where the window had been, where Terrel had fallen, perhaps trying to escape from the criminals who had invaded the apartment.
He threw the crystal glass at the window with all the strength he could find. It exploded on the wall, its fragments falling to the floor and disappearing in the other debris.
Someone will pay for this, he vowed. Someone will pay.
Chapter 32
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Sunday, 10:30 a.m.
THE RAIN HAD started at 1:00 a.m. and had continued throughout the night. The pelting of the drops on the plywood panel beat like a drum into the apartment and made sleep impossible. Braxton finally crawled out of bed at 6:30, took a quick shower, and fixed some breakfast. In the daylight, the disorder of his apartment looked much less ominous. He grabbed a handful of trash bags and began cleaning up the mess.
Thankfully there had been little blood spilled inside, and the ugly wooden board over his window hid the tragic scene on the sidewalk below. By mid-morning he had hauled three heavy bags of trash to the refuse drop. Then he rearranged the furniture in the living room, hoping the new configuration would keep the memories from returning too quickly. His superintendent called at 11:00 and said the new window couldn’t be delivered until later the next week.
; Running out of chores, he collapsed on the sofa, carefully avoiding the section with the bullet holes, and tried to think through what had happened. The only way he knew to deal with difficult situations was to work them out in his mind: analyze the situation, play through the options, and develop a strategy. His ex had believed he had hidden from problems that upset him and didn’t recover until he had made everyone around him miserable. What had she wanted him to do, dump every little problem on her? He wasn’t hiding; he just needed to work things out privately before he could discuss it with others. Why couldn’t she have seen that?
The Cambridge cops had said the robbers were pros. They had hardly scratched Braxton’s locks getting in. They also hadn’t taken anything that was very valuable, although the cops felt this was due to Terrel’s untimely entry.
But the timing was all off. Mrs. Pritchard had said she saw the two men enter the building around 6:20, just before she sat down to watch the evening news. Terrel wasn’t killed until 7:45. What were they doing in his apartment for an hour and a half? Why didn’t they take his valuable items: his computer and its peripherals? Nothing had been piled up or stuffed into bags; only a few pieces of jewelry were gone. It didn’t make any sense.
He shook his head at how everything always came back to timing: his bad timing at Century, the contract with CERT, Ramal’s death.
The thought caught him by surprise. What if the break-in hadn’t been a robbery? What if they had been after him and Terrel had gotten in the way? Ramal had discovered the anomaly and he had been killed. Now Braxton was replicating the student’s work. What had he stumbled into?
He had to get help. But who could he call? He walked over to the window and looked down. There were unfamiliar cars along the street. Could someone be watching? How would he know if they were? A chill of fear shook his body. He searched his wallet for the business card and grabbed his cell.
“Hello. Fowler residence.” It was a resonant woman’s voice.
“Detective Fowler please.”
