Robert Swartwood

Legion

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

-“Ozymandias,” Percy Bysshe Shelley

part one

ASHES TO ASHES

one

My father has died.

Melissa emails me about it, but I rarely check my email. Somehow, she manages to get hold of my cell number and sends me a text to call her ASAP. I don’t. She calls an hour later and I send the call to voicemail, which I later listen to and hear about his death and how the viewing will be Friday night and the funeral Saturday morning and Mom would really like it if we could all be there so please, John, please do try to make it if you can. She even offers to let me ride along with her and her family-her Wall Street husband and two adorable kids-but she probably knows I’ll decline anyway, not wanting to be a tagalong but also dreading the idea of spending hours imprisoned in their SUV (that’s what I picture they have, anyway, some big Mercedes or BMW that they only take out of storage the few times they leave the city each year) with a sister and brother-in-law and a duo of nephews I never talk to despite the fact we both live within ten miles of each other.

When I don’t call her back, she tries once more, leaving the same voicemail, almost word for word.

I delete that message, just like the first.

My father has died and I don’t have much opinion on the matter one way or another. My father was a cold son of a bitch and the world will be better off without him. Even how he went out seems fitting enough, though I’m sure the rest of my family wouldn’t agree. And attending his funeral? No thanks. I think I’d rather bash my head into a brick wall than force myself to participate in that circus.

But then later that Friday night-after the rest of my family, two hundred miles away, sat through my father’s viewing-I can’t sleep. I stare up at my bedroom ceiling, listening to the city sounds through the window. I turn on my right side, then on my left side. I pop in my earbuds, but music doesn’t help. Finally, after two hours of restlessness, I get up and log onto my laptop and pull up the Amtrak website.

I take the first train of the morning out of Penn Station to Hartford. A woman sits beside me playing Words With Friends on her iPad. She smells of cinnamon. At first she tries to engage me in conversation, and I give low, monosyllabic answers until she gets the hint and leaves me alone. My earbuds in place, I stare out my window and tell myself that once the train stops, I will get off and head back to New York.

When the train does finally stop, I don’t head back to New York. Instead I hail a taxi. I tell the driver where I’m headed. He gives me a look, says that it will be nearly two hours to get there and do I have that kind of cash. I pass him my credit card, then sit back and watch the houses and trees slide by as he drives.

And then, before I know it, we’ve arrived. I ask the driver if he minds waiting a half hour or so to take me back. He glances out over the small cemetery, the numerous tombstones, the few mausoleums, the drooping willow trees, and asks, “Family or friend?”

Family, I tell him.

“Old man or old lady?”

Old man, I say.

He nods, chewing this over. “I never much cared for my old man. Used to beat the shit out of me. That why you’re late?”

Outside, down the grassy slope, a small group of mourners is clustered around a tent. The sky is overcast but doesn’t look like rain, though that hasn’t kept a few from carrying umbrellas. There looks to be about a dozen people, all said, and from what I can tell, they’re almost all family.

“Just stay here,” I tell the driver, and open my door.

I head down the stone walkway toward the tent. I take my time. Melissa’s email said the funeral started at ten. It’s now almost ten thirty, which means this thing should be wrapping up. The way the tent is positioned, almost everyone has his or her back to me. They’re all wearing black, either suits or dresses, which goes starkly with my jeans and hoodie.

I glance back over my shoulder to make sure the taxi-my only form of escape-hasn’t left. It’s still there, the driver now leaning against the hood, puffing on a cigarette, enjoying the melancholy view.

In many ways, my timing is perfect. When I’m less than fifty yards from the tent, the reverend finishes his prayer or eulogy or whatever, doing the whole ashes to ashes bit. Everyone who had their heads bowed now raises them. The deep silence that momentarily enveloped the group lifts. A soft and hushed murmur begins.

I spot Melissa and her husband and their boys. I spot Valerie and her husband. I spot Paul and his wife and their little girl. I spot David, who-last I remember-was married, but he appears to be alone today, so maybe his wife couldn’t make it or they’ve divorced.

Finally, I spot our mother. She’s sitting at the front, right near the casket, the usual spot they place the widow or widower. She hasn’t seen me yet, which I take as a blessing. In fact, none of them have seen me yet, surprisingly, which makes me think I can easily turn back around and hightail it out of here without having to converse with anyone. Truth is, I’m still not sure why I’m here. I’ve been trying to come up with a reason all morning, on the train next to Ms. Words With Friends, then on the nearly two-hour taxi ride, and I still haven’t figured it out.

But I have come, against my better judgment. I have come to my father’s funeral because, despite what I may think of the man, what feelings (or rather lack of feelings) I have toward him, he was my father, and if I owe him anything, it’s to at least show up when he dies.

“John?”

I blink. I must have zoned out there for a moment or two, staring at the closed casket nestled in between all those bouquets, because David is now standing in front of me.

“Glad you finally made it,” he says. He wears a gray suit that probably costs more than I make in a month. He extends his hand. “I was worried you might not.”

We shake, and it feels weird, because I don’t remember the last time I shook my brother’s hand. Was it at his wedding? Possibly, because I don’t think I’ve seen him since.

“A shame you couldn’t attend the wake last night,” he says, taking his hand back. It disappears into his suit jacket only to reappear a moment later with a small bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. He squirts a dollop of clear gel in his hand, snaps the cap shut, returns the bottle to his suit jacket, and then begins rubbing his hands together, the entire process so standard and droll he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“I was working.”

David’s mysophobia (a pathological fear of germs) doesn’t surprise me. He’s a surgeon-either cardiac or neuro, I can’t remember which-so it makes sense he doesn’t want to contract any harmful germs. But I also know it goes deeper than that. It goes way back to when we were in boarding school, the bullies picking on him, holding him to the ground, forcing him to eat gobs of spit, until finally his younger brother stepped in and made them stop.

“Oh yeah? What’s keeping you busy these days? Still riding your bike?”

He says it with sincerity, but I can sense the exasperation just beneath the surface. Saying without saying that it’s a shame I turned out the way I did, what with everything I had been given, all the potential, and wasting it unlike my brothers and sisters who managed to make something of themselves, to use the money our parents gave us to better our lives instead of spoiling it.

Or at least that’s the sense I get, but the truth is I’m probably wrong.

Instead of answering his question, I ask, “How was the wake?”

Nearly everyone else is on their feet now, everyone except our mother who sits on the metal folding chair and stares up at the reverend as he speaks to her, clasping her hands between his. The reverend wears a dark blue suit, probably taken off the rack at Sears, and his hair is as white as snow. He has a rose pinned to his jacket, right on the lapel, and for a moment I wonder whether or not it’s real.

My other siblings have all noticed me by now, but none have waved or nodded or even given me the finger, though I guess in this setting flashing the bird wouldn’t be proper funereal etiquette.

David’s face tenses briefly. “It was as nice as a wake can be.”

“Who was there?”

“Just us. Family.”

“So even until the end, our dad didn’t have any friends.”

I say this expecting to elicit a reaction, to make my brother flinch, but he only smiles and shrugs.

“You could say that, sure.”

This isn’t quite the response I expected. Except, now that I think about it, this is the typical response David is apt to give. At least the David I remember, the one I grew up with, the one who always had a dirty joke ready to make me laugh.

Now David looks past me, up the slope at the taxi, before scanning the road leading into the cemetery, as if he’s expecting someone else to show up.

An uneasy silence passes, and while oftentimes I revel in uneasy silences, I want to say something. Before I can, though, David asks, “Are you coming back to the house?”

“Whose house?”

“Mom’s. That’s where we’re having the reception. You know, finger sandwiches and macaroni salad. Hopefully there’ll be some alcohol, too.”

“I’m not sure I can. I have to head back soon.”

“But you just got here.”

Past my brother, Melissa has moved away from her husband and sons, weaving in and out of the chairs, so she can stand by our mother and lean down and whisper something in her ear. Our mother listens, a forced smile on her face, and then, little by little, the smile fades. She blinks and looks up at Melissa, then turns her face just enough so she’s looking at me.

Wrinkles on her forehead, crow’s-feet underneath her eyes, a little too much makeup-those are the details I take in for the half second or so before I instruct my body to take a quarter-step to the right, just enough so David blocks my mother’s gaze.

David glances over his shoulder, then turns back to me, shaking his head. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You thought you could make an appearance and not have to talk to Mom?”

“Did anyone look inside?”

Again, I expect to elicit some kind of reaction, but my brother only gives me a bored look.

“Yeah,” he says, “last night we had the casket open and were tossing in pennies like it was a wishing well. What the hell do you think? Of course nobody looked inside.”

I can’t help it, I start to smile, realizing that I have missed my brother. Maybe my own morbid sense of humor comes from him, I don’t know, but it seems whatever I throw at him, he throws it right back without missing a beat.

Beyond him, my mother struggles to her feet. Melissa and the reverend with the fake-or-real rose need to help her, each supporting an elbow, and I notice she’s now gripping a metal cane. My mother, barely sixty years old, needs a cane to move around and I have no idea why.

“Why does she need the cane?”

“Stroke.”

“When did that happen?”

“I don’t know. Pretty recently. It was only a minor stroke, from what I understand. You know, you could check in every once in a while so you would be in the loop.”

“What fun would that be?”

They’re coming this way now, our mother and Melissa, both of their gazes intent on my location.

“I should go.”

David glances over his shoulder again, seems to think something over, then nods. “If you feel you must.”

“Give everyone my best.”

“Sure,” David says. Then: “You know you’re an asshole, right?”

“What can I say? I am my father’s son.”

I turn and start back up the walkway, withdrawing the earbuds from my pocket and popping them in place, so that if anyone calls my name, I won’t hear them. I barely even hear the driver when I return to the taxi. He’s discarded his cigarette and again sits behind the wheel. He says something to me as I slide into the backseat. I take out the earbuds, ask him to say that again.

“I said that was fast.”

“Let’s go,” I say, and glance out the window.

David hasn’t moved, his hands now in the pockets of his thousand-dollar suit. Melissa and our mother have reached him, Melissa saying something to David, David shrugging and giving her some kind of bullshit to my sudden departure. Or, who knows, maybe he’s telling her the truth. We might be brothers, but it’s not like we owe each other anything, even though when we were kids I always stuck up for him when the bullies wanted to pick a fight.

Our mother, though, she stands off to the side, leaning on her cane, watching the taxi as we glide away down the drive.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat.

I think about my father in that closed casket.

I wonder what thoughts were racing through his mind moments before he put that gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

two

Ashley pegged the guy as a cop the second she saw him.

It was mostly in the way he carried himself, his broad shoulders squeezed into a suit that was one size too small-probably something grabbed off the rack at the last minute-the man looking uncomfortable in the plainclothes, because clearly this man was used to a uniform, loved the order and simplicity of wearing the same thing every day. Even his tie didn’t match, the shade of blue not quite going right with the jacket. He definitely looked like he was in the wrong place, the restaurant filled with the stuffy noontime regulars, those who made over six figures a year and didn’t mind paying for a glass of water. Ashley knew exactly what kind of clientele this place brought in, so it was no surprise the undercover cop caught her attention the way he did, entering the room, pausing briefly, scanning the tables, as if he was purposely looking for trouble.

Behind him then, a second or two later, Melissa appeared, dressed in a smart business suit, her golden brown hair pulled back into a bun. She had her glasses on today, the ones with the black frames, the kind men referred to as a naughty librarian look, a good look, Ashley thought, especially for someone like Melissa who could pull off sexy without really trying.

Melissa stepped up to the cop, whispered something to him, pointed vaguely in Ashley’s direction, then pointed over to the bar. The cop gave Ashley a long, measuring look, before he nodded slightly and weaved his way past the tables to the bar. He took up position at the far end, which gave him a good view of the entire room, the tables and booths, almost all of them occupied by men and women completely oblivious to his existence.

What they weren’t oblivious to, of course, was Melissa Baxter. If there was one thing Ashley knew, it was that her friend knew how to make an appearance. Even if she wasn’t trying it, like today, people instantly noticed her. She turned heads, as the saying went, both men and women alike. It also didn’t help that nearly everyone in the room knew her, or knew who she was, some even waving as Melissa made her way toward Ashley, smiling and returning hellos like it was just another day at the racquetball club.

“Sorry I’m late,” Melissa said, sliding into the booth, absently glancing at the menu even though she knew what she was getting-they always got the same thing, always, the two of them meeting here for lunch once a month, if not twice a month, a ritual they’d worked hard to keep going these past few years. “Did you get my text?”

“I did,” Ashley said, double-checking that her phone was on vibrate and setting it aside, “and it’s okay. Who’s the muscle?”

Melissa sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t even get me started.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed. Not everyone gets their own bodyguard.”

“For starters, he’s not a bodyguard. At least, not a real bodyguard. He’s just a uni they plucked from the street and threw a suit on him and told him to never let me out of his sight.”

“That must be real awkward when you have to use the bathroom.”

“He doesn’t talk much either. He’s not wearing a ring, and as far as I know, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. You want me to hook you up?”

“You and my mother,” Ashley said, “always trying to fix me up with anyone with a penis.”

“Would you prefer someone with a vagina?”

“I guess it would depend on how much I had to drink.”

They smiled at each other, their voices low, the last thing Melissa needing right now some overeager busybody eavesdropping and running to the press. Not that the press would care much about some harmless joking, but it was the principle of the matter. Melissa Baxter, Assistant District Attorney, always had to watch what she said and did in public. It was just part of the job description.

Their waitress came to the table, introducing herself and listing off specials. They sent her away with their drink order-diet ginger ale for Melissa, gin and tonic for Ashley-and then Ashley leaned in and said, “Seriously, though, what’s going on?”

“Death threat,” Melissa said, waving it away as dismissively as if she were telling the waitress she didn’t want croutons on her salad.

Ashley decided to state the obvious. “You don’t seem too concerned.”

“It’s not my first death threat, and it certainly won’t be my last.”

“But I’m guessing this one struck a chord.”

“You could say that.”

A brief moment of silence passed, Ashley glancing toward the bar where the cop sat in the corner, busy scanning the room.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

Melissa laughed. “You are such a gossip.”

“That is what I do, you know. But you don’t have to tell me. I think I already know.”

“Do you?”

“The biggest case of your career, a New York mob boss, the trial starts this week-yeah, I can connect the dots. How serious is it?”

“Not serious at all. Carrozza would be out of his mind to try to have something happen to me during trial. But Jeffery”-that was the District Attorney, Melissa’s boss-“doesn’t want to take any chances. I told him I wasn’t afraid, that putting protection on me would come across as weak, but he doesn’t care. So he has a cop following me all day, has a cop waiting outside our place all night, even has a cop keeping an eye on the kids at school.”

“I bet the taxpayers would love to hear that.”

The waitress came back with their drinks, and they ordered their usual salads-Melissa the Insalata Caprese, Ashley the Arugula and Roasted Pear-and then the girl was gone just as quickly as she had appeared.

Melissa took a sip of her drink, stirred the straw around. “The bright side, at least, is we managed to get away for the weekend without them. Thank God, too, because the last thing I would have wanted was for a few cops to tag along.”

Ashley took a sip of her own drink. “Did you go anywhere nice?”

“Connecticut,” Melissa said absently. “For my father’s funeral.”

The news gave Ashley pause. This wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. As long as she had known Melissa, she very rarely heard her friend talk about her parents. Of course Ashley knew they existed, had even met Melissa’s mother at their college graduation, but that was it. As far as Ashley knew, Melissa wasn’t very close to her parents. And now, apparently, her father had died.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Melissa waved another dismissive hand. “It’s not like we were exactly close. I can’t even remember the last time I talked to him. But when I heard the news last week about what happened, I knew our mom needed us, so I contacted everyone and told them we needed to go.” She shook her head. “I’ll tell you, it wasn’t easy. Our father wasn’t exactly what you would call loving. We barely even knew him. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I thought of him as Dad. To me he was just Frank. We were all just kids when he and my mom divorced. But still, I knew we had to be there, you know?”

Ashley nodded.

“But it was nice,” Melissa said, still stirring her straw, “being there with our mom and everyone else. Like a last-minute family reunion. We hadn’t gotten everyone together like that since … God, I can’t remember when. Even my stupid little brother showed up, if only for a minute.”

“Which one is this?” Ashley asked, remembering that Melissa had a lot of brothers and sisters.

“John,” Melissa said, her tone hinting disdain. “He’s really not worth even talking about. He’s just … he’s the baby of the family and he’s always acted like it. Did you know when we all turned eighteen, our parents left us a trust? We were to use it for college. It wasn’t a lot-well, okay, it was forty thousand dollars each, which is a lot, but not when you consider how much four years of college costs-but it was meant to help us make something of ourselves after boarding school. We all did it, my sister and two brothers. David’s a surgeon up near Boston and Paul’s a doctor at the Mayo Clinic and, God, Valerie works for NASA. But John? He took that money and went to Europe and wasted it all there on alcohol and drugs and who knows what else. When he came back, he had no money, and even went so far as to ask our dad for more. I don’t exactly know what my dad told him, but there was a big blow out, and since then, John … well, I don’t really know what happened to him. I know he’s living in the city somewhere. Last I heard, he was a bike courier. I have no idea how he manages to pay rent, but either way, I contacted him about our dad passing and told him about the viewing. I even offered to let him ride with Max and me and the kids. But he never got back to me. Then, right after the funeral, he shows up in a taxi. Keeps the taxi waiting for him. He talks briefly with David, and then when my mom and I approach him, he turns and leaves. To be honest, I didn’t care much to see him, but I figured our mother would. And he … he didn’t even have the decency to say hello, or that he was sorry, or anything.”

Melissa stopped stirring the straw, took another sip, set the glass down on the tabletop. She looked away, out across the dining room, over the tables and booths, at something on the far wall. Her eyes, Ashley saw, were glistening, as if her friend was on the verge of crying. That was the last thing Ashley wanted to happen, especially here in front of everyone, especially with her friend’s own cop keeping an eye out for trouble. If Melissa burst into tears, Ashley could just imagine the hyperactive cop rushing over, his weapon drawn, demanding to know what Ashley had done.

“Okay,” Ashley said slowly, testing the thin ice of nervous silence one foot at a time, “so what you’re saying is it would be best I not end up dating your brother? Because, you know, my date this past weekend? He turned out to be a real loser.”

Melissa didn’t laugh like Ashley had hoped she would, but she smiled, a full, sincere smile that warmed Ashley’s heart. Wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand-the move so surreptitious Ashley wasn’t sure she had even seen it-Melissa shook her head.

“No, I definitely would not recommend you date my brother. In fact, I would recommend you not even share a taxi with him. He probably wouldn’t have enough to split the fare.”

The waitress brought their food, and they each picked up a fork, ready to devour their salads like ravenous herbivores.

“So anyway,” Melissa said, smiling again, her best friend back, “tell me about this loser. I could use a good laugh.”

three

Talk about bad luck.

I’m in some office building on Fifth Avenue-after a while they all start looking the same-on the twenty-seventh floor, and I’ve just picked up a package that needs to make it downtown in forty-five minutes. It’s only eighteen blocks, so it’s really no sweat, and I’m in the hallway headed toward the elevator when the lights briefly flicker and an alarm starts going off. I look around, just like everyone else, wondering what the hell this is about, when a voice comes on over the intercom, one of those calm but scary voices, informing everyone in the building to please stop what they’re doing and go to the nearest stairwell and head down to the street.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” says a guy in a suit in front of me, standing right in front of the opened elevator.

My sentiments exactly.

So then everyone’s up on their feet, headed down the hallway, past the elevators toward the stairwell. And, for the most part, everyone does so in a nice and orderly fashion. Except we’re twenty-seven stories up, and there’s another ten stories or so above us, and the stairs, they’re not very wide. Everyone could probably squeeze two at a time going down, but for some reason everyone goes single file, and the lights keep flashing and that alarm keeps blaring and that calm but scary-as-fuck voice keeps asking everyone to please stop what they’re doing and evacuate the building right this second.

I’m conscious of the time as we descend, checking my watch every thirty seconds, as if that will move things along any quicker.

Murmuring works its way up and down the line, people speculating what could be wrong-fire, terrorists, the usual bit of scariness-and to break the tension I contribute the possibility that we’re in the midst of a zombie attack.

Nobody seems to think that’s very funny.

The stairwell quickly fills with the overbearing stink of aftershave and perfume, the combined odors making it almost impossible to breathe. One of the suits in front of me, bored now with the speculation of what’s causing the evacuation, mentions Timothy Carrozza, and like that, it starts off a chain reaction of questions and comments, these jokers being lawyers, after all, even if they are corporate. One of them mentions ADA Baxter, and another says he saw her on the news and boy oh boy is she a fox, and something inside of me starts to stir, a big brother impulse to stand up for his little sister, which is strange because she’s three years older than me, and besides, I don’t even know her well enough anymore to feel as if I need to stand up for her in the first place. And besides, this guy isn’t badmouthing her; he’s just commenting on how good looking she is, and really, is that a crime?

Still, the last thing I want to think about is my sister and her big career-making case, so I tune out the guys in front of me and listen in on what the women behind me are talking about, which happens to be a bachelorette party one of them attended over the weekend. Okay, now we’re talking. Only, it seems, this bachelorette party is the lamest bachelorette party of the year, the girls going shopping and having dinner at a fancy restaurant (the kind, one of the girls says, where they use a brush to wipe the breadcrumbs off your table), then going to the movies to see the new Matthew McConaughey flick, because, apparently, the bride-to-be is a recovering alcoholic (one year next month), and the girls wanted to make sure she had a good time.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mutter without realizing it.

Behind me, the women stop talking as we continue our exodus (what floor are we passing now, the seventeenth?), and I glance back and see a few of them giving me the kind of glare that’s supposed to signify just how much of an asshole I am.

I smile back and shrug. “Fucking zombie attack, huh?”

Nothing. Not even an eye roll.

I glance at my watch, just like I did thirty seconds ago.

Like I said, talk about bad luck.

• • •

Except no, I’m wrong. Bad luck isn’t getting stuck on the twenty-seventh floor of an office building, moments before getting on the elevator, before an emergency alarm sounds out and then being forced to hoof it down those twenty-seven floors with a bunch of suits to the street. No, bad luck is going through all of that to come outside to find someone has stolen the wheels off your bike.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

Nobody even notices my outburst. Why would they? They’ve all just escaped the terrifying clutches of their office building, and no, the reason is not a zombie attack but a fire. At least I have to assume it’s a fire based on the two fire trucks parked out front, their rooftop lights flashing, a couple firemen directing people out of the building while a few others head inside, decked out in all of their gear.

Everyone crowds around on the sidewalk, while taxis and buses and cars go zooming past, while tourists and the usual Manhattan hustlers and bustlers walk on by like there’s nothing wrong.

I hurry over to the bike, fall to my knees, grab hold of the titanium frame, as if it’s just an illusion that both of my wheels are missing. Nope, they’re still gone. The son of a bitch who did this-and who the fuck does something like this, really? — used wire cutters. No, not wire cutters-bolt cutters. Surprisingly, they didn’t even touch the chain keeping the frame secured to the pole. Sure, my bike isn’t the most expensive piece of equipment currently gracing the streets of Manhattan (it’s not even halfway expensive, really), but I’ve had it for two years and, fuck, it’s mine.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Again, nobody notices my outburst. Well, that’s not true. One of the women who was behind me on the stairwell, one of the women from this past weekend’s lame bachelorette party, notices, and is she trying to suppress a smile? That bitch, I think she is! I’m half-tempted to give her the finger, but I have to remember I’m representing my company right now, and the last thing I need is for her to complain to Hank, my supervisor, because he’d just love a reason to get rid of me. I’m good at what I do, no doubt about it-in fact, I’m one of the best, always deliver my packages on time, never lose my manifest-but I’ll admit, I’m not the easiest person in the world to get along with, and Hank is the kind of supervisor who would love for his entire crew to be trained yes men and yes women. My only saving grace is Reggie, my dispatcher, who like most dispatchers is a retired courier who knows the city, who knows the streets, who tracks our locations when we pick up and drop off, so we don’t have to go far out of our way when he sends us to the next client.

My mind races. What am I supposed to do now? Take a taxi? It could work, but we’re talking about the noon rush hour, and quite honestly, all day is rush hour from here to my intended destination. There’s a subway entrance three blocks up, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s headed downtown. Won’t let me off right on the block I need, but it would be close enough.

Fuck it. I reach into my pocket for my cell. I dial Reggie’s number, and listen to it ring two times in my earbuds before he picks up.

“Yo,” he says.

“I have a problem.”

“What’s up?”

I fill him in.

He says, “Shit, dude, are you serious?” I hear voices in the background, typing, the usual dispatcher noises. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it. I’m pretty much fucked for the rest of the day. But this package, someone needs to come pick it up.”

Reggie’s silent for a long moment as he types. “Sorry, dude, but I don’t have anyone near your location right now.”

“So what should I do?” I close my eyes, take a deep breath. “Can you call and tell them I’ll be late?”

Reggie doesn’t answer right away. I don’t expect him to. My request isn’t something I’m proud of. In fact, it’s something I really hate to ask. In this business, you deliver packages on time. That’s it. Your reputation-and, more importantly, your company’s reputation-all hinges on the fact that you’re faster and more prompt than the other guy. Because there’s always another messenger company to hire, and if a business gets screwed over enough times by a company they’ve grown a relationship with, they’ll cut ties and go elsewhere. So calling and telling them their package won’t arrive on time, even if there is a valid excuse? Not a good idea.

“Reggie?”

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking. Who’s the package going to again?” Before I can answer, he says, “Shit,” no doubt reading the name off his screen.

I nod, knowing exactly what he means. The firm I’m taking this to-Bachman Payne-is one of the top firms in the city. They’ve been using us for the past five years, if not longer. They’re always satisfied, because we always deliver on time. But one screw up? They’re a business that’s apt to walk away just on principle.

Through the phone I hear typing and voices, but I also hear a new voice, a deep, throaty voice tinged with a Brooklyn accent, sounding like it’s coming closer.

“If that’s Hank, don’t tell him it’s me.”

It’s a risky move, trying to keep the supervisor out of the loop on an issue like this, but the truth is I just don’t want to deal with his bullshit right now.

“Who’s that?” Hank says, and before Reggie can voice a coherent response, the phone is taken away (I picture Hank ripping the headset off Reggie’s head), and Hank’s voice booms, “Who’s this?”

I swallow. “It’s John.”

“What do you want?”

A hundred smart ass replies flash through my mind, but instead I say, “Someone jacked my wheels.”

“So?”

Cold son of a bitch.

“So, I have a package that needs to get to Bachman Payne in”-I glance at my watch-“seventeen minutes.”

“Yeah, and why are you calling?”

“I’m not going to be able to make it. I was hoping”-I clear my throat-“someone could call down and let them know I’ll be late.”

“John, let me ask you something,” he says, and I picture him in his short-sleeved company shirt, crossing his hairy arms, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stares up at the board tracking our pick-ups and drop-offs. “What is our company’s motto?”

Another fire truck arrives on scene, its lights blazing red and white, blaring its horn for cars to get out of its way.

“What is that?” Hank asks.

“Fire truck,” I say. “There was a fire in the building. The alarm went off right before I hit the elevator, and then I had to-”

“Our motto, John. What is it?”

I take another deep breath. “ ‘Never Late, Always Early.’ ”

“That’s right,” he says, like he’s an elementary school teacher and I’m a slow-learning student. “That’s our motto. That’s how everyone knows us. That’s what keeps us in business. And the people that hire us? They want their packages just like our motto says-never late, always early. They don’t care about fires, or missing wheels, or even if your legs are broken. They want their packages on time, if not early, but never … guess, John.”

I force the word out through clenched teeth: “Late.”

“Bingo. So my advice, John? Start running.”

• • •

I do start running. Only I don’t head downtown. Instead I head uptown, the three blocks it takes me to get to the subway station. In a split-second decision, I leave my bike behind. Right now it will only slow me down, and quite honestly, I’m not sure if I can take it on the subway. Despite all the years I’ve been living in the city, I rarely take the subway. I have a mild case of claustrophobia, and being trapped underground with a bunch of strangers in a tin can isn’t necessarily my idea of a good time. Besides, my bike is chained up, and I know where it is, and I’m confident it will still be there when I return.

Down the stairs, wait in line at one of the MetroCard kiosks, wondering briefly if I can charge it to the company, and then I’m hurrying through the turnstiles, looking left and right for the downtown train. Judging by the few commuters milling about, I’ve just missed the most recent train, which means for the next train I now have to wait, what, three minutes? Five?

I wander over to the nearest subway map, check where I am and where the train will be headed whenever the hell it shows up. The way it looks, the train will let me out four blocks from the firm. Okay, no problem. There are three stops in between here and there, so yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem at all. As long as the train isn’t late. As long as my bad luck for the day has finally run out.

Then again, who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m going to make it on time. I would have a better chance if I just ran down the street.

I check my watch, wait thirty seconds, then check my watch again.

No train.

I wander over toward the tracks and stand by the pillars like mostly everyone else, angled toward the tunnel out of which the train will hopefully spit very soon. We stand there and stare, as if staring long enough will make the train appear. Actually no, that’s not true. I’m the one staring, while everyone else is looking down at their cell phones or tablets or e-readers, everyone a slave to their favorite technology. I shake my head, wondering what they all see in their senseless toys, when the distant shriek of brakes sounds out down the tunnel.

Everyone moves closer to the edge of the platform, which has flooded with more and more people.

Light fills the tunnel seconds before the train appears. The stuffy wind in the terminal changes direction. A single sheet of newspaper slips off the platform onto the tracks, caught up in the sudden rush of air, slow dancing like a tabloid tumbleweed.

Everyone takes their positions, including me. We all inch closer to the yellow line, watching the train as it screeches into the station, as the train-

I don’t realize I’m falling at first. I barely even feel the hand on my back until it pushes me off the platform. One second I’m standing there, the next second the world is on its side and I’m headed toward the tracks, the train’s light burning into me, the brakes squealing, people shouting and screaming.

I hit the ground hard, my head knocking on one of the rails, everything going momentarily black, and the squealing of the train fills the world so completely, like it’s about to burst, that for an instant I know I’m going to die, that the light coming at me is the light of Heaven or Hell or whatever afterlife there may be, and my body, it goes on autopilot, not staying still like it should, hoping that the train will pass over me, but instead standing up, first finding a knee, then raising to a foot, facing the train like we’re in a duel. I’m aware of the renewed screams and shouts in the same way I’m aware that I’m soon going to die, but it’s all faint, distant, white noise, and when the hands grab my bag and yank me up toward the platform I just go with it, letting it happen, a puppet content to have its strings pulled any which way it can.

four

Ashley hadn’t even been at her desk for five minutes when Jeff popped by and asked, “How was lunch?”

She looked up from checking email (someone reporting they spotted Paris Hilton near Central Park) and gave him the fakest smile in her facial arsenal. “Fabulous.”

“And?”

“I had the salad. It was delicious.”

“You’re not going to make me ask, are you?”

“You mean what type of salad? No, of course not. It was Arugula and Roasted Pear.”

He sighed. “Ashley, come on.”

“No, Jeff, you come on.”

He stepped into her cubicle and leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed.

She said, “Did I invite you in here? Because I honestly don’t remember doing so.”

“Sure. You just told me to come on.” He glanced around the main floor with the dozens and dozens of cubicles, people working on stories, answering phones, covering their asses. His voice went low: “Or was that code for something sexual?”

“You wish, tiger.”

He laughed, and she laughed, their relentless teasing never getting old. They’d been colleagues for nearly five years now, and always joked around. Jeff was married with children and would never even consider the idea of straying from his wife, which made their teasing even better.

“So,” Jeff said.

“So,” Ashley said.

“Are you really going to keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Avoiding the question.”

“And what question is that?”

“Did you ask her?”

“Do you think I asked her?”

He tilted his head slightly, squinting, giving her a measured look. “No, but I think you considered it for a moment.”

“Sorry, not even an instant.”

“Maybe a half instant?”

“Not even close.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. “Ashley, you’re killing me.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to do it.”

“No, you said you would think about it.”

“Right. And I thought about how I wasn’t going to do it. Jeff, Melissa is my best friend. These lunches are strictly a best friend kind of thing. We don’t talk business, and even if we did, she wouldn’t tell me anything top secret, especially about this case.”

The case, as it so happened, was turning out to be one of the biggest of the year, at least in Manhattan. Timothy Carrozza, heir to the Carrozza Empire (an old Italian family who was bringing back the olden days of New York Mafiosi), was being tried by the city for a string of indictments, the most damning murder, though money laundering was still on the table, as well as illegal trafficking. The police and FBI had been coming at the Carrozzas for years, but the family was smart, almost too smart, eliminating the proper witnesses if someone ever saw or heard something he or she shouldn’t have. But, perhaps by luck, maybe even fate, a witness had stepped forward, a witness the police had yet to identify, as they worried (rightfully so) the Carrozzas would come after him or her with everything they had. A conviction of Timothy Carrozza would be a huge win for the District Attorney’s office (though they were working with the FBI, the witness had come to the DA, so they were carrying the ball), and would set back much of the corruption throughout the city for years. It was rumored the mayor may have even had dealings with Timothy Carrozza once upon a time, but of course it was just rumor and nobody had yet confirmed anything.

And who was prosecuting the biggest trial of the year? Melissa Baxter, Ashley’s college roommate and best friend, that’s who. She was an Assistant District Attorney, and while the District Attorney himself would normally be taking lead, he was retiring next year and thought it best to hand the reins to Melissa. And, of course, every newspaper in the city wanted an exclusive on the story, anything at all, and so Jeff had asked Ashley to glean some information from Melissa during lunch, anything, just something that Jeff could use as the journalist covering the trial.

Jeff pushed off the desk, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re not helping me out.”

“And why would I help you out?”

“For starters, we’re colleagues.”

“Anything else?”

“You think I’m cute.”

“Does your wife know how much you flirt at work?”

“Trust me,” he said, heading out of her cubicle, “the less she knows the better.”

Ashley considered telling him about the cop, the one who was clearly uncomfortable in the suit and who hadn’t left his position at the bar until she and Melissa finished their lunch and then he escorted her out. As far as Ashley knew, news of the death threat hadn’t yet been made public.

Pausing, he turned back and said, “One of these days maybe you’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

The playful look in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by a stone-cold determination. No longer was he the guy she harmlessly flirted with in the office. Instead he had become the hard-hitting reporter who had graduated from Princeton at the top of his class, which had landed him a job here at the Post.

“What it’s like to be a real journalist,” he said.

five

The cop stops the tape and shakes his head. “Nobody pushed you.”

“Play it again.”

“Mr. Smith-”

“Just one more time?” I ask him, my voice lilting into an uncharacteristic plea, and maybe the cop takes pity on me, or maybe he’s just bored, but he nods and plays the tape for a third time.

The video quality, unsurprisingly, is pretty shitty. There are a bunch of different cameras in the station, and none of them got a good angle of me. The best they could find is one facing the tracks with me off to the left-hand side. I’m standing there, among others, waiting for the train. A few people pass back and forth, old women wearing hats, men in suits, a kid in a Yankees cap bobbing his head to some unheard beat, but that’s it. As far as the video shows, I’m just standing there until, suddenly, I’m not.

The cop-his name is Daniels, or Baniels, or Maniels, though I’m pretty sure it’s Daniels, an older guy in jeans and a black coat with his shield hanging off a chain around his neck-lets the video play out a bit longer, showing the two people who rushed forward to save me. One is a businessman, some Wall Street guy, the other an older Italian dude. They moved almost instantaneously, filling the space which I had occupied only an instant before. Both dropping to their knees, reaching out, grabbing my bag. Pulling me back up onto the platform mere seconds before the train would have killed me.

I blink, watching it all for a third time. It happened less than a half hour ago, but on screen it looks like it happened in another life. Like something you’d see on one of those reality hero shows. I never did catch either of their names. They were true New Yorkers, just doing their thing. Neither of them had time to talk to the press, who had yet to make an appearance. The metro cops showed up, took statements, and sent them on their way. I’m pretty sure I said thank you to each of them, but I can’t really remember. I still had the echo of that oncoming train’s horn blaring in my ears. The echo was even there, minutes later, when they led me to this small, cramped room in the subway station where Daniels or Baniels or Maniels was waiting for me.

“What were their names?”

The cop eyes me. “Who?”

“The two that saved me.”

The sound of shuffling papers on the desk, and the cop squints down at a single sheet. “Darrell Abbott and Anthony Tuzzini.”

“Which one was the Italian guy?”

The cop gives me a bored look.

“Can I have their addresses?”

“Why?”

“I should send them something. Like a fruitcake or fruit basket. I mean, they fucking saved my life.”

The cop sets the single sheet of paper back down on his desk. He glances at the paused screen. “How are you feeling now?”

I look down at my hands, which are slightly shaking. “Still a little on edge.”

“And before?”

“Before what?”

“This morning,” Daniels or Baniels or Maniels says. “How were you feeling then?”

“Okay, I guess.” A moment passes, and a light goes on inside my head. “Wait a minute. Do you-”

“Things are tough, no doubt, especially with the economy in the crapper like it is. How’s your job situation?”

“I have a job,” I say defensively, almost ready to ask him if he has a job. “Two jobs, actually.”

“That can be stressful, huh?”

I say nothing. I know where he’s trying to lead me and I don’t like it one bit, but I’m not sure what to say or how to say it without digging myself a deeper hole.

“You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Wife, life partner, something like that?”

“Officer-”

“Detective.”

“Detective,” I say, trying to remain calm, “I am not depressed. I am not stressed, or overworked, or whatever else you might think I am to make me do what I did. Because I didn’t do anything. Someone pushed me.”

“The video tells a different story. And, believe it or not, the video rarely lies.” He leans forward, raising a finger. “Now that’s not saying you didn’t fall accidentally. That can happen, and has happened in the past. But usually when it does, the person who fell admits it was an accident.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I’m not saying you are.” The detective shifts in his seat. “What I am saying-”

“Am I in trouble?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then can I go? I was supposed to be downtown a half hour ago.”

“What’s downtown?”

“A firm I’m supposed to deliver a package to.”

“Where’s the package?”

“In my bag,” I say, indicating the bag on the floor by the door. It was dropped there when I first came in the room by one of the metro cops. I hadn’t really given it much thought then, but now I notice that it’s partly unzipped.

I motion at the bag again. “You mind?”

The detective gives a flick of his wrist, as if to say, Go right ahead.

I cross the short space between me and the door-seriously, this “office” is the size of a closet-and I grab the bag and look inside and, all at once, my stomach drops.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s gone,” I say, and hold up the empty bag as if to prove this statement. “The package is gone. So’s my manifest.”

“Your what?”

“The thing that guarantees I get paid. Who’s the cop that carried this in?”

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing. Except someone fucking took the package and manifest out of my bag and that cop was the last one who had it.”

“None of my guys would have taken your stuff. Now please, why don’t you calm down and take a seat?”

“You don’t understand. My job is on the line here.”

His ears perk up at this. “Is that right? Tell me, what company did you say you work for again?”

I didn’t tell him-he hadn’t even asked-but I give him the company name anyway.

His eyebrows go up, impressed, and then his brow furrows. “So if you’re a bike courier, why were you taking the train?”

“My bike’s currently out of commission. Someone jacked my wheels.”

It hits me a second too late that this probably isn’t the best detail to add. Not when I keep insisting someone pushed me, and the video clearly shows no one did. Not when I’m claiming someone took the package and my manifest, and the detective here clearly doesn’t believe that’s the case.

He swivels in his seat, searches the clutter of papers again, and turns back around with a business card.

“I want you to take this. There’s a number on it to call if you ever feel overwhelmed or depressed.”

“I’m not overwhelmed or depressed.”

“Okay,” he says, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

I want to reiterate the fact that I’m not overwhelmed or depressed, but wonder whether I should also add I’m not crazy. Because I felt the hand on my back, if only for a moment. Didn’t I? The subway is not the best place for those with claustrophobia. We’re all like cattle being pushed through a chute. That’s why the place is a pickpocket’s wet dream. I’ve been bumped into countless times. I’ve even been pushed by one person or another. And while each push or bump was different, there was always an aimlessness to them, the offender generally holding no ill will toward me or anyone else who happened to be in their path at that moment in time. You always felt that. You always got used to that. So when you felt a hand on your back, a hand that is placed there intentionally, you know it when you feel it.

I don’t bother telling Detective Daniels or Baniels or Maniels this. I just take the card and stuff it in my pocket.

“Can I leave now?”

I envision him calling out, the door flying open, men rushing in with a straightjacket to take me to the loony bin. But he simply nods, tells me he has my information in case he needs to contact me further, and sends me on my way.

“Be careful. Some reporters are already outside. They’re like vultures, those people.”

I forget to ask him again for the names and addresses of the two men who saved me. Despite my fruitcake remark, I really would like to send them formal thanks. But now I just want to get the hell out of here, head back up to street level.

Just as the detective said, the reporters are waiting for me. I have to hurry past them while they shout their questions, take their pictures. I look like a complete jackass, but all my life I’ve managed to stay under the radar. There really is no reason for it, just that I don’t like dealing with bullshit. A part of me does want to stop, publicly thank the two men for saving me, but I know that will open the floodgates. So I hurry up the stairs, trying to ignore them following me, asking their questions.

Pulling out my phone, I check the time.

Christ, the package that’s now missing was due at Bachman Payne forty minutes ago.

Now that my phone has a signal, it vibrates with notifications of text messages and voicemails. Thirteen text messages, six voicemails. Before I can check any of them, my phone vibrates again, this time with an incoming call.

I answer it.

“Reggie, you are not going to believe what happened to me.”

But it’s not Reggie.

“John”-Hank’s voice is fury itself-“where the fuck have you been?”

six

Ashley had just sent off her piece for tomorrow-after sifting through all her emails, having even spoken to some contacts and reps on the phone, she ended up with the Paris Hilton sighting, blah-when Eric poked his head over the top of her cubicle and said, “Tom wants to see you.”

“About what?”

“In his office right now.”

Eric’s head disappeared and she sat there at her desk, wondering what this could be about. She was almost never called into Tom Fisher’s office. Usually whenever he needed to talk to Ashley-on those rare occasions-he came and found her.

She rose from her desk, feeling an uncertain dread bubbling in her stomach, the kind a student usually feels when she’s just been called to the principal’s office.

Eric was waiting for her. He was a small, balding man with a plump face. He had been working at the paper for over thirty years and rightfully should have had Tom’s job, but Eric wasn’t one for office politics, and his career would forever suffer for it.

Ashley followed him, passing all the cubicles, everyone at their desks trying to make tomorrow’s deadline, some even editing or posting their stories that would immediately go to the Web. She passed Jeff’s cubicle and saw him at his desk, his phone to his ear. Their eyes met briefly and then she was past him, still following Eric, still wondering what this was about.

Tom’s office door was closed. Eric went in first, holding the door open for her. Tom sat behind his large desk, the top cluttered with papers. He was currently typing at his computer, but smiled at her when she entered and asked her to take a seat.

Ashley sat in one of the two chairs facing Tom’s desk. Eric stood off to the side by the window.

“Ashley,” Tom said, his voice a bit overly enthusiastic, “how have you been?”

“I’ve been fine, Tom. You?”

“Hectic as always. The life of an editor never slows down.”

She smiled. “What’s up?”

“Right, so let me cut to the chase. It’s come to our attention that you are in fact very good friends with ADA Baxter.”

Ashley forced herself to keep smiling and not blink. “Is that right?”

“College roommates, in fact.”

“And your point?”

“As you know, ADA Baxter is prosecuting Timothy Carrozza.”

“Yes, Tom. I may be an entertainment reporter, but I am up to date with current events. I thought you said you were going to cut to the chase.”

“Ah, yes. Well, it’s also come to our attention that you had lunch with ADA Baxter this afternoon. That you two meet for breakfast at least once a month, in fact, if not more. That you are, should I assume, in frequent contact with her.”

“Again, Tom, the chase.”

The plastic smile on the editor’s face finally cracked. The light in his eyes began to dim. “Ashley, let’s not play games. Is there anything you can tell us?”

She had been bracing herself for this question, but still she couldn’t believe it. She shook her head, glancing at Eric, and said to Tom, “I can’t believe you’re asking me this.”

“I’m not asking you to give up state secrets. All I’m asking is if you happened to talk about the case.”

“No, we didn’t, and even if we did, why would I tell you?”

It hit her a moment too late that her tone was one an employee shouldn’t use with her boss. She considered apologizing-she liked Tom, after all-but decided no, she was way too pissed to do that just yet.

Tom took a breath to compose himself, folding his hands on the desktop. “Ashley, do I have to remind you how we currently work in a dying medium?”

She did her best not to sigh. “No.”

“And how subscriptions are declining rapidly?”

“No.”

“And how our business has become even more cutthroat than ever before? To matter anymore, we have to be the first ones on the scene, the first ones to report what’s going on, the first ones to do our fucking jobs. Our business is to bring people the news, and, more importantly, to make money. Do you think I like having to bring you in my office to ask you this? Of course not. But my bosses, they’re breathing down my neck, and when it comes down to it, all of our jobs are on the line.”

“Are you saying that if I don’t do this my job is in danger?”

“All of our jobs are in danger. There’s a reason why I’ve had an ulcer for twenty years. Now look, I’m not asking you to betray your friend’s trust. If she told you something in confidence, she told you something in confidence. I get that. I understand that. I certainly know Eric understands it, too.”

Eric, from his place by the window, nodded silently.

“But here’s the thing, Ashley. In our business, we can make people heroes, and we can make people villains. Now I’m not saying we intend to make ADA Baxter a villain. Of course I’m not saying that. She’s bright, ambitious, and, I have to say, quite attractive. She’s a star. And this case, it’s going to raise her star even higher. What she could use, though, is a news outlet that’s willing to make sure her star shines as bright as it can. She helps us out, we help her out. It’s the same quid pro quo that’s been happening since the beginning of time. If we contacted her office, they would just ignore us. But coming from a friend? Well, that would mean something.”

Ashley waited five full seconds-holding Tom’s gaze the entire time, still fuming-before she said, “Are we done?”

Tom didn’t answer. Neither did Eric.

She said, “Well, this was certainly a pleasure,” and rose from her chair, started for the door.

“Remember what I said about this being a dying business?” Tom asked. “Budget cuts are coming at the beginning of the new year.”

She turned back to the editor-in-chief. “Are you threatening me, Tom?”

“Not at all. But I do want to remind you that most of the reporters here were hired because of their experience and expertise and ability to network, not because of who their daddy is.”

There had been a moment where she considered letting them know about the death threat placed on Melissa, and how the ADA had twenty-four-hour protection from the city police. It was news that wasn’t really news, but it would break at some point, and why not let it be from her newspaper? But after what Tom had just said to her, there was no way in hell she was going to tell him anything.

“You keep talking about a dying business, Tom. Maybe about most of this paper, sure, but what I do? People crave celebrity gossip. I keep working here because I enjoy it, but I could get a job at any tabloid I wanted, and without any help from my father.”

“We don’t want you to quit, Ashley. We simply want you to extend the invitation to your friend. That’s all. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Thanks for the chat, guys.”

The moment she was outside the office she immediately felt herself shaking. Her hands, her legs, her entire body-everything trembled from end to end. She was thankful for small miracles she hadn’t been shaking in Tom’s office, and she marched straight for her cubicle, wondering if maybe she had been shaking after all, when she nearly ran into Jeff.

“Listen,” he said, his hands raised, “I had nothing to do with that.”

“Go to hell.”

“Ashley, I’m serious. Eric saw me talking to you earlier, and then he came to me and asked me what that was about, so I told him, and then …”

She didn’t hear the rest, already past him, his words hitting her back. She bypassed her cubicle and went straight for the women’s room. Through the door, into an empty stall, she sat down on the toilet seat, placed her arm to her mouth, bit down on flesh, and screamed.

seven

They have me sit outside the conference room, just sit there like a complete tool, until finally the door opens and Ed motions for me to come inside.

“Thanks for waiting, John,” he says, shaking my hand. He’s wearing his usual office attire, khakis and a blue polo with the company name embroidered on his chest. He pulls out a chair from the table and motions for me to sit. “Do you want anything to drink? Water, coffee, tea?”

My boss, the owner of the company, acting like an assistant.

I tell him no thanks, then regard the two other men in the room, both sitting across from me-Reggie and Hank. Reggie, just like Ed, is on my side. Hank, well, not so much. I can tell just by Hank’s body language-his slouched shoulders, his crossed arms, his perpetual scowl-that he isn’t happy. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that means I get to keep my job.

Ed takes his seat and clears his throat to begin.

“For starters, John, I want to make sure you’re okay. I know I asked you before and I’ll probably ask you again. You had quite a day, didn’t you?”

I nod.

“So let me just get the main thing out of the way. Bachman Payne isn’t happy with us losing their package.”

“Us?” Hank’s voice rises like an angry geyser. “We didn’t lose their package. He did.”

It takes everything I have not to give Hank the bird, especially as he’s now aiming an angry index finger in my direction.

“Now that’s enough,” Ed says, and I have to force myself not to smile or wink at Hank, something to set him off. I could do it, too, especially with how we’re positioned at the table-Ed to my left, Hank off to my right-but I remain quiet and still.

“Anyway,” Ed says, “Bachman Payne has decided to terminate their contract with us. At least for the time being. They won’t say what the package was, but apparently it was very important-as are all of our clients’ packages, of course-and the fact that now it has been lost … well, let’s just say they’re quite upset. Which is understandable. We’ve had a great working relationship with them for years, and we hope to one day work with them again.”

I had been expecting there to be some kind of consequence to losing the package, but losing the account was an extreme I had been hoping to avoid.

“Ed, I’m sorry-”

He holds up a hand. “No reason to apologize, John. Sometimes shit happens in our line of work. Sometimes it happens a lot. Say, how long have you been working here?”

I swallow, understanding that this meeting will be my last. “Four years.”

“Four years,” Ed says, not to me but to Reggie and Hank, impressed. “And in all those years, have you ever lost a package?”

“No.”

“Have you ever delivered a package late?”

“Unfortunately, it happened two times. But only by minutes.”

“Still, you have a pretty remarkable record. How many times would you say you’ve been doored?”

I smile, thinking about all the times I was riding along stopped traffic and suddenly a door opened right in front of me. In those situations there isn’t much you can do. Slam on your brakes, sure, but that doesn’t always mean you’ll be safe. Swerve and avoid is another option, but the same applies: doesn’t always mean you’ll be safe. So sometimes, you have no choice but to go right into the door.

“More times than I care to admit,” I say.

Ed smiles, nodding, then all at once he goes solemn. “It was pretty scary today, wasn’t it?”

I nod.

“I spoke personally to Detective Baniels.”

Huh, I think. The dude’s name really is Baniels.

“He explained what happened,” Ed says, “and he explained what you claim happened. That someone pushed you.”

I start to defend myself, thinking that if anyone in the world will believe me, it’s Ed, but he holds up a hand again.

“Right now, how you ended up falling off that platform isn’t what’s important. What’s important is why you were there in the first place.”

“Someone jacked my wheels.”

“Yes,” Ed says slowly, something changing in his eyes, “we’ll come back to that shortly. For now, from what I understand, you called Reggie about your problem.”

“That’s right.”

“And you asked Reggie to call Bachman Payne and explain you would be late.”

“Yes.”

“And then”-Ed shoots Hank a glare-“your supervisor told you to … ‘start running,’ as I understand it.”

I nod again, forcing myself to not even glance at Hank.

“So in theory, if someone had called Bachman Payne and explained you were running late, you would never have been in that subway station.”

“Sir”-Hank leans forward, his voice unsteady-“did I tell John to start running? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I told him to take the train. It’s purely coincidental that-”

“The point here,” Ed says, “is that Bachman Payne was not contacted about their package running late. The point, too, is the package is now gone. So is John’s manifest, which means we can’t account for any of his previous runs today, which means we don’t get paid. And all of that adds up to being one massive mess.”

Nobody says anything. In fact, I realize Reggie hasn’t spoken a word this entire time.

Ed says, “John, is there anything you want to tell us?”

“Like what?”

“Like why you were in that train station.”

“I told you. Someone jacked my wheels.”

“Yes, and now we’re back to that.” He pushes away from the table, stands, and walks to the door. “How did you get here?”

“Taxi. When Hank called me, he told me to get in the first taxi I saw and come straight here.”

“So you left your bike behind.”

I nod slowly, not sure where he’s taking this.

“Tito finished his runs early today,” Ed says, his hand on the doorknob. “He finished up right when you called. So while you were on your way back here, I had him go down to retrieve your bike. Figured after everything you had been through, we would save you the time and hassle. But then when he got there, he called and told me he found something quite … odd.”

Ed opens the door, snaps his fingers, and steps back. For a moment nothing happens, and then Tito appears, decked out in his usual shorts and shirt, rolling a bike into the room.

“How …” I start to say, but that’s it. I have no words. I rise, slowly, and approach the bike-my bike. It has the same wear and tear that it did when I saw it last. It has the same worn tires. Everything about it is the same, except it’s impossible that it’s here right now, like this, complete.

“So, John,” Ed says, his gaze steady with mine, “I’m going to ask you one more time. Why were you in the train station?”

eight

Typically after work Ashley took the train downtown to her apartment in Greenwich Village, but tonight she took the F train up to Lexington Avenue, got onto the 5, and rode that up to 96th Street, walked two blocks, nodded to Brock, the doorman, who smiled and said he hadn’t seen her in a while and hoped she was doing well, and took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor where her mother was already waiting for her.

“Ashley”-her mother opened her arms for an embrace-“what a pleasant surprise.”

Ashley hugged her mother and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t expect you to be the welcoming committee.”

“Brock called and said you were headed up. I was worried something might be wrong. Is something wrong?”

Ashley followed her mother into the apartment. “No, not at all. It’s just … well, it’s been a long day. I wanted to see you and Daddy.”

Her mother smiled. “That’s so sweet.”

The apartment was as immaculate as it always was. She met with her parents once every two weeks, if not more, usually for Sunday brunch. She hadn’t been to the apartment in a long time, and she missed the plush and ornate decorations, the expensive furniture, and, more than anything, the view. She walked up to a patio window, one that looked out over Central Park.

Her father’s reflection filled the glass. “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

She turned, smiling, and embraced him. “Hi, Daddy.”

Her mother was headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Just an ice water would be fine.”

Her father stood next to her, facing the park. “You always loved this view, didn’t you?”

“It’s one of my favorites in the city. Especially around this time of year, when the leaves start to change.”

“When you were a girl you’d go out on the patio with a book and read for hours.”

She smiled. “During the summer, it was a great place to tan.”

“Even better than the place on Martha’s Vineyard?”

She gave it a moment’s thought. “It’s tough to decide which was better.” She saw something in his eyes and said, “What is it?”

“We might be selling the house.”

“Why?”

“We hardly ever go up there anymore. The place is empty most of the year, so it seems foolish to keep it.”

She wondered if that was the real reason, whether the decision was more financial than anything else, but decided not to bring it up.

“So what is it?” her father asked.

“What is what?”

“Ashley, you know your mother and I always love seeing you, and while we’d love for you to visit more, it’s Monday evening, and you almost never visit during the week. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

For an instant she considered telling him about her meeting earlier today. How Tom had insinuated that the only reason she had gotten the job was because of her father. Yes, it was true, her father was a powerful media mogul-at least in terms of print media-and yes, it was true, he had been a big factor in her getting the job at the Post. But she had proven herself since then, hadn’t she? Yes, goddamn it, she had, and Tom and Eric knew it, too.

Then again, her attitude during the meeting hadn’t been quite professional. Ashley knew it. Tom and Eric certainly knew it. If anything, she had embarrassed herself, and that was the last thing she wanted to tell her father.

“I had lunch with a friend of mine today.”

“Yes?” Her father motioned her over to the couches and chairs to have a seat. “Which friend is this?”

Ashley was about to mention Melissa’s name but thought twice. She knew her father followed the news closely. If he knew his daughter had lunch with ADA Baxter, he might ask about the Carrozza case, and it would feel like she was back at work.

“Just a friend. I don’t think you’d recognize the name.”

“Well, what’s new with this friend of yours?”

“Her father just died.”

Her mother, a glass of ice water in one hand, a wine glass filled with white wine in the other hand, entered the room. “Oh dear, that’s awful.”

Ashley took the water from her mother, placed it on the silver coaster on the coffee table. “We didn’t talk much about what happened. She basically said she had gone to the funeral over the weekend. But when I got back to work, curiosity took over and I looked online. Turns out he … killed himself.”

Her mother offered a quiet gasp. Her father shook his head sadly.

Ashley took a sip of the ice water. She hadn’t really wanted anything, but her mother was one to always offer and expect someone to take something. Still, she found her throat had gone dry and was grateful for something to drink.

“So yeah, it’s pretty awful. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do something like that. Obviously he was having issues. But still … it made me realize I need to see you guys more.”

Her parents smiled at each other.

“We’re happy to see you whenever we can,” her mother said.

There was a brief silence, and Ashley began wondering why she had even made the trek uptown. Yes, she loved and missed her parents, but she could have called or Skyped with them when she got home. Had her meeting with Tom and Eric jarred her so much? Or had it really been her lunch with Melissa, or, rather, the truth about how Melissa’s father had died?

“So, dear,” her mother said, a mischievous grin signaling her next question, “are there any male suitors you’d like to tell us about? Because you know Marybeth’s son just recently became single.”

Ashley groaned inwardly. “Didn’t he just graduate college?”

“Medical school,” her father said. “Rheumatology.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Ashley said, “but I’m not really dating right now.”

“Dear,” her mother said, “you’re almost thirty years old.”

“Seven more months.”

“As I said, you’re almost thirty years old. You’re bright, attractive, you have a great job-you have a lot to offer.”

Ashley forced herself to keep smiling. She set her glass back down on the coaster, leaned back in her seat, and said, “So, what’s new with you guys?”

nine

Gunfire and mortar shells exploding are the first things I hear when I step into the apartment.

Duncan is on the couch, his hands glued to a controller, his full attention on the 75-inch plasma and the ongoing war raging from all those thousands and thousands of pixels. Despite the TV’s volume turned up high, he’s wearing a headset, which means he’s playing Call of Duty or some other multiplayer war game.

I drift into the kitchen, pull a bottle of water from the fridge, twist it open and down it in only a few swallows. I don’t realize until I set the bottle aside that I’m shaking. When did that happen? Obviously this day has been one fuck up after another, so it’s not surprising my nerves would be shot.

“You okay, man?”

I blink and turn to find Duncan strolling into the kitchen, the headset hanging around his neck. He goes straight for the fridge, pulls out a beer, flicks the cap in the sink. Just another thing for me to clean up later, along with the dishes and wiping down the counters and the laundry and the vacuuming and everything else I do around here.

“Bad day at work.”

“No shit?” He takes a swallow of the beer, squints at me over the bottle. “You don’t look too good.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“I lost a package.”

“No shit?”

“And someone jacked the wheels on my bike.”

“No shit?”

“And I fell off the platform and nearly got hit by a train.”

He sets the bottle aside, places both hands on the counter, and leans forward slightly. “Are you fucking with me?”

I shake my head.

“Man, that’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, the craziest part? They bring my bike back to the office and it still has its wheels.”

Duncan’s hair is long and curly. He shakes it like a dog, then tilts his ear at me. “Say what?”

“I swear those wheels were gone earlier. People had to have seen it. I know one woman did, the one who was behind me when we were evacuating the building.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Duncan holds up a hand. “Evacuating what building?”

“It doesn’t matter. But there was a fire, so everyone was outside, everyone saw my bike without its wheels.” I pause, thinking about it. “You know, if we could track down that woman, she could confirm I’m not going crazy.”

“But the wheels were back on the bike?”

“Yeah.”

“How is that possible?”

“I’m not sure. But someone is obviously trying to fuck with me.”

“Who’d you piss off this time?”

“I can’t keep track anymore.”

Laughing, Duncan grabs his beer and starts toward the living room. He pauses in the doorway. “Hey, you want to come out with me tonight? There’s a concert in Tribeca that’s supposed to be pretty cool.”

It’s nice of him to ask-he never invites me to anything anymore-but I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Your loss, man. Can you check to see if my black shirt is clean? I’m going to want to wear that one.”

Duncan has about a dozen black shirts. I don’t even think he knows which one he means, but I tell him no problem and he gives me a thumbs-up and heads back to his virtual war. He’ll probably play for another hour or two before finally taking a shower. Then he’ll leave and won’t come back until sometime in the middle of the night. He’ll probably hook up with some hair-dyed chick, either get a blow job in the bathroom or find somewhere dark and private to fuck her, or maybe, if the girl’s stupid enough, she’ll take him back to her place. Not that Duncan is any kind of threat, but a girl’s definitely not thinking if she takes some stranger back to her place for a fast lay. Anyway, he’ll return to the apartment by three, maybe four in the morning, crash on his bed, and sleep until noon when he’ll get up, grab himself a bowl of Froot Loops, watch some TV, then play video games for roughly five hours.

That’s Duncan’s regular schedule. That’s all he ever does. Which leaves it to me to do the rest: the dishes, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the cleaning, everything. But really, I can’t complain. It’s all just part of the deal, though when I first moved in with Duncan five years ago, it hadn’t been this way.

We met while I was over in Europe doing my backpacking thing. We were staying at the same hostel and really hit it off. He was funny, easygoing with the ladies, and a blast to be around. He learned I was into extreme sports and said he wanted to do something fun, so we ended up skydiving-both of us our first time, me not scared at all, while Duncan was scared out of his mind. Still, he loved it or at least said he did. He mentioned he was from New York, and we exchanged email addresses in case I was ever in the city and then went our separate ways. It was a year later when I was back in the States, broke, that I ended up in New York and sent him an email and we met for a beer. I told him how I was having a hard time making ends meet and he offered to let me stay at his place. I told him I didn’t want to put him out, he said it was no problem, and so I moved in with my one bag of clothes. I offered to help pay rent but he waved it off.

As it turned out, Duncan had struck it big before the dot-com bubble burst. He actually used to run his own company at twenty-three. But he saw the way things were going and cashed in his chips before it was too late, and after making the right investments, he claims he’ll never have to work another day in his life. What he doesn’t like to do, however, is take care of his place. So that became my job, little by little, cleaning a few dishes here, picking up a few things off the floor, scrubbing the toilets and bathtubs, until it finally dawned on me he had hired me as his live-in butler. The only thing I don’t do is make his meals, but that’s because he’s fine with a bowl of cereal in the morning, then he grabs dinner after he leaves at night.

So the money I make from being a courier and the part-time stuff I do at the bookstore? Yeah, that certainly wouldn’t give me the option of living in this part of the city, in this apartment, but I can’t complain.

Speaking of the bookstore, I have to call and see if it’ll be cool for me to come in tomorrow. The way Ed made it sound, he wants me to take the next couple of days off, unwind, do whatever I need to do to get my head straight. I swore to them that the tires weren’t there on the bike when I came out of the building, but it’s pretty hard to claim one thing when the truth is standing right there in front of you on two wheels. So I’m not fired per se, just on leave. It sucks, because I like the company, but if push comes to shove, I can always get hired by another company … though if word gets around what happened-like how I lost a package which cost my company a big client-then maybe my chances of getting hired elsewhere aren’t as easy as I think they’ll be.

From the living room, the gunfire and explosions start up again. I head for Duncan’s room, check his closet to see how many black shirts are on the hangers, then check the dirty clothes splayed out around the floor. I grab two black shirts and take them down the hall to the washer. I throw in the shirts and some other stuff-jeans, socks, my hoodie-add some Tide, crank the dial, and press start.

Then I head for my room, where I close the door, undress out of my work clothes, put on sweats and a T-shirt, grab my iPod and earbuds and a book I’m borrowing from the store-Clockers by Richard Price-and lay back on my bed.

Duncan has his routine, and so do I.

Hey, I never said my life was exciting.

ten

By the time Ashley made it to her apartment, it was nearly nine o’clock.

She’d stayed at her parents’ much longer than she had intended, but it was good to see them, to talk, to learn about everything going on in their lives-the charity banquets, the Broadway shows, the different boards her father still sat on-that it was a mild distraction from her own life. But then, the night wearing on, she headed back home, remembering everything that had happened at work, all the things that had been said and unsaid. Sitting on the hard plastic seat of the N train, the tin can vibrating and shaking like it was going to snap apart at any moment, she gave a surreptitious glance around at the few people nearby, then lifted the sleeve of her coat to check her arm. There was still a slight indentation from where she had bitten herself when she screamed.

She made a quick stop at Whole Foods-milk, yogurt, bread-and then continued on toward her apartment building. Through the lobby, up the elevator to the fourth floor, and then she was standing in front of her door, taking a deep breath, before pushing it open.

Rex met her immediately just like he did most evenings, the cat probably bored out of his mind all day, that any change to his routine was welcome. He rubbed himself against her legs, purring softly, and then followed her into the kitchenette where she put away the groceries. By that point she had abandoned her heels, stretching her toes as she opened and closed the fridge.

She opened the cabinet above the sink on impulse, eyed the bottles of wine, hesitated, closed the cabinet.

Good, that was a start.

Rex hopped up onto the counter, meowing to get her attention.

“Hungry?”

The cat meowed again.

She opened a can of Fancy Feast, spooned the gunk out into a bowl, thinking about those cat foot commercials where cats are served their food on nice china with a side of parsley. Did people actually do that? Ashley figured some must. She loved her cat very much-she had gotten Rex when he was just a kitten four years ago-but there was only so much she was willing to do, and she wasn’t about to let Rex eat off better dishware than her.

She left Rex to his unfancy meal and padded into the bedroom. She undressed, laying the clothes she wore out on the unmade bed, opened up one drawer after another, not sure what to put on. Sweats, maybe? That made her think about the gym, and how she hadn’t gone in over a week, which then made her think about the one cute guy she always saw there, the one who spent twenty minutes on the elliptical before doing weights and who, as far as Ashley could tell, wasn’t married and wasn’t gay, which then, oddly, made her think about the undercover cop escorting Melissa this afternoon, which then brought her all the way back to her conversation with Jeff, which then, inevitably, reminded her about her meeting with Eric and Tom.

Rex looked up at her, his dry tongue licking his lips, when she came back into the kitchen.

“Don’t mind me,” she told him, opening the cabinet above the sink and selecting one of the bottles at random. It turned out to be a red wine, Pinot noir, which was just as well, and she poured herself a small glass.

Rex watched her from his place on the floor.

“Don’t judge me.”

He licked his lips and went back to his gruel.

Ashley drained the glass-only a swallow or two, not much at all-then hesitated, regarding the bottle, telling herself that one glass was more than enough, that she was done, to cap the bottle and put it back with its friends and go into the living room to watch TV.

She almost did it, too-she was right on the cusp-when she thought one more glass wouldn’t hurt and poured herself another, this time a lot more than before, and walked past Rex into the living room. She turned on the TV, the first thing coming on E! a rerun of the Kardashian show. She grabbed her iPad off the coffee table, checked some of her personal email, went to take another sip of the wine when she realized that her second glass was empty.

She stared at the ghost of her lipstick on the rim, telling herself that she was done now, two was more than enough, just set the glass aside and keep watching TV. It was a good idea-a great idea-and she managed to go five, maybe ten minutes, before she found herself back in the kitchen.

Rex once again regarded her disapprovingly.

“What? You cough up hairballs.”

He seemingly shook his head and retreated into the bedroom.

She filled her third glass a bit higher than the first two, or maybe a bit less, it was difficult to say. She promised herself this was it, just this third glass and no more, and she congratulated herself with first one sip, then a second. Then, before she knew it, she had dug the prescription bottle out of her purse, her emergency Vicodin, and swallowed two tablets. Back on the couch then, E! still on the TV, she began thinking about Melissa.

If you considered the amount of contact numbers and email addresses in her phone, Ashley was a very popular woman. But if you went person by person, Ashley would be hard-pressed to name any of them as good, close friends. They were acquaintances more than anything else, almost all of them friends on a professional level. Sure, there would be quite a few numbers from guys she’d met at one time or another, either at a function or at the club, and who knows, maybe she had called them and maybe they had hooked up, or maybe she hadn’t even given them a second thought, but all of those were numbers that meant very little, just like the rest. The only number that mattered, she realized, was Melissa’s, her old college roommate, her best friend.

It had never made much sense how she and Melissa ended up friends. Their backgrounds were so different. Ashley, having been raised in an elite family, where she always got what she wanted. Melissa, who had been somewhat well off, but not nearly to the point that Ashley was. Not, Ashley would interject to anyone who asked, that she was spoiled. Yes, her parents had paid for her apartment, and yes, her parents had paid for her schooling, and yes, her dad had basically gotten Ashley her job at the Post, but she was good at what she did, she was smart, so she deserved it. Didn’t she?

But Melissa, well, Melissa had gone against all odds and ended up where she was. It was true, Ashley helped her out a few times in college when she needed it. Ashley still wasn’t sure why, but she had been drawn instantly to Melissa their first year of college, as if they were destined to be friends. From there they became best friends, then roommates, and now, all this time later, they were still good friends. She had to admit, sometimes she was jealous of Melissa, for earning her spot in life, for finding a great husband and raising two great kids. It was something Ashley wanted one day, though every day that passed, she kept thinking it would never happen.

Rex jumped up onto the couch, stretched himself out over her lap, and yawned.

“Just you and me for now, huh?”

The cat purred as she stroked the scruff of his neck.

Ashley thought about another glass of wine. She thought about slipping out of her sweats, slipping into something low-cut, something black, something that would go great with heels. She thought about flashing lights and loud music and the rush she got on the dance floor, moving her body, nodding her head to the beat, the crush of people around her, the men and women, though mostly it was the men she thought about, even on a week night, the men who would buy her drinks, give her their numbers, maybe promise her a good time. She even considered it, lifting the cat off her lap and heading to the bedroom to change, but instead she found herself yawning once, then twice, then leaning her head back against a pillow and closing her eyes, telling herself she would just rest for a minute, maybe two, and see how she was feeling then.

Sometime later the phone woke her. Her eyes fluttered open. Her hand went to her mouth, where there was a line of drool. Rex was no longer on her lap. The Kardashians were no longer on the TV. She squinted at the clock on the wall, saw it was nearly four o’clock. In the afternoon? No, she realized, it was still dark outside, so it must be the morning. Who would be calling her this early?

She fumbled for her phone, saw who was calling, answered it with a groan.

“Tom, do you have any idea what time it is?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, after a long moment, his voice soft: “I thought you should hear it first from me.”

His tone was one she hadn’t expected, especially at this early hour. It sobered her, and she sat up straight on the couch, trying to focus herself as she spoke the next two words.

“What happened?”

eleven

Someone’s shaking me.

At first I think it’s just part of the dream I’m having, this phantom hand on my arm, but the truth is I don’t know if I am dreaming. I’m just floating more than anything else, that soothing slumber of sleep, and the hand, it keeps shaking me, accompanied now by a voice, a faint, distant voice saying my name.

I open my eyes.

Duncan is crouched over me in the dark, his hand on my shoulder.

“John, wake up. Wake up!”

I shrug off his hand, yawning as I start to sit up. “What are you doing? What time is it?”

“Nearly five. I, um …” He stands there, all at once looking confused, embarrassed, a strange look for a guy who revels in anonymous sex and is well worth over seven figures. I notice now that he’s not wearing a black shirt, like he requested, but a fucking plaid long sleeve. He clears his throat. “There’s something on the TV I think you should see.”

I yawn again, lean back down on my bed. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, man, I think you really need to see this. Like, right now.”

Even though I’m half asleep, there’s something in his tone that gives me pause. Also, when has Duncan ever come into my room, either day or night? Never. The guy gives me my privacy, and besides, it’s not like we’re good friends. Roommates, sure, though I may be more an indentured servant at times, and yeah, occasionally we’ll watch a movie and share a pizza or takeout, but that’s usually as far as it goes. I never ask about what’s going on in his life, and he never asks what’s going on in my life. Even this past weekend, when I briefly attended my father’s funeral and was gone for nearly the whole day, he didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer any information.

Relenting, I climb out of bed and follow him down the hall to the living room. There’s an empty Tostitos bag on the couch, only a few crumbs left. If I remember correctly, that was a brand new bag when I saw it earlier tonight in the kitchen, which means Duncan must have devoured the whole thing when he came home, what, an hour ago? For a guy who plays video games all day, I don’t understand how he manages to keep the weight off. Must be all the sex.

But the current state of the Tostitos or his ultra fast metabolism isn’t the reason Duncan woke me up. The reason, whatever it is, is currently on TV, evidenced by the fact that Duncan is now pointing at the screen.

“That?” I ask. “You woke me up for a fucking infomercial?”

On the screen that crazy guy is selling that crazy product-you probably know the one-and without even waiting for a reply I start heading back down the hall toward my room.

“No, man, wait up. It was just on here, breaking news and shit. Here, let me try another channel.”

I pause, sigh, turn back around. I sink into the couch as Duncan hefts the remote and flips through the channels. I’m sitting on the end of the couch, my elbow on the armrest, my hand cradling my head. I’m still half asleep, and ready to drift off at any second.

But then I hear it, a half second before Duncan says, “This is it!” and turns up the volume. I hear the reporter say a name, a name I know very well. I hear the reporter use the words tragic and death, and it wakes me up all at once, like getting a freezing bucket of water thrown in my face.

The reporter holds the mike just like she’s been trained, staring straight back into the camera, saying, “Right now police aren’t giving many details, but as you can see behind me, they have covered Melissa Baxter’s body.”

Behind the reporter, flashing lights brighten the night. The cameraman-perhaps listening to his conscience not to give in to the news media’s standard sensationalism-doesn’t pan to the group of people (presumably cops and detectives) standing over something that’s been covered with a tarp. But they are in the background, enough so the viewers can glimpse them and paint a picture in their minds.

“Catalina,” another voice says, the deep baritone of a male newscaster no doubt snug and secure in the studio, “do the police suspect there was foul play involved, or is it apparent that Assistant District Attorney Baxter jumped after this alleged murder-suicide?”

Catalina doesn’t even blink, keeping her focus straight on the camera. “We still don’t know much, Tim. Police say they will make a statement soon, but what we have learned is that Melissa Baxter’s husband and children have been found dead.”

The picture flips to the newsroom, a gray-haired, bronze-tanned man nodding appreciatively. “Thanks, Catalina.” Then, staring straight into the camera: “We will be staying with this story closely and will update the information once we hear more.”

Duncan hits the mute button, tosses the remote aside. He shakes his head, starts pacing the living room, muttering, “Vultures, man. Fucking vultures!”

I don’t speak. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.

“I remember you mentioning your sister a while back. Like, I think it was when she was promoted to Assistant District Attorney. And tonight, after I got home, I’m just chilling here watching some TV when this fucking breaking news thing comes over, and they say what’s happened and I’m like, holy fucking shit.”

He stops pacing and looks at me.

“John, are you okay? You look pale.”

Still I don’t speak. I’m not sure what to say. I mean, what’s the appropriate thing to say when you find out your sister has allegedly murdered her family before committing suicide? I don’t know which building she lives in, exactly, but I know the area of the city, and they’re all tall buildings. Twenty stories at least, forty or fifty stories at most. How long does it take someone to step off the roof or out of one of their windows before they hit the ground? No more than a couple of seconds, surely, but just how fast is it for the person tumbling through the air, watching the ground growing larger and larger?

“Seriously, man”-Duncan takes a few hesitant steps toward me-“you need something to drink? Something to eat?”

“My dad died last week.”

“What?”

“He killed himself. Took a gun and shot his brains out.”

Duncan sits down on the chair facing me. “What are you talking about?”

“My old man. I barely knew him. Never saw him. Never talked to him. In fact, I don’t even remember the last time I talked to him. Actually, wait, I do remember. It was right after I got back to the States. I was out of money. I called him and asked him for more. And do you know what he basically told me? To fuck off.”

Duncan says nothing.

“And now my sister, she … she fucking kills herself, less than a week after our old man kills himself. What do you think makes it happen?”

When Duncan speaks, his voice is soft. “What do you mean?”

“People killing themselves. It’s some chemical imbalance in the head, right? Like, there’s medication whose side effects make people suicidal. So it’s like a trigger, or switch, or something. It gets turned on, you just, what, want to kill yourself? Or, fuck, kill your family and then yourself?”

Duncan doesn’t speak.

I ask, “What time is it?”

Duncan slips his phone from his pocket to check the time. “Nearly five thirty.”

I rise to my feet. “I should head back to bed. I need to be at the store by nine.”

Duncan rises to his feet, too. He watches me walk past him. “Maybe you shouldn’t go in,” he says.

“I need to go in.”

“But after everything that’s just happened? I mean … it’s messed up, man. Take some time off. Just …”

I turn back to him. “Just what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Mourn or something.”

I nod at the TV. “Thanks for letting me know about that. I appreciate it.”

Before Duncan can say anything else, I turn and head back to my bedroom, walking in sort of a daze, not thinking about anything in particular. When I reach my door and open it, I don’t even bother flipping on the light. I just walk in, and the darkness swallows me whole.

part two

RESURRECTION

twelve

“Are you sure you want to read this?”

Without a word, Ashley held out her hand.

Tom threw a cautious look to Eric, who was leaning against the window just like he was yesterday-in fact, the entire tableau was the same, with Tom behind his desk and Ashley in the chair-then handed Ashley the sheet of paper.

Ashley placed the sheet on her side of the desk, afraid that if she held it in her hands, it would be apparent to the two men (and herself) just how much she was shaking. She leaned forward to read the article, skipping over the distasteful headline-ADA DOA-and diving into the meat.

The room was quiet for a full minute, the only sounds that of the busy newsroom just outside the office. Finally Ashley handed the sheet back to Tom, leaned back in her chair, and said, “When is this going live?”

Tom glanced at his watch. “Should be online now. We’ll have a more detailed version for the front page when we go to press.”

“Who wrote it?”

“Pete Tass.”

“The headline is disrespectful.”

Tom released a slow breath, no doubt having prepared himself for this critique. “I know. Ashley, I’m sorry, but you know what it is we do here, how we run things.”

“We have to sell newspapers, right?”

Silence again.

Ashley said, “So what’s missing?”

“What do you mean?”

She motioned at the sheet of paper that summarized her friend’s death. “There’s nothing new there, not from the police statement. Supposedly she shot and killed her family, then went up to the roof and jumped.”

Eric chimed in: “Supposedly?”

“You don’t think it’s weird?” she asked him. “A woman in her position, who has had all the success she has, just decides to kill her husband and two sons-all of whom she loved dearly-and then kill herself right before the biggest trial of her career was scheduled to begin?”

Tom said, “Ashley, what are you trying to infer here? That Timothy Carrozza somehow set this all up to look like a murder-suicide? Even if that were possible-and not, I should add, completely insane-it wouldn’t stop his trial. It might delay it a bit, but it wouldn’t stop it. In fact, if anything, it would make more sense for him to go after the witness.”

She started to dispute this, reminding them that the witness still hadn’t yet been identified, telling them about the death threat, but stopped herself before she could even open her mouth. Maybe she was overthinking things. Stepping out on limbs that were way too flimsy. Tom was right-even if Carrozza had pulled off such an impressive feat, what would be his end game? The trial would continue. He would most likely get prosecuted. Case closed.

“I just had lunch with her yesterday, Tom. I’ve known her since college. She’s not the kind of person to do that.”

“Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we like to think we do. It’s sad, but it’s true. What happened to your friend, it’s awful, but it is what it is. Now, like I told you earlier, you don’t have to be here today if you don’t want to. Nobody will think any less of you.”

Leaving was the last thing she wanted to do. Even earlier this morning, when she had gotten the phone call from Tom, she told him she would be in. But she didn’t want to be in this room any longer, that was for sure. Not with these two, who, just yesterday, said without saying that her job was on the line if she didn’t reach out to her friend on the paper’s behalf.

She thanked them and stepped out into the newsroom, ignoring the glances if there were any. She headed for her desk, then made a detour at the last second.

Jeff was in his cubicle. He was on the phone, leaning back in his chair, squeezing his stress ball. He looked up at her, stared for a moment, then said, “Hey, can I call you right back?” before cradling the phone. He rose to his feet, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants. “Ashley, I’m so sorry about your friend. I can’t even imagine-”

She shook him off. “You want to make it up to me? I need your help.”

• • •

“A death threat? I never heard anything about that.”

“They were keeping it low key. Melissa didn’t want there to be a big fuss.”

“So, what, you think Carrozza had her taken out?”

They were in the stairwell, just the two of them, their voices soft and hushed.

“I don’t know,” Ashley admitted. “Probably not. But, Jeff, I’m telling you, this isn’t something she would do. I know her.”

“Look,” he said, crossing his arms, leaning back against the wall, “I know it’s tough to accept when shit like this happens, but everybody has secrets, stuff their families and even their best friends don’t know about.”

“So you haven’t heard anything else?”

He shook his head. “My focus was on the trial. This right here, this isn’t my beat.”

“But don’t you have contacts?”

“I know some cops, sure, but-”

“Call them.”

He sighed. “Ashley-”

“You always talk about being a real journalist. A real journalist doesn’t always accept the story given to him, right? He tracks down all the facts until he knows, one hundred percent, that the truth is the truth.”

He smiled. “Where did you get that bullshit?”

“I just thought it up.”

Withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket, he said, “You’re lucky I think you’re cute.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to tell your wife that next time I see her.”

Jeff dialed a number, placed the phone to his ear, and said, “Morgan, it’s Jeff Heller from the Post. Remember that favor you owe me?”

Morgan, it turned out, was a detective who routinely worked murder investigations. Unfortunately, the Melissa Baxter murder-suicide wasn’t his case. He said he knew the detectives working the case, though, and claimed he would see what he could do, but when Jeff relayed this information to Ashley-she had only heard Jeff’s side of the conversation-he didn’t sound hopeful.

“Thanks for trying at least,” she said.

“No problem.” He slipped his cell phone back in his pocket. “Now how about we go back out there and try to get some work done?”

But she didn’t know what she was going to work on now. Back at her desk, she trudged through her email but didn’t find any of it interesting. Celebrity sightings, fashion faux pas-who really gave a shit? She certainly didn’t. She acted like she did, yes, because that was her job, but when you considered the bigger picture-stuff like life and death-the mundaneness and narcissism of celebrity life was a drain on the soul.

An hour passed, then another hour, Ashley simply killing time at her desk, occasionally finding herself crying and quickly wiping the tears away with a tissue so nobody would notice, when Jeff poked his head up over her cubicle.

“Got something.” He started to step inside but paused, frowning at her. “Are you okay?”

She wondered whether or not her mascara had run. “I’m fine. What’s up?”

He leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed again, his usual pose. He gave one quick cautious glance around the newsroom before he spoke, his voice low. “So Morgan called me back. He said he asked around and managed to find out some stuff.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, you were right about the death threat. Baxter received one last week, and even though she wanted to write it off, her office put protection on her.”

“Right. That’s nothing new.”

“They had people on her twenty-four-seven. Not in her apartment, mind you, but there was an officer stationed in the lobby. They also have cameras on all the exits and in the hallways. They have video of her walking out of her apartment and taking the elevator up to the top floor, then getting off and finding the stairs to the roof. She was alone.”

It wasn’t until then that Ashley realized she had been kidding herself. Of course Melissa was alone. Of course nobody had been involved-not Timothy Carrozza, not some phantom masked man, not anybody. There was no grand conspiracy. She had known Melissa for nearly ten years, it was true, but that didn’t mean she had known everything there was to know about her friend. Tom was right: sometimes we don’t know people as well as we like to think we do.

“She shot her husband first in the bedroom. My guy thinks the husband must have seen her coming at him with the gun and tried to run away. He was shot twice in the back. Then the kids-” He shook his head, took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

Swallowing, trying to hold back tears, Ashley nodded.

“The one boy was shot and killed in the hallway. My guy thinks he may have heard the shots and ran out to see what happened. The other boy was shot and killed in his bed.”

A tear fell down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. “Nobody heard the shots?”

“Two neighbors did. Both claim they called 911, but there’s no record of either call.”

“How is that possible?”

“No idea. But listen, there’s more. Morgan said it’s still unclear whether she did it before or after the husband and kids were dead, but she wrote a suicide note. He couldn’t tell me what it said-apparently the detective he talked to wouldn’t even indulge that information-but it was an email. She sent it about a minute before the camera has her coming out of her apartment to head up to the roof.”

“She sent an email? To whom?”

“Her mother and siblings. I guess she had a few brothers and sisters? Morgan said those were the only recipients.”

“Holy shit,” Ashley said. “There hasn’t been any word about that?”

“So far the police are keeping it real tight. Morgan made me promise to keep it off the record, and he threatened to kill me if I broke that promise. He’s a big guy, too, so I don’t doubt him. You can’t tell anyone this.”

“But what about her mother and siblings? None of them have come forward yet?”

“Morgan said they’re still trying to contact them. They’re asking all of them to keep it private for the time being.” He paused. “Ashley?”

She had been staring off into space, thinking things over. Now she blinked and looked at him. “What?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“One of her brothers lives in the city.”

“Okay,” Jeff said slowly, drawing each syllable out longer than was needed.

“We could track him down.”

“Ashley-”

“We could ask him about the email. See what she wrote.”

“Ashley-”

“You said someday maybe I’ll understand what it’s like to be a real journalist, didn’t you?”

Despite his dark features, his face seemed to flush. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did. But that’s okay. I’ve never really been a true journalist. But this? This could be the scoop every journalist dreams of.”

“Even if we managed to track him down and he lets us see the email, what then? What will it prove?”

“Nothing, maybe. But at least we’ll know why she did it.”

Jeff shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into this.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

He sighed. “Fine, what’s his name?”

“That,” Ashley said, “might be our first roadblock.”

Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s a pretty common name.”

“Why, what is?”

thirteen

“John Smith, as I live and breathe.”

“Hey, Kyle.”

“What are you doing here on a week day? Shouldn’t you be zooming around on your bicycle trying not to get killed by taxis?”

I smile as I approach the counter of the Book Basement, Kyle Burch sitting on the stool. He’s an older dude in his sixties, bushy gray eyebrows, always wears suspenders, carries a cane though he doesn’t like using it. He’s been working at the Basement for what seems like forever, has the oncoming tremors of Parkinson’s, which are evident when he extends his hand to shake mine.

“Seriously, John, what brings you in today?”

“Didn’t Jim call you?”

Jim’s our boss, the owner of the bookstore.

“He didn’t. Why?”

“I have the day off, volunteered to come in. Jim said I could take your shift if you wanted to take a personal day.”

“I suppose Jim will pay me, too?”

I make a face, shrug, my way of trying to make light of the situation. In all honesty, Kyle needs the hours just as much as me. We don’t make that much working here, but it’s something, and in this economy, something is more than nothing.

“I just wanted to throw out the offer. I mean, I can see that you’re swamped with customers.”

He laughs. “There’s only so much computer solitaire I can play in one day.”

It’s ten in the morning, and a quick glance around shows that we’re dead. Truth is, the foot traffic isn’t very high at the Basement. We sell rare and used books, but most of the clientele-or at least the clientele that brings in the big bucks-order their books online. We ship anywhere, and some of the rare books are worth thousands of dollars. It’s what keeps the business going in a time when more and more people are moving away from printed books.

“Actually, I could take the day off.” Kyle picks up his cane. “Denise was having one of her bad mornings when I left. I hate to leave her, but, well, you know …”

I’ve never met Kyle’s wife Denise, but I’ve heard stories and seen pictures. She sounds like a great woman, who, over the past few years, developed a severe case of small fiber neuropathy. While Kyle came to work during the day, Denise was stuck at home, all of her nerves dying, making it incredibly painful to do anything other than sit on the couch and watch TV.

“Are you sure?”

He takes a half second to think if over, finally nods. “It’ll be nice to spend the day with her. Think maybe I’ll bring home some pastrami sandwiches. She’ll love that.”

I give him a gentle clap on the shoulder as he shuffles by me. The Basement is not handicap friendly, and he has to climb stairs up to the street. He pauses at the door.

“Thanks again, John. Just do me one favor, okay?”

“What’s that?”

He grins. “Don’t burn the place down.”

• • •

The afternoon drags on. A few customers come and go, a few sales are made, but there’s nothing noteworthy. A Lenco turntable sits beside the counter. I put on a Duke Ellington EP and the few speakers around the Basement begin breathing out some smooth jazz. I walk the narrow aisles, the rows and rows of bookshelves at least eight feet tall, making sure all the spines are lined up nicely. There are a few boxes of books in the back room that need sorting, what looks like a bunch of hardcovers.

I start piles-mystery and thriller, romance, general fiction, nonfiction-and lose myself to the mindless task. It’s one of the main reasons I like working at the Basement. It’s certainly not for the pay. I’ve always liked books. Reading them, yes, but also the feel of them in my hands. The texture of the paper when I turn the page. The different fonts and layouts of each book. Even the smell of aged paper.

I also like being alone in general, but even more so today. I’m still not sure quite how to process it. Unlike Duncan, Kyle and Jim aren’t aware of my sister, let alone any of my siblings, so I knew there would be no danger of them asking how I was doing. It sucks, but the truth is I was never close to my sister. The most interaction I had with her was from the email and text message and voicemails she sent last week. I saw her briefly at the funeral but hightailed it out of there before she and my mother could get close enough. Every time I think about that, I want to kick myself. What an asshole I was. Scratch that-what an asshole I am.

I left my cell phone back at the apartment. If Ed or Hank try calling, they’ll have to leave a voicemail. I’m hoping that there will be a call from them when I return later tonight. I hope one of them will say that they’re giving me a second chance. I love being a courier-it’s something I’m actually good at-and if that’s taken away, I’m not sure what else there is for me. Finding another company might be tricky after word gets out I lost a package and then, consequently, my company lost the account. When I thought about it yesterday, I tried playing it off that I could get hired anywhere. Now I’m not so sure.

So that’s what I’m doing most of the day-sorting books in the back room, walking the aisles facing all the spines, ringing up the few customers that wander into the store-when four o’clock rolls around and the bell above the door jingles, signaling the change of everything.

• • •

There are two of them, a man and a woman. The man looks like he’s in his early forties, black, short dark hair. He wears khakis and a collared dress shirt but no tie. The woman looks like she’s in her late-twenties. She’s cute, has long red hair, pale skin, striking brown eyes. She’s wearing a black skirt and cream blouse.

I can tell from the moment they walk into the store, their gazes set on me behind the counter, that they’re not here to buy books.

The woman speaks first.

“John Smith?”

I’m sitting on the stool, paging through a massive book on Aztec and Mayan culture. Currently the one opened page shows an Aztec pyramid during sunset. It’s beautiful, the way the colors play off the gigantic stone structure, and before the bell rang I was wondering if I would ever get a chance to travel there and see it for myself.

I close the book with a snap. “He’s not here. You just missed him.”

The man and woman come to stand in front of the counter. They exchange a quick glance.

“You’re not John Smith?” the woman asks.

“Nope.”

Another glance exchange. “I find that very hard to believe. You look just like her.”

I don’t take the bait. Instead I grab a notepad and pen and say, “If you’d like to leave a message for John, I’ll be sure he gets it.”

The woman isn’t deterred. “Mr. Smith, we’re reporters from the Post.”

I groan inwardly. I set the pen aside and ask, “Is this about what happened in the subway station yesterday?”

The man and woman frown.

The woman says, “No.”

“Then what’s this about?”

“Your sister.”

Somehow I knew this was coming and braced myself for it, but still I hope nothing changes in my face.

“My sister committed suicide.”

“Maybe,” the woman says. “But there’s also a chance she may have been murdered.”

fourteen

For a long moment John Smith didn’t say anything. He sat behind the counter, keeping his face as neutral as he could, though Ashley saw a slight twitch around his eye. She was surprised just how much he looked like Melissa. Not exactly like her, of course, but they had the same eyes, the same nose structure. After all day of searching, she had thought this would be a wild goose chase, but the second they stepped through the door and she saw him behind the counter, she knew it was him.

Finally John spoke.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Beside her, Jeff cleared his throat. “Mr. Smith, we apologize for the intrusion-”

“How did you guys find me, anyway?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Ashley said. “We called around to several different courier services until we found yours. They told us you weren’t working today and gave us your number. We tried calling it but there was no answer, so we called the service back, got your address, went to your apartment, and your roommate directed us here.”

“My company gave you my information, huh? Let me guess, you spoke with a piece of shit named Hank.”

“Listen, Mr. Smith,” Jeff began, but he quieted when Ashley shot him a glare. She had needed Jeff to get her to this point, and now that they were here she could handle the rest on her own. The fact that she had used him might have bothered her more had he not tried to use her yesterday.

John asked, “Why do you think she was murdered?”

“It’s just a hunch.”

“A hunch,” he repeated, then laughed. “My sister kills her family and then herself, and you spend all day tracking me down on a fucking hunch? What paper did you say you worked for again, the Post? Why am I not surprised?”

Now it was Jeff’s turn to shoot her a glare. His lips went tight. He had gone out on a limb for her, had humored her all this way, but now that they had finally found the person they were looking for, he was pissed. After all, Jeff was a real journalist. He took his job seriously. He wasn’t in the business of harassing the siblings of the recently deceased. Then again, neither was Ashley, but she had always been quick on her feet.

“Mr. Smith-John, can I call you John?”

He said nothing.

“John, my name is Ashley Walker. I was a friend of your sister’s. We were actually roommates at Vassar.”

Crossing his arms, John asked, “Are you working toward a point, Ms. Walker?”

“She was my best friend. I know you might not believe that, but it’s true. In fact, we had lunch just yesterday. She mentioned you. About how she saw you at your father’s funeral.”

And there it was. His hard features began to soften. His lips parted slightly. She thought he might speak on his own and didn’t want to jinx anything by speaking first. But after several seconds passed in silence, she knew she needed to give him a nudge.

“You were at your father’s funeral this past weekend, weren’t you?”

Just as quickly as his features had softened, they hardened again. “Why are you here?”

“I told you. We believe there’s a possibility your sister was murdered.”

She could see Jeff from the corner of her eye, his stare burning into her. She had used the plural tense, making him complicit in what very well may be her own fiction, and she knew he was going to give her hell once they left.

“What makes you think that?”

“For starters,” Ashley said, “she received a death threat last week.”

“My sister was an Assistant District Attorney of New York City. I’m sure she got death threats all the time. Is this really what you journalists do now, just make shit up?”

“John, like I said, Melissa was my best friend. I just … I know she wouldn’t do something like this. It wasn’t in her nature.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then sighed and held out his hands. “So what do you want from me?”

She glanced at Jeff, asking silently if he wanted to take the ball. It was clear he didn’t want to, but he gave her a slight nod and cleared his throat.

“Have you checked your email today?”

John gave a slight shake of the head. “No.”

“According to police, your sister sent you-as well as your mother and siblings-an email detailing why she … did what she did.”

“You mean she wrote a suicide email?”

An uncomfortable nod. “Something along those lines, yes.”

“And so, what”-John turned his attention back to Ashley-“you want me to show you that email?”

“You don’t have to show us,” she said. “We just want to confirm the email exists. And, well, if you wanted to share, then-”

“I’m sorry, but you guys can go fuck yourselves.”

Ashley said nothing. Neither did Jeff. They exchanged a quick glance, both silently acknowledging that this charade had come to an end.

“Well, John,” she said, digging in her purse for a card, “thank you for your time. If you ever want to talk about anything, feel free to call.”

She held the card out to him, and when he didn’t take it, she set it on the counter. Looked once more at Jeff, who nodded, and they turned and started toward the front of the store.

John said, “Wait.”

They paused, turned back around.

“You were really friends with my sister?”

“Yes.”

“What was her birthday?”

“August 17, 1982.”

“Where did you guys have lunch yesterday?”

“The Grove.”

“What did you have to eat?”

“Salads. Melissa the Insalata Caprese, I had the Arugula and Roasted Pear.”

“What were her kids’ names?”

“Jackson and Stewart.”

John was quiet for a moment, chewing this over, digesting it. Finally he nodded and turned to the computer on the countertop.

“So you think this email, if she truly sent one, will explain things?”

She exchanged another cautious glance with Jeff, trying to hide her excitement. “That’s what we’re hoping, yes.”

John was quiet for a moment as he typed. He stared at the screen, moved the mouse, typed some more. Finally he shook his head.

“Sorry to break it to you, but unless you’re looking for Viagra spam, there isn’t any email.”

fifteen

They thank me for my time and leave the store. I ask them if they’re sure they don’t want to buy any books, but I think they know I’m fucking with them and go on their merry way. Once they exit and start up the stone steps, I turn back to the computer screen.

I was lying-there is an email.

It’s from Melissa’s personal Yahoo account, and it’s addressed to me, Valerie, Paul, Dave, and our mother. It was sent last night at 3:17 a.m. The subject line is blank. I glance back up toward the front of the store to make sure my two new friends haven’t decided to come back to ask a few more questions. When I’m certain they’re gone for good, I open the email.

im glad hes dead he was a monster and did things to me ive never been able to forget i cant live this lie anymore my god oh my god im sorry my babies

I read it once, then twice, then three times, not sure what to think each time. I try reading between the lines. I try parsing each word and the order of the words. Does the he in this email refer to Melissa’s husband, or to our deceased father, or … to someone else?

The bell above the door jingles.

I don’t bother looking up. I keep my focus on the computer screen. I read my sister’s suicide email a fourth time. Imagining Melissa typing this after she killed her family. Imagining Melissa typing this before she killed her family, her husband and children both asleep in their beds and completely unaware that they would be dead very soon.

Whoever has entered the store, they’ve made their way past the stacks and tables of books at the front to the counter here in the middle. They’re standing right in front of me, but still I keep my eyes on the computer, reading the email now for a fifth time.

I think maybe the person might get the hint, wander away, but they stay right where they are in front of the counter.

“Can I help you?” I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation.

The person doesn’t speak right away. A lengthy second or two passes, and then a deep masculine voice says, “I wanted to apologize.”

I blink but keep my focus on the monitor. “Apologize about what?”

“Yesterday, when I pushed you off the platform, that was supposed to be the end of it. The train would run you over and kill you instantly.”

My eyes shift slowly, from the monitor to the man standing on the other side of the counter. He’s dressed like a businessman-charcoal gray suit, striped tie, black shiny shoes. He even carries a briefcase in one hand.

The only thing that doesn’t quite go with the getup is the gun in his other hand.

“It would have been quick and relatively painless. But now this, well”-he shrugs-“I’m afraid this will hurt quite a bit.”

sixteen

They had walked only two blocks, neither one speaking, when Ashley abruptly stopped, turned, and started back the way they had come.

“Where are you going?” Jeff asked, keeping pace beside her.

“I want to talk to him again.”

He stepped in front of her. “Ashley, you can’t.”

She went to step around him and he matched her movement, keeping her in place.

“Jeff, get out of my way.”

“You’ve already done enough to that poor guy.”

“I think he was lying.”

“What?”

“About the email. I was watching his eyes. I think the email did come through.”

She tried to move past him again. This time he took hold of her arm, gently held her in place.

“Even if it did, he’s not going to show you. Especially if you barge back in there. He’ll shut down more than he already has.”

Ashley mulled this over, playing the different possibilities, the different outcomes. They were down in the Village, only a few blocks away from her place, in fact. Maybe she should just call it a day. Part ways with Jeff and head back to her apartment and veg out on the couch with Rex. Try to stay away from the wine in the cabinet. Try to ignore all the different places she had Percocet hidden.

“You should go,” she told him. “Head back to the office, go home, whatever. I appreciate the help, but obviously this has been a waste of time.”

He stepped back, releasing his gentle grip from her arm. “No, it was … interesting. Definitely a different way to mix up the day.”

She smiled but said nothing, though her intentions must have been clearly written on her face.

“Don’t,” Jeff said again.

“You don’t have to go with me. Like I told you, head back to the office.”

“I think I should stick around to be a witness for your insanity plea.”

“I just want to talk to him for another minute, that’s all. Ask a few more questions, then I’ll be out of his hair.”

Now it was Jeff’s turn to mull it over, his lips tight again as he considered the different possibilities, the different outcomes. Finally he sighed. “Two minutes, that’s it.”

Ashley smiled and started past him. “Got it.”

“I mean it,” he said, following her. “No more than two minutes.”

“Yes, two minutes. I promise.”

seventeen

Now that the man has got my full attention, he smiles. He takes a few steps back, sets the briefcase down, places the gun on one of the tables, picks up a book, and begins flipping through it.

“You really enjoy working here?”

I don’t answer.

“Seems rather stuffy. Doesn’t mold grow around all this paper?”

Again, I don’t speak.

He sets the book aside, reaches into his pocket, extracts a silver lighter. He pops the top open with his thumb, uses the thumb to flick the flint. Sparks ignite first, then a small flame.

“Tell me, have you ever imagined what it would be like to die in a fire?”

I glance once more at the computer screen, at my sister’s suicide email. “She didn’t really do it, did she?”

The man holds the lighter up to his face, staring at the quivering flame. “Your question assumes I know who she is, and what it is supposed to be. But, taking a stab in the dark, I’m guessing you mean your sister, and whether or not she shot her family before stepping off the roof of her building. Am I correct?”

I don’t answer.

The man smiles again. “You may think your silence shows you’re tough, or some such ridiculousness, but we both know I’m right. The truth is, John, you were supposed to die first. Fortunately for you, you were given an extra day of life. Tell me, how did you use those extra twenty-four hours?”

“Did you jack my wheels?”

“Not me personally, no. But yes, that was us.”

“Who’s us?”

The man ignores my question. “You surprised us, by the way. We figured you would take a taxi. We had one on standby just in case. But then you headed to the train station. We had to follow you down there, then make the split second decision of giving you that extra push when you got close enough to the platform. Obviously, the push was timed a little too early.”

“Did you steal my package, too?”

Another smile. “That really fucked with your head, didn’t it? Got you in trouble with your boss, if I’m not mistaken.”

“They lost the account.”

The man shakes his head slowly, making a tsking noise with a tongue. “Such a pity, and yet I don’t care.”

He picks up another book off the table, holds it above the flame. He walks over to the closest bookshelf and sets the burning book on the bottom shelf. Within seconds, the fire begins to spread.

Turning back, he says, “Now, John, I’m going to give you a choice. We can either do this the hard way or the easy way. I normally don’t like saying that, because it sounds too Hollywood, but quite honestly, this is how it’s going to work.”

He picks up the briefcase, sets it on the table, unsnaps the locks, and opens the top.

I can’t see everything he has inside that briefcase, not from where I’m standing, but I recognize the syringe he holds up immediately. He takes a small vial from the briefcase, inserts the syringe into the top, pulls back on the stopper until he’s extracted nearly half the bottle. He taps the syringe before pushing the stopper a bit, just enough to spritz out some of the clear fluid.

“This is a heavy sedative. It will knock you out. It will stop your heart. It will be just like you’re going to sleep, completely painless. By the time the fire gets to you, you won’t feel a thing.”

Speaking of the fire, the flames have spread quickly. The entire shelf has gone up, and now the fire is working down the line. A heavy cloud of smoke has started to spread across the ceiling. Better late than never, one of the smoke alarms goes off, followed by another, then another.

“So what do you want to do here, John, the easy way or the hard way?”

“What’s the easy way?”

He steps forward, places the syringe on the counter. “I stand here, keep my gun aimed at you, while you inject yourself.”

“And the hard way?”

“You refuse to inject yourself, so I make you very uncomfortable before I inject you. As you can see, the end result is the same.”

Behind him, the flames grow even hungrier. The smoke becomes thicker. The fourth and final smoke alarm goes off, joining the frantic chorus. I think of all the years this bookstore has been in business. I think of all the rare books here, all the thousands and thousands of dollars. I think of Jim, how this is his store and life, and I think of Kyle, how this is the only job he has to support himself and his dying wife, and I look the man straight in the eye and say two words.

“Fuck you.”

The man laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Shaking his head, he says, “All right then, the hard way it is.”

He starts to raise his gun at me but pauses almost immediately. Something changes in his face. His brow furrows slightly. He turns his head toward the front of the store, and I can see a tiny earpiece snuggled in his ear.

“Shit,” he mutters, and swings the gun toward the door, just as through the window feet appear coming down the steps.

In seconds the bell will jingle, and whatever hapless customer coming to peruse the rare and used books will be killed by this madman.

I can’t let that happen.

I won’t let that happen.

And so that’s why I grab the thick book of Aztec and Mayan culture on the counter in front of me and fling it at the man’s head.

eighteen

Jeff headed down first. The reason, Ashley thought, was so he could hold the door for her-always a gentleman, that Jeff-but before he even reached for the doorknob, he paused and turned back to her, his expression incredulous.

“The place is on fire.”

Before she could speak, a gunshot sounded out inside the store.

Glass shattered.

Ashley screamed.

Jeff’s eyes went wide, yelling at her to hurry back up the stairs. He started to take a step forward and then his body jerked, his neck snapped back, blood erupted everywhere.

Still screaming, Ashley started back up the steps. It wasn’t easy in her heels, and in her panic, she slipped and fell. She managed to grab the railing at the last moment, but already her knee scraped against the step, drawing blood. She scrambled back to her feet and looked up toward street level.

A man was at the top-big, bald, broad-shouldered-and he was currently barreling down toward her. He wore a jacket, and as he tore down the steps, his hand reached in and came back out with a small machine gun.

Gunshots sounded out again behind her.

She wasn’t sure which way to flee now-up or down. Either way promised danger.

The bald man made things easier for her. The stairs were narrow and he wasn’t slowing down. It was clear, too, his focus wasn’t on her, but rather the door leading into the bookstore. Still, his giant bulk made it impossible for him to slip past her unmolested, and she found herself pressed against the railing, still screaming, until she realized the man had passed her.

She tried scrambling back up the stairs but slipped again, this time failing to grasp the railing and sliding back down the steps. Something immediately broke her fall, and it wasn’t until she turned over that she realized it was Jeff. He was clearly dead, his eyes half open and blank, blood pouring out of the back of his head where he’d been shot.

Inside the bookstore, more gunfire erupted, and smoke fought its way through the broken glass.

Ashley knew she needed to get back up to the street. That was where there was safety. That was where the police would come to save her.

Currently she was too hysterical to cry. She didn’t even have the mindset to let loose another scream. She simply stared up at the top of the steps, knowing that was where she now needed to be.

The heels, she knew, would have to go.

She kicked them off.

Her fingers wrapped around the railing, squeezing it tightly.

Every muscle in her body was on edge.

She went to push off with her right foot, to give her all the momentum she would need to catapult herself up the stairs, when behind her Jeff’s corpse reached out and grabbed her arm.

nineteen

The Aztec and Mayan book only causes a temporary distraction. It hits the man right before he’s about to pull the trigger, causing his aim to go wide and shatter one of the windows. But he bounces back almost immediately, squeezing the trigger again. This time the bullet doesn’t shatter more glass. This time the bullet strikes the man just outside the door in the back of the head.

Outside, a woman screams.

I’m faintly aware that it’s the woman-Ashley Walker-from a few minutes ago, and that the man who’s just been killed was her partner, the black dude that didn’t say much. I’m able to deduce that in only a second, and by that time the man has swiveled so his gun’s now pointed back at me.

I hit the ground. Spread myself on the floor as flat as I can, while above bullets tear into the counter, into the wall, raining down chunks of plaster and glass.

More gunfire starts up, only this isn’t from the same gun. This sounds like it’s coming from the front of the store. The bullets that were meant for me now stop. The pause is long enough for me to glance up and watch a large bald man advancing through the store, a submachine gun in his hands.

I see the faux-businessman crouched behind one of the tables, covering his head, shouting something. It doesn’t make sense to me until I remember his tiny earpiece. He knew the two reporters were coming before they even started down the steps. Which means someone else-this guy’s partner-must be somewhere up on the street.

The gunfire pauses for only a brief moment, and in that moment I hear screaming.

It’s Ashley Walker, outside, about ready to head up the steps.

A moment of indecision passes before I spring to my feet and start running toward the front door. I’m taking a wild chance, but I’m certain the new gunman isn’t here for me. This is confirmed only a second later when my movement catches his attention and he swings the barrel toward me, pauses, then swings it back toward the table behind which the other gunman has taken cover. He hurries deeper into the store, which is now thick with smoke, the fire growing more intense. He lets off a couple more rounds, trying to spook the other gunman.

I dash for the door, jump over the dead body, and grab Ashley’s arm before she’s able to start her sprint up the steps.

She screams. This is what I expected. What I didn’t expect is for her to spin around and rake my face with her nails.

I shout something indistinguishable.

She pauses, looks at me, looks down at her murdered friend, looks back at me.

She screams, “What are you doing?”

“You can’t go up that way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe.”

As if my words summon him, a man appears at the top of the steps. He, too, is dressed like a businessman. He, too, is carrying a gun, held close to his side as if to conceal it from those passing by up on the street.

He pauses at the top, sees us, sees the dead body and the blood, and immediately starts to raise the gun.

I grab Ashley’s arm and pull her back into the store.

The fire in here has gotten worse. The smoke is almost too thick. The bald gunman is standing over my syringe-wielding buddy from earlier. He raises the submachine gun at us but pauses again when he sees who it is.

“Another one’s coming!” I shout.

“Shit.” The bald gunman drops the magazine from the submachine gun, smacks another one in place. He looks around the store, then asks me, “There another exit?”

“Back room. Leads up into the alley.”

He glances back toward the fire, then gives me a weary look as he pulls a small radio from his pocket. “Go.”

We hurry past him, stepping over the dead man. I pause only briefly when I see the syringe still on the counter. Without exactly knowing why, I scoop it up with my free hand and then keep pulling Ashley toward the fire.

She shouts at me to stop, to hold on, that she doesn’t want to die.

I shout at her that this is the only way out.

The fire is intense, the smoke thick, but fortunately the flames haven’t reached the door leading into the back room just yet.

More gunfire erupts behind us, two sets.

I don’t bother using the doorknob. I kick in the door. The hinges are old and snap off, the door swinging inward.

I pull Ashley inside.

“Keep going to the far back. There are steps leading up to a door. It will take you into the alley.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just go!”

She hurries away.

I peek back out through the bookstore. The burst of gunfire has stopped. All I can see is smoke, and through the smoke flames.

Then a figure appears.

My hand squeezes the syringe tightly, though I’m not sure just how effective it will be against a gun.

But it doesn’t matter-it’s the bald guy with the submachine gun.

He bolts into the back room, slams the door shut.

“Grab that!” he shouts, pointing at the closest bookshelf.

We each take an end and walk the shelf over and tip it against the door. It’s not a perfect barrier, but it will have to do.

We hurry through the back room and up the stone steps to the door that’s already hanging open. Ashley’s waiting outside against the wall. She’s looking nervously up and down the alleyway, and when she sees the bald gunman, she releases a sudden cry.

“It’s okay, he’s a friend.” I glance at him warily. “You are a friend, right?”

He nods. “Something like that.”

Before I can ask him what that means, the sound of screeching tires fills the alley.

A black SUV swerves around the corner, headed this way.

Ashley starts to turn to make a break for it.

The bald guy says, “It’s okay, that’s for us.”

She pauses, turns back to me.

I stare into her eyes for a moment. I’m not sure what to tell her. Her partner was just gunned down. She has some of his blood on her clothes. Her legs are bloody from where she fell on the steps out front.

Her body trembling, her breathing fast, she asks, “What’s happening?”

Before I can tell her-though truthfully I have no idea-the SUV screeches to a halt. The bald gunman climbs into the passenger side. He shouts at us to get in the back.

Rule of thumb is that you don’t get into vehicles with strangers. Especially strangers carrying machine guns. Then again, I think the rule becomes muddied when the stranger with the machine gun has just helped you escape two other men with guns, bent on killing you.

I open the back door, motion for Ashley to get inside.

She hesitates, but it’s only for a moment, and then she climbs inside.

I climb in after her, slam the door shut.

The SUV jerks forward, its engine roaring.

For a moment there’s silence, and then I shout, “What the fuck is going on here?”

Neither the driver nor the bald gunman answer, but a voice does respond. It comes from my left, on the other side of Ashley. Apparently we’re sharing this seat with someone else.

“You’re safe now, John.”

It’s only four words, and it’s been years since I last heard it, but I recognize the voice immediately.

I turn in my seat, slightly, my entire body going tense. “What the hell?”

Ashley looks from me to the man sitting beside her. Her eyes are wide, her breathing still fast.

“What?” she asks, once again verging on franticness. “Do you know him?”

I simply nod. All of a sudden, I can’t speak.

But that’s okay; my father speaks instead.

“Hello, son. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

twenty

The smoke was almost too thick to see through. Stepping over the dead body at the bottom of the steps, Zach slipped his suit jacket off his shoulders and held it to his nose and mouth. The heat wasn’t intense yet, but that was because the bulk of the fire was farther back in the bookstore-he could tell that even from here.

Pulling his Glock from its holster, he hesitated for a moment, cursed, then ducked inside.

He found the first body in the matter of only seconds; he almost tripped over it. As he had suspected, it was Jenkins. Fuck.

He continued farther into the smoke, the heat increasing, and found Winters only a few seconds later.

Motherfucker.

Two of his men, dead. It was unacceptable, but the blow would at least be somewhat softened if the target had been taken out, too.

He hurried over to the counter. Nothing behind it. He went down the side to the front of the store, then up the other side. Nothing there either.

Zach played it out in his head: the woman and man leave the store, meaning the place was empty except for John Smith. Winters goes in, does his thing, Zach in communication with him the entire time. Then, two blocks up, the woman and man turn back around and return to the store. Zach notifies Winters. Winters gets ready. Then the gunfire starts. Only, out of nowhere, another player enters the game. A big fucker carrying an MP5. Not your run of the mill book browser, that was for sure.

Whatever the fuck was happening, it wasn’t good, so Zach sent out Jenkins, who hurried across the street, down the steps, and all Zach could hear from his earpiece was screaming and shouting and shooting. A lot of shooting.

And now here he was, facing the flames, the smoke palpable, bracing himself as he advanced toward the back of the store.

Common sense told him to leave. The place was on fucking fire, and if the smoke didn’t kill the target and the girl and the big fucker, then the flames would. But years of experience told him otherwise.

He found the door. Despite the heavy smoke, his eyes burning, it looked like the door had been kicked open. He used his foot to push it forward, his gun at the ready, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, this time with more force. It gave only a little.

Zach squared his shoulders to the door, stood up straight, lifted his foot, and gave it a solid kick.

The door busted open, the shelf which had been keeping it in place tipping over onto the floor. Books fell everywhere. He hurried in, the Glock raised, but there was nobody in sight. Behind him, the smoke began pouring in, headed toward the back. That was where Zach smelled fresh air. He hurried that way and seconds later found steps leading up to the street. He climbed them and came to a door, which opened into an alleyway.

The alley was empty.

“Shit.”

He pulled his cell phone out and dialed Tyson.

Tyson said, “Yeah.”

“You have my location?”

“Of course.”

“It’s an alley behind the bookstore. I need to know who or what left it either east or west in the past two minutes. Whatever it is, track it.”

He was headed up the alley, having decided retracing his steps through the fiery inferno wasn’t the best idea.

“Checking traffic cameras now,” Tyson said.

“What about satellite?”

“It’s going to take a couple of minutes to override, and that’s only if it’s in the right position.”

“What about drones?”

“I’m looking into it.”

Zach had faith. Tyson was one of the best techs they had. If anyone was going to save today from being one gigantic clusterfuck, it would be him.

As Zach reached the mouth of the alley, Tyson spoke.

“Okay, I got it. Black Chevy Tahoe, entered the alleyway at four thirty-three. Exited on the other end at four thirty-four.”

Zach was already running. “License plate?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

Tearing down the block where he’d parked the sedan, Zach said, “Where are they now?”

“Give me a second.”

A car horn blared as Zach sprinted out into the street. It was a taxi, its driver slamming on the brakes. Zach smacked the hood and kept running toward the sedan. He jumped inside, fired up the engine.

“Come on, come on,” he said, both to Tyson and to himself, sitting behind the wheel, adrenaline ticking through his veins. The last thing he wanted to do was head in the wrong direction. That would cost seconds, potentially minutes, and right now he couldn’t waste a single one.

“Got them,” Tyson said. “They just turned onto Seventh Avenue, headed south.”

Zach spun the wheel, punched the gas, the sedan jerking forward into the street, nearly colliding with a Town Car coming head-on. Another chorus of horns blared, but Zach barely noticed. Keeping one hand on the wheel, one hand holding the phone to his ear, Zach asked, “Where do you think they’re headed?”

“My guess would be the Holland Tunnel.”

“What cops do we have in the area?”

“None.”

A car was double-parked and he swerved around it, nearly taking out the middle-aged woman running packages into her building.

“We need people at the bookstore ASAP. Two of ours are down, and so is one civilian. The thing’s going up in flames.”

“Any of our equipment inside?”

“Most likely. Winters had his case when he entered.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“I’m still not sure. Some guy came out of nowhere.”

“Who?”

“I have no fucking clue. But I know it wasn’t Eli.”

Tyson asked, “What do you think we should do about the rest of the block?”

The light at the next intersection was turning yellow. Zach punched the gas, swerved around a taxi, and cut the corner hard.

“Burn it to the ground.”

twenty-one

“What the fuck is going on?”

Nobody answers me.

“Where are we going?”

Still nothing. It’s like I don’t exist. Besides the brief exchange with my old man-seriously, my father, what the fuck? — nobody has said a word. But that doesn’t mean we’re not in a hurry. The two up front haven’t spoken, sure, but the driver is handling the SUV like a pro. Swerving here, accelerating there, we’re making good time in a city choked with traffic. But that still doesn’t answer the questions what the fuck is going on and where are we going.

I shift in my seat so my back is against the window. I realize that my hands are clenched, and I remember that I’m still holding the syringe. I still don’t quite know what I was thinking when I grabbed it-maybe there was some spiritual connection I felt with the thing that had, mere minutes before, threatened to end my life-and I still don’t quite know what to do with it now.

Beside me, Ashley isn’t freaking out as much as I figured she would. Granted, she looks scared, her entire body on edge, but she’s not screaming like she was earlier. If anything she’s catching her breath, trying to make sense of the situation. The only problem for her is that this whole thing is senselessly fucked.

“Dad.”

He’s leaning slightly forward, staring out the windshield, enjoying the high-speed show. He doesn’t acknowledge me.

“I thought you were supposed to be dead.”

He blinks. Turns his head in my direction. “Are you disappointed?”

“I haven’t decided yet. What’s going on here? Who are these guys? Who are the guys that just tried to kill us?”

“Those are good questions, John, but right now we don’t have time to go over each of them.”

“Fair enough. So let’s start with the first question. What the fuck is going on?”

My father gives a slight shake of the head, turns his attention back to the street. “Too complicated to explain at the moment. By the way, who’s your friend?”

Ashley glances at me, as if she’s not sure whether or not she should respond. I hesitate, then respond for the both of us.

“She’s not my friend.”

“Then what exactly is she doing here?”

“In the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

I check Ashley’s face to see if she agrees with this, but she doesn’t give much of a reaction. Instead she seems to steel herself, take a breath.

“You’re really Melissa’s father?” she asks.

This gives my old man pause. He blinks again, leans back, gives her an apprising look.

“What’s your name?”

“Ashley Walker.”

“And, Ms. Walker, how did you know my daughter?”

“We were best friends in college.”

“Interesting. And why, exactly, were you at the bookstore just now?”

“Following a hunch.”

“Such as?”

“I refuse to believe Melissa killed her family and herself.”

A smile and nod. “Bright girl.”

“So you’re saying it’s not true?”

“Hey,” I interject. “What’s going on here?”

Up front, the driver says, “Eli, we’re skipping the tunnel. Too much chance of getting boxed in.”

My father nods like the driver just spoke to him, which doesn’t make sense, because Eli isn’t my father’s name.

Still, my father says, “We need to ditch this vehicle as soon as possible. No doubt they already have the make and model and are tracking us.”

The driver and bald passenger exchange a glance, but neither speaks. Right now it’s rush hour, the traffic congested, and it’s a miracle we’re able to keep going forty miles per hour.

For a moment there’s complete silence, and then I say, “Eli?”

My father looks at me, clearly responding to the sound of his name, and again I ask the only question that matters.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

twenty-two

“Where are they now?”

“Still on Seventh Avenue.”

“Are they headed for the tunnel?”

“Doesn’t look like it. At least they still haven’t headed east yet.”

Zach gritted his teeth against the slow-moving traffic. He was half tempted to jump the curb and tear ass down the sidewalk, but knew that would raise too many eyebrows. In his world, he and his people never raised eyebrows. They stayed so far under the radar, in many ways they didn’t exist.

As long as Zach had known Tyson, the man rarely showed any enthusiasm. He was a true professional, through and through, keeping his emotions in check. But now, coming through the earpiece of Zach’s phone, Tyson’s excitement was contagious.

“Yes!”

“What is it?”

“One of the traffic cams picked up a clean shot of the driver. I’m working the facial recognition now.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Eli has no friends. He has no contacts to pull off what just happened.”

Zach started nodding, already picking up the pieces. “You think mercenaries?”

“Something along those lines. If they’re hired guns, it’s very well likely they have military training, and if they have military training-”

“They’ll be in the system,” Zach said. “How much longer are we talking?”

“Can’t say. It could be a few more minutes, or it could … holy hell, look at that.”

“What?”

“We have confirmation. The driver’s name is Charles Bent. Ex-Marine. Did three tours in Iraq.”

“Any known associates?”

“One. Another ex-Marine name of John Grayson.”

“Large bald fellow?”

“That’s what the picture shows.”

“These guys working independently?”

“From the intel on my screen, these guys have no loyalty except to the highest bidder.”

“Is there a contact number?”

He was edging his way through traffic, swerving around one taxi or bus or car or another, people talking and shouting outside, cars honking, but still he could hear the smile in Tyson’s voice.

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

twenty-three

The driver takes a sudden left, nearly fishtailing the SUV, and then we’re racing down a side street, headed west.

I say to my father, “These people, whoever they are, they killed Melissa and her family, didn’t they?”

My father-or fuck it, let’s just call him Eli-nods his head slightly. “I’m afraid they did.”

“And you knew it was going to happen, didn’t you?”

I have no basis to make this assumption other than pure speculation, but his eyes shift away from mine, ashamed, and it’s all the confirmation I need.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Hey,” says the bald passenger up front. “Don’t blame your old man. There was nothing we could do to stop it.”

“Bullshit,” I say, but before I can continue the thought, a phone rings.

It’s coming from up front, in the middle console, the electronic buzzing of a cell phone.

Immediately Eli says, “Don’t answer it.”

Both driver and passenger exchange another glance, only this one is more concentrated, the two communicating in their own special silence. Finally the driver nods, almost imperceptibly, and the passenger picks up the ringing phone, opens it, places it to his ear.

“Yeah,” he says, and then is silent for several long seconds while he listens to the person on the other end, while the driver accelerates down the city streets, slamming on the brakes every hundred yards or so when someone tries to step out in front of the SUV and he’s forced to swerve around them.

Eli’s hand, meanwhile, is slowly moving toward the inside of his jacket, my father never once taking his gaze off the passenger.

Up front, the passenger says, “A quarter million.”

The driver, keeping the bulk of his focus on the street, gives his partner a hesitant glance.

I look back at my father and find him now looking at me-really looking at me for the first time. His hand is now completely inside his jacket, and I somehow know his fingers are gripping the gun holstered there.

Finally, after some more silence, the passenger says, “Will do,” and closes the phone. He takes a deep breath, glances at the driver, then suddenly a gun is in his hand, aimed directly at Eli.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Eli’s voice is hollow: “That didn’t take long.”

The passenger simply shakes his head.

“How much more are they offering?”

“Twice as much.”

The driver whistles, clearly impressed.

Eli says, “These aren’t good people.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

“Very true. I’ve also just received a phone call from one of their people less than ten minutes after encountering one of them. Which makes me think they’re much more powerful than you first let on. Now bring your hand out where I can see it, slowly.”

Eli withdraws his empty hand from inside the jacket. “What are you going to do?”

“Difficult to say. They found us pretty quickly, and it’s pretty fucking impossible to find us.”

The driver gives his partner another look, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s clear he knows what’s going on. It’s also clear he has accepted the change in tide. This is evidenced by the fact that we aren’t going so fast anymore. The SUV’s constant acceleration has tapered off.

Eli pauses for a beat. “I’ll match it. I’ll even throw in an extra hundred grand.”

The passenger seems to think this over for a moment. “How do we know you have the extra money?”

“You don’t.”

The passenger lets loose a hearty laugh. “I don’t think it’s worth it, even if you do have the money. These people are too well connected. They’ll catch up with us eventually.”

“They may be well connected, but they’re still fallible.”

“Maybe. But at this point, I’m not willing to take the chance. How about you, Charlie?”

The driver shakes his head. “An extra quarter mil sounds pretty good to me. They want us to stop?”

“Yeah, let’s stop at the next block up. He says he’s a few blocks behind us, so he’ll catch up soon.”

“He’s going to kill you when he gets here,” Eli says. “He’s going to kill us, and he’s going to kill you.”

“No doubt it’s a risk, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. What about you, Charlie?”

Charlie offers a consenting nod.

“Besides,” the passenger says, “he says we have to keep you alive. But the other two, the girl and your kid, we’re free to kill them right now.”

He starts to turn in his seat, shifting the gun toward Ashley, but that’s as far as he gets before I learn forward, swinging my arm, and jam the needle of the syringe into his left eye.

twenty-four

Ashley had sensed the sudden tension at once. Granted, this entire crazy mess was intense, and she was still trembling from adrenaline or fear or whatever it was, and yes, none of this made any sense to her, but if there was one thing she knew, it was how to read people. She had the uncanny ability to walk into a packed room, give the place a once-over, and immediately know everything, or at least close to everything, there was to know about each person.

So in the SUV, she had sensed at once that the older man-Melissa’s father, Eli-could be trusted. The two up front, though-the driver and passenger-had the solid stoicism of trained soldiers. After all, she witnessed one of them come rushing at her with an automatic weapon. She saw the aftermath of his gunplay.

Worst of all, of course, was Jeff. Poor, sweet Jeff, who always had a smile for her, who always innocently flirted with her, who helped her out today because he felt bad. Jeff, whose wife and children didn’t even know yet that he was dead.

She still remembered the blank look in his eyes as he lay at the bottom of the steps. It would forever be seared into her mind.

So yes, that was mostly what she was thinking about-how now Jeff’s wife and children would go husbandless and fatherless and it was all her fault-when she sensed the sudden tension, all stemming from the cell phone in the middle console ringing and the passenger answering it. Eli speaking, the passenger responding, and next thing she knew the passenger was pointing at a gun first at Eli, then, after several moments, at her.

That was when everything went crazy.

Beside her, John Smith leaning forward and swinging something at the passenger’s face.

The passenger crying out, his head jerking back, his gun moving off to the side and exploding as he discarded a round.

The bullet striking the driver in the neck, blood squirting everywhere, raining the interior.

The SUV speeding up, the driver slumping forward on the wheel, his foot heavy on the gas.

On the other side of her, Eli springing forward, squeezing between the two seats, reaching for the passenger’s gun.

John Smith grabbing the passenger’s head and pulling him away as the passenger tried to turn in the seat, raising the gun again.

Eli attempting to wrestle the gun from the passenger, both of them gripping it and neither letting go, the passenger squeezing the trigger several more times, the bullets tearing into the roof of the SUV.

Ashley, frozen in the middle, watching it all happen, wanting to do something but uncertain what to do, when she looked past the ongoing struggle, out the windshield, and saw they were coming to an intersection, that there were no cars in front of them on this street, but neither was there any more street.

It was a T-intersection, a coffee shop sitting directly ahead of them.

People inside behind the floor to ceiling glass windows, lounging at tables, snug and safe in their cappuccino cocoons.

Ashley saw what was going to happen next, and she wanted to do something-stop the SUV somehow, lean on the horn to warn the people inside, something-and she opened her mouth but at first nothing came out. Then, a second later, with the coffee shop rushing up to meet them head-on, while Eli and John in the backseat wrestled the passenger in the front seat, Ashley found her voice and did the only thing she could do at that moment. She screamed.

twenty-five

The bald passenger, despite the syringe sticking out of his eye, is still trying to kill us.

Eli and I, we’re trying to subdue him, or at least that’s what I’m trying to do, grabbing him around the neck, attempting to put him in a sleeper hold. Eli, he’s trying to get the gun away from the passenger, but the man just won’t let go, and he fires it a couple of times, the bullets striking the roof of the SUV, causing my ears to ring, and the blood, man, the blood is getting everywhere, the driver dead, just slumped over the wheel, and it’s not until I think about the driver again do I remember we’re currently barreling down a busy city street in over two tons of metal, a vehicle the dead driver is operating, the engine roaring, which means the driver must have his foot on the gas, and just as Ashley lets out a scream, I happen to look up.

Oh fuck.

I let go of the passenger, push myself back against the seat, scramble for my seat belt and snap it in place.

Eli is still trying to wrestle the gun away, and I shout, “Dad, seat belt, now!” and maybe he senses the urgency in my voice, or maybe he’s thrown by hearing me call him Dad, but he stops for a second, glances up, then immediately disengages with the passenger and throws himself back, clawing for his seat belt.

Ashley screams again.

The passenger, still with that fucking syringe in his eye, smiles as he raises the gun once more. Maybe he’s become blood crazy and doesn’t realize what’s about to happen. Maybe he’s completely sane and knows what’s about to happen and doesn’t care. Either way, it doesn’t matter much, because we only have another second or two before impact.

Ashley screams a third time, really loud, and I realize she’s not wearing a seat belt. Without thinking, I lean over and grab her and hold her tight, as tight as I’ve ever held anyone, and as I’m holding her tight, I happen to look past my father out his window and see the bus coming right at us.

We get lucky, though, at least as lucky as you can be in an out-of-control speeding SUV with a trained badass in the front seat trying to kill you. We make it through most of the intersection without a scratch, the Tahoe going maybe forty miles per hour, when the bus clips us from behind, sending the SUV spinning. We don’t go through a full spin, but rather a half spin, or a quarter spin, or you know what, maybe we don’t really spin at all. But our momentum gets fucked, that’s for sure. One moment we’re speeding one way, the next we’re jerked around, though still heading in the same direction.

The Tahoe skids sideways toward the sidewalk, jumps the curb, starts to tip forward. It doesn’t quite make it. Don’t get me wrong, we totally bash through the glass window-the people inside, at least most of them, screaming and jumping out of the way, a few others not so lucky-but the SUV doesn’t get that far. Then again, the coffee shop isn’t that big, so here distance is relative. Either way, it only takes a second or two before it’s over and the SUV has come to a complete stop. The engine is no longer roaring, the driver’s foot on the gas pedal having been dispelled from the impact. Both front airbags have deployed. The passenger, not wearing his seat belt, is slumped forward. He’s not moving, as far as I can tell, but it’s kind of hard to say for sure when I’m still holding on to Ashley who’s now holding on to me. Somehow I managed not to let go. Somehow we’re still alive.

“John?”

Eli’s voice, faint through the ringing in my ears.

I lean back and look at Ashley, red hair all in her face. “Are you okay?”

She gives a tentative nod.

Eli again: “John, are you all right?”

“I think so. You?”

“As far as I can tell.”

Outside the SUV, people are still screaming. Some are crying. Out on the street, traffic has come to a complete stop. A chorus of car horns sounds out their displeasure.

Eli says, “We have to go.”

I only nod. Compared to the rest of the crazy stuff that’s happened in the past half hour, this is the one thing that makes the most sense. I won’t be able to use my door, though; that’s where the coffee shop’s wall is. I tell Eli this, and he opens his door and steps out, slowly, like his entire body is broken.

Ashley goes next, hesitant but quickly.

I slide across the seat, trying to be careful not to cut myself on any of the loose glass-did I mention some of the windows shattered, too? — and when I’m out of the Tahoe, I turn and take in the destruction.

Tables and chairs and bodies strewn everywhere. Those still alive are either kneeling over these bodies or trying the best they know how to tend to their wounds.

Someone grabs my arm.

It’s Eli, stepping close to me, his voice low: “We need to get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Jersey,” he says. “Weehawken. That’s where I have another car waiting.”

I take another look around the destroyed coffee shop. I gaze out the shattered glass window, at the traffic that’s still not moving.

“But they’re still following us.”

Eli says nothing, but it’s clear from his face he knows this.

“Hey,” someone shouts at us. “You guys okay?”

“Hey,” someone else shouts. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

I say to my father, “Let’s go.”

We start toward the shattered window, but my father redirects us toward the door. I’m not sure why until we pass the coat hangers and he grabs three coats. He hands one to me, one to Ashley. We slip them on without a word and step out onto the sidewalk.

Inside, people are still shouting at us. It won’t be long before someone rushes outside to keep us at the scene until the police arrive.

Thinking of this, I ask, “Why don’t we just wait for the cops?”

As if summoned by the question, sirens rise up in the distance.

Eli shakes his head, walking quickly, the three of us already a half block away from the carnage.

“Some of them are dirty. It’s impossible to know who’s who. We need to get to Weehawken.”

Something across the street catches my eye. “Where in Weehawken?”

Eli gives me an address of a parking garage.

“You guys get going. I’m going to distract them.”

“Who?”

“The bald guy was on the phone with someone who was only a few blocks back. He’ll probably be here in a minute, if he’s not here already.”

Eli grabs my arm again. “What are you going to do?”

“Like I said, distract them. Now go.”

I don’t wait for them to walk away first. I step off the curb and hurry across the street. A half minute ago a Chinese delivery guy propped his bike against a post. He’s put a chain around it, but that doesn’t mean it’s locked.

I look around inconspicuously to make sure nobody’s watching me, try the chain and find that, shit, it is locked.

“Hey, what you doing?”

It’s the delivery guy. He was in and out, already stuffing cash into his pocket.

“Sorry,” I say, and glance toward the street. Traffic has started moving a little, but not by much. “Just admiring your wheels. It’s a sweet ride.”

The delivery guy doesn’t say anything. He just pushes past me. His rudeness makes it so I don’t feel bad about this next part.

Because as he’s unlocking his bike, taking the chain off, I grab him by the back of his coat and fling him aside. He’s small and light enough that he goes a short distance.

“Sorry,” I say again, grabbing his bike and wheeling it down the sidewalk.

The delivery guy yells after me. He starts to give chase.

I mount the bike and push off. The thing really isn’t a sweet ride. In actuality, it’s a piece of shit. But at the moment, beggars can’t be choosers.

I reach the corner of the block, take a left, away from the coffee shop. I hear shouts, one of which is the delivery guy, another of which is a witness yelling at me to stop.

I spot the sedan at once. Or, more appropriately, I spot the driver behind the wheel. Business suit, just like my buddy back at the bookstore. He has a cell phone to his ear.

He spots me, too.

I smile, give him the finger, and start to ride like hell.

twenty-six

He shoved the sedan in reverse, punched the gas. A taxi was coming up behind him, slowing because of the gridlock farther up the block, and the driver slammed on the brakes and honked and shouted and did everything he could to announce his displeasure.

Zach was barely fazed. He jerked the wheel just enough to veer around the taxi, but still the two vehicles scraped up against one another until Zach had moved the sedan past the taxi and then he jerked the wheel again, tapping the brake, sending the front of the car whipping around in a calculated one-eighty.

He punched the gas again, tearing off down the one-way street, another car coming straight at him and swerving out of the way.

John Smith was already two blocks up.

Zach had tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat when he first saw Smith on the bike give him the finger. He’d known he was going to need both hands free for a couple of seconds. Now, in pursuit, he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Tyson, you still there?”

“Yeah. What happened?”

“As far as I could see, the SUV crashed into a building.”

“Any survivors?”

“That’s what I need you to find out. I’m guessing Eli’s okay, though.”

“What makes you say that?”

“John Smith is trying to lead me away from the scene.”

“You’re abandoning the target?”

Zach didn’t care for Tyson’s tone. Normally the man didn’t second-guess Zach-hell, he never did-but now Zach heard the doubt in the man’s voice, and it gave him pause.

“Do you have a problem?”

Tyson was quiet for a moment. “No, sir. I’m just trying to understand-”

“Eli just made contact with his son. He’s not going to give his son up for dead, at least not this fast.”

“But how can you be so sure?”

The truth was Zach couldn’t be sure, but so far he had been ignoring that part. Instinct was what had made him initially shove the sedan into reverse, and so far in life, instinct never let him down.

“Trust me.”

“But-”

“Smith is trying to lead me away from Eli. Right now I have Smith in my sights. Eli I don’t. That’s why I need you to find out where he went and track him.”

“I’m already working on it. From what I can tell from the traffic cams, the Tahoe somehow lost control and crashed into the building.”

Zach was again swerving in and out of traffic, which was difficult on this narrow side street. From the brief report Zach had read, John Smith was an excellent courier, one of the best in the city. The kid definitely knew what he was doing, and he was skilled, but so was Zach.

“Obviously our mercenary friends underestimated Eli.”

“Police have just arrived on the scene.”

“Any of them ours?”

“No. What should we do if either Bent or Grayson is still alive?”

“We’ll deal with it if and when it happens. Something tells me Eli got lucky. Otherwise he would be dead, and Smith wouldn’t be leading me on a wild goose chase.”

Up ahead, Smith cut the corner onto Sixth Avenue, headed north. Zach accelerated, then immediately tapped the brake as he swerved around the corner. He hated overplaying his hand, but he thought fuck it and reached down to flick on the emergency LED lights.

“Tyson, do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Shut the fuck up and find Eli.”

twenty-seven

Out of all the bikes I could have stolen, this one is pretty shitty. It might be ideal for delivering Moo Shu Pork and Chicken Lo Mein, but it’s not the best form of quick transportation when people are trying to kill you.

Still, I push it for all it’s worth, turning off the side street and heading uptown. Sixth Avenue, just like every other major throughway in Manhattan during rush hour, is clogged with cars. I weave in and out of as many as I can, keeping my focus on the street ahead while also glancing back over my shoulder every couple of seconds to check how far back the sedan is.

It’s about a block back, which isn’t too bad, but it’s gaining quickly, helped by the fact that it’s a fucking undercover police car-those hidden strobes flashing in the headlights and on the dash. Whether or not the driver inside is really a cop is beside the point. It’s one thing to flee from some crazy asshole-that can bring sympathy-but it’s an entirely different thing when it appears you’re running from the police.

Most of the cars behind me make a path for the sedan, but there are still other cars, mostly taxis, jostling for position. I have to keep my main focus on the street up ahead, because any false move could kill me. I’ve been doored a bunch of times, and it fucking hurts, but being doored is nothing compared to getting hit by a car or, worse, bus. I’ve gotten hit before, but the car wasn’t going more than twenty miles per hour, and I saw it coming and tried to swerve out of the way. It’s when you don’t see it coming, when God snaps his celestial fingers and out of nowhere a ton of metal smashes into you, that you have to worry about. Oh, and the crazy assholes acting like cops chasing you down because they want to kill you. Can’t forget those.

I lead the sedan up one block, up another. At one point I’m forced to hop up onto the sidewalk, and as you can imagine, that doesn’t go over well with the business people and tourists and general city dwellers. People shout, curse, one even throws his bottle of water at me. I’m half tempted to try to grab it, because I’m dying of thirst, but instead I push myself toward the corner, hesitating because of the large group waiting for the light to change, and then I head east toward Seventh Avenue.

Seventh Avenue, you see, is a one-way street running south. Which means it’s going to be next to impossible for the asshole to keep up with me, even with his flashing lights. It also means there’s more chance of me running straight into one of those speeding tons of metal I mentioned, but there’s only so much you can worry about at any given moment.

Fortunately, I’ve got three lanes to work with, so I’m not too overly concerned. I just try to stay focused. I try not to think about how less than an hour ago I was minding my own business at the bookstore, paging through a book on Aztec and Mayan culture, while the Duke Ellington record spun and spun. I try not to think about how someone threatened to kill me. I try not to think about how my father is somehow still alive, despite the fact he had supposedly blown his brains out last week. I also try not to think about how there are people who are trying to kill my father, not to mention, well, me. But actually, no, I do have to think about those things, because otherwise what’s the point in running?

The majority of the drivers headed my way think I’m an idiot. At least, that’s the impression I get from all the horns blasting the air. I check back over my shoulder, see that the sedan’s driver is crazier than I thought. He’s right behind me, still about a block back, his lights still flashing, swerving from one lane to another to avoid the oncoming traffic.

I go up one more block and then take a left onto Bleecker, which is another one-way street. It’s also only one lane, which means this fucker doesn’t stand a chance.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. He does-taking the corner hard enough that I can hear his tires squealing-but the cars here don’t have much room. I hop onto the sidewalk and pedal as hard as I can. I reach the next block up when I hear the sudden and deafening smack of metal rending metal.

I pause just long enough to check back over my shoulder.

The sedan, half up on the curb, lost to the front end of a UPS truck.

I don’t stick around to see what happens next. I turn the corner and ride up two more blocks, then over one block, then up another block. I keep in mind that there are traffic cameras everywhere. Whoever these people are, they seem to have a lot of power, the kind that can easily tap into these cameras to find my location.

Conscious of this, I duck into the nearest alleyway. I ditch the bike behind a dumpster. I feel bad doing it-I know just how much my bike means to me, especially as it’s part of my job-but there’s no way I’ll be able to return it to the delivery guy.

There’s a door propped open back here. It leads into the kitchen of some restaurant. I walk inside like I’m supposed to be there. A few of the workers give me a look. Only one stops me, a big guy who is clearly the chef.

“Who are you?”

“New busboy.”

“I didn’t hear about any new busboy.”

“I just got hired yesterday.”

The chef’s eye twitches as he frowns. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

“I have work clothes in my locker.”

“We don’t have lockers.”

“You know what,” I say, hurrying toward the front, “I don’t think I want the job anymore.”

Pushing through the kitchen door, I enter the dining room. It’s mostly packed. Servers hustle here and there. I hurry toward the front, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. I dial Duncan’s number. It rings and rings, and as I step outside, I realize he’s dead. The people who are doing this entered the apartment while he was stoned or playing video games or stoned playing video games, and they’ve murdered him. All because he happened to be associated with me. And it isn’t even like we’re friends.

But then he answers.

“Yo, man, what’s up? Some people stopped by here earlier-I think they were reporters. The chick was really hot. They find you?”

I pause, looking up and down the street, not sure what I’m looking for. “Yes, they did. What are you up to now?”

“Not much. Just sitting here vegging.”

I look toward the sky. Could these people have satellites watching me? Drones? Invisible cloud spying machines?

“John”-Duncan’s voice goes all at once serious-“you okay, man? You, like, never call me about anything.”

I take a deep breath. The last thing I want to do is drag Duncan into this, but right now I don’t have much choice. I just have to hope that wherever Eli and Ashley are, they’re safe.

Then I realize something: my phone. These people could be tracking me via my cell phone. Or at the very least they could be listening in. Which means I need to dump this thing as soon as possible. Which also means I’ll need to be vague with Duncan and hope he figures it out.

“Duncan, I need your help.”

twenty-eight

They had gone only two blocks when he asked, “Do you have any cash?”

The question gave Ashley pause. First, after everything that just happened, this man was asking her for money? Second, she realized she didn’t have her purse. When she had lost it, she wasn’t sure-probably when running through the fire, though that was just a guess-but without her purse, it meant she didn’t have her cell phone or her wallet or anything.

“Well?” he prompted, and she gave him a blank look, not sure what to say, all at once feeling small and cold and alone. Her body was still shaking, though not as much as before. It was the after effect, she figured, that buzz you get right after you almost die. She remembered feeling something quite similar after almost walking in front of a bus, too focused on her phone conversation to pay attention. If someone hadn’t pulled her out of the way, she would have been flattened. She’d felt that buzz for at least an hour afterward.

Melissa’s father stared at her for several long seconds, then turned away and continued up the block. They were on the sidewalk, several blocks away from the coffee shop. So far, nobody had followed them-at least, Ashley didn’t think so. She had to keep reminding herself she was way out of her element here; she was an entertainment reporter-a gossip columnist, essentially-not a … what exactly was this?

The man began digging through the pockets of the jacket he had taken from the coffee shop and which he wore over his own jacket, first the outside and then the inside. His face lit up when his hand slipped into the inside pocket; a second later he pulled out a brown leather wallet.

“Looks like our luck hasn’t run out completely,” he said, peering into the wallet. “There’s about a hundred dollars here.”

“You’re not really going to steal that, are you?”

He heard the disappointment in her voice and gave her a look. “Young lady, at this point it’s already stolen. Might as well not let it go to waste. Besides”-he glanced down at her bare feet-“you could use a pair of shoes.”

Ashley closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “We need to go to the police.”

“As I told John, that isn’t a viable option.”

“I can call my boss at the paper.”

“And what would he do?”

“Whatever is going on here, it’s major news. He can get it out in front of millions of people. We don’t have to keep running.”

He paused long enough to offer up a sad smile. “If only it were that easy.”

“Then let me do it. I’ll go and speak with my boss. We can expose these people.”

“Young lady,” he said, keeping his pace brisk, “what makes you think your boss isn’t already involved with these people? He may very well not be, but I’m certain someone in that organization is, and they won’t let any of the news come to light. In fact, there’s a distinct possibility they’ll kill you just like they killed my daughter and her family.”

Ashley stopped abruptly, the words causing her to go cold. “That’s … crazy.”

Another smile, this one more wry than sad. “It is what it is. The fact is we are not safe right now. We need to get to Weehawken as soon as possible.”

He turned away from her and hailed a taxi. Almost immediately one glided to a stop beside them. He opened the back door, motioned for her to climb in first. She didn’t move.

“Come on, get in.”

Ashley said, “Is your name really Eli?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Melissa told me your name was Frank.”

A look of unease passed over his face. Swallowing, he said, “There was a lot my daughter didn’t know about me.”

“Am I going to die?”

The question caught him off guard. At first it didn’t look like he knew how to answer her. Then, his face hardening, his eyes filling with confidence, he said, “Yes, unless you stick with me.”

twenty-nine

By the time we leave the city, the day has waned into twilight.

Duncan drives us in his Jaguar up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the George Washington Bridge. It’s a long detour, especially to where I want to be, but I keep thinking back to what those guys said in the SUV, how they didn’t want to get trapped in the tunnel, and while I don’t know much about what’s going on, getting trapped in a tunnel doesn’t sound like a good idea. Of course, it’s just as possible to get trapped on a bridge, but if that were to happen, at least you can jump off the side and hope the fall doesn’t kill you, and if it doesn’t, hope not to drown before swimming back to shore.

Duncan does a good job of not asking too many questions. He tried when he first picked me up, all curious because I’ve never called him to pick me up before and why was I talking in code (“Like, I understand this is the bar we first met at when you came back to the States, but why didn’t you just say so?”), but after a while he gave up trying to understand the significance of my silence, and so he just drives, up the parkway, across the bridge, and then south down US 1.

The traffic is heavy, so maybe a half hour passes by the time we reach Weehawken. Duncan doesn’t turn off the highway, though, because I never told him we were headed to Weehawken. Instead he takes us toward Hoboken, and I direct him to some side streets, checking the side mirror every half minute to make sure we’re not being followed. I eventually have him pull off and stop along the curb.

“Thanks for doing this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. And the money, too-I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

He waves a dismissive hand, shaking off the five hundred bucks in twenties he gave me and which are now folded snug in my jeans pocket.

I reach for the door.

“John, what’s really going on here?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing is what’s making you act like someone’s out to kill you.”

Am I really that obvious?

“Look, Duncan, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me today, and for the past four years.”

I reach for the door again but stop when Duncan asks, “Is this about your sister?”

I pause, thinking it over. “I’m not sure. It’s about a lot of things.”

“Whatever it is, man, whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m sure we can work it out. You need a lawyer? I can get you a lawyer.”

“A lawyer isn’t going to fix this.”

“I’m worried about you, John. You never know when to stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when we went skydiving? I was scared out of my mind. But you, man, you looked like you had done it a hundred times before.”

“It was my first time, too.”

“I know it was. Just like when we went bungee jumping. Just like when we got into that shark cage. Every time you talked me into doing some crazy shit, I went along with it because I thought it would be fun, but I was always scared out of my mind. But you … you almost seemed bored by it.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is you’ve always been living on the edge, man, always staring death in the face. I’d hate to see you finally embrace it.”

Headlights from behind fill up the interior of the Jaguar momentarily before blinking out.

I glance back over my shoulder and whisper, “Shit.”

“What is it?” Duncan checks the rearview mirror, slumps down in his seat. “Fuck, man.”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” I say, but I know that can’t be true. Bad luck has been following me all day. Of course, it could be a coincidence, but I don’t like those chances. I also don’t like that I’m stuck in Duncan’s car, that Duncan is stuck here, too, a sudden accomplice.

A police cruiser has pulled up behind us. Two cops are inside, and they’re both now stepping out of the car. We’re on a side street, a few cars going up and down, a few people out on the sidewalk. The light isn’t the greatest, so maybe that’s why the cops use their flashlights as they approach the car, shining the beams first in the backseat of the Jaguar, then into the front, at our faces.

Duncan powers down his window. “Evening, Officer. What seems to be the problem?”

The cop keeps shining his flashlight at Duncan’s face. “Is this your car?”

“Yes, sir.”

The cop recites a number and street name-our apartment. “Is that your address?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What brings you across the river tonight?”

“Just meeting some friends for drinks. Did I do something wrong?”

“Not you.” The cop leans down to look at me through the window. “Is he close by?”

Duncan frowns at me. He says to the cop, “Excuse me, Officer?”

The end of the cop’s flashlight connects with tip of Duncan’s nose, all with a snap of the wrist. It’s not a hard snap, but it’s effective, and blood immediately squirts everywhere.

“Jesus,” the other cop says. “Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

The cop keeps his gaze on me. It hasn’t wavered this entire time. “I’m going to ask you again, and this time I’m not going to be so nice to your friend. Is he close by?”

When I don’t speak, the cop replaces the flashlight with a butterfly knife. It has a small handle, the kind that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand, and all at once the blade is open and plunging into Duncan’s throat.

More blood squirts out, soaking Duncan’s shirt. Duncan jerks violently in his seat, his hands clawing at his neck, his safety belt keeping him in place.

The other cop shouts, “What the fuck?”

The cop on Duncan’s side leaves the knife where it is. He uses his free hand to unholster his sidearm, and uses the sidearm to shoot his partner in the face. He ducks back down to aim through the car window, but by that point I’ve already opened my door and dove out onto the sidewalk.

“Where is he, John?” the cop yells.

Others nearby have heard the shot. They’ve seen what the cop just did. One woman screams.

The cop fires off a few more rounds in the direction of where the woman is standing.

Glass shatters.

A car alarm goes off.

The woman screams again.

“I’ll keep killing more people until you tell me where he is.”

The cop starts around the car. I can see his shoes from where I am on the ground, trying to stay flat. It will only take him a few seconds before he reaches the sidewalk.

More people scream and shout, and the cop fires off two more rounds.

His partner lies dead only inches away from me. His sidearm is pointed at me, almost inviting. I grab it and tug but it doesn’t come at first. Then I realize it’s still snapped in its holster. I unsnap it and pull it free and aim it at the cop just as he circles the front of the car.

“What,” he says, “you have the balls to shoot me? Go ahead, shoot me.”

The gun leveled at the cop’s chest, I pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

“Forgot the safety, asshole.” The cop levels his own gun at me. “Now I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is he?”

The Jaguar’s one headlight pops and shatters.

The cop pauses. He turns his head toward the street, then begins to turn his entire body, raising the gun, as a series of gunshots sounds out. The cop fires off only one round, but by that point the shooter on the other side of the street has met his target.

A bullet tears into the cop’s throat, then into his face.

I don’t wait to see what happens next.

The dead cop’s gun in my hand, I scramble to my feet and run.

thirty

“Can you tell me about her?”

Ashley stirred in the passenger seat, Eli’s sudden voice disrupting the calming silence.

“Who?” she asked, though a beat later she knew exactly whom he meant.

“Melissa. What was she like?”

Ashley wasn’t quite sure how to answer this. She had known Melissa for so long, she knew so many different things about her, though she didn’t know where to start.

“Did she ever talk about me?”

The parking garage was dimly lit, casting shadows everywhere, especially in the Crown Vic which had been waiting for them once they finished with their circuitous route of taxi after taxi after taxi, a few subway trains thrown into the mix. All the money from the wallet had been used for a good cause, helping them escape Manhattan and sneak into New Jersey (not to mention also picking up a pair of sneakers from a sidewalk vendor for Ashley). The thought of what might have happened to the wallet’s owner-despite herself she kept thinking of all those crumpled motionless bodies in the coffee shop-was a heavy burden on her mind.

Eli, sitting behind the wheel, tilted his face toward her. His eyes were almost completely drowned in shadows, though there was a slight twinkle, maybe tears.

Ashley considered lying to the man, but in the end decided to tell the truth.

“Not really. She did once, back in college. We had gone to a party and she had gotten drunk and some guy she liked blew her off. When we got back to our apartment, she kept drinking. And the more she drank, the angrier she got. Finally she mentioned you, which was something she had never done, so it made an impression. Something about how she had never really had a strong male role model in her life. How she almost never saw you, never talked to you. How occasionally she could actually get her mother on the phone, but never you. She said … well, she said you were a horrible father.”

For the longest time Eli made no reaction. Then his expression shifted and he smiled distantly.

“It’s true. I was a shitty father. Not just to Melissa, but to all the kids.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, scanning the parking garage again. “I had my reasons. Marta and I both did.”

“Who’s Marta?”

“Melissa’s mother.”

“No, it’s not. Melissa’s mother’s name is-”

“Janice,” Eli said with a nod. “Yes, that was the name she took, just as Frank was the name I took.”

“What is this all about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere, does it?”

Eli almost laughed. “Good point. But I don’t know how much longer we can wait here. We have to acknowledge the fact John might not come.”

“How much longer can we wait?”

They had been waiting for nearly an hour already, which didn’t count the two hours it had taken them to leave the city.

“Not sure,” Eli said. “The only reason we’re still here is because Charlie and John didn’t know about me stashing the car. I only did it just in case.”

“Were Charlie and John those guys from the Tahoe?”

“Yes.”

“Who were they?”

“For better or worse, they were mercenaries.”

“That’s why they turned on you so quickly?”

Eli nodded again. “They work for the highest bidder, no matter the cause. And these people I’m up against, they have more money than God.”

Ashley went to ask something else when Eli suddenly went tense. His eyes narrowed. She followed his gaze and saw someone out in the parking garage, maybe one hundred yards away, a dark figure moving slowly past the cars.

“Do you think that’s him?”

Eli didn’t answer. Earlier, when they had come to the car, he had popped the trunk. Inside were two duffel bags. Out of one he had extracted a black handgun. He had been gripping the handgun the entire time they were waiting in the car. Now he briefly set it on his lap so he could use his hand to reach up and flick off the switch by the dome light. Gripping the gun again, he used his other hand to quietly unlatch the door and push it open.

Up ahead, the figure approached them. It was still too dark to be sure it was John, but Ashley had hope. She hoped it was John because that meant they could finally leave here. She hoped it was John so that all these questions could start to be answered.

Eli slowly stepped out of the car, keeping crouched behind the door. He kept the gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger.

When the figure was only fifty yards away, he said, “John.”

The figure stopped immediately. It turned toward them, and as it did, it reached into its jacket and brought out a gun.

“Shit.”

Eli dropped in the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and turned the key in the ignition. He shoved the car into drive, slammed on the gas.

The Crown Vic’s engine roared.

They jerked forward, speeding toward the approaching figure who was now raising the gun.

Eli turned on the headlights-and immediately slammed on the brakes.

The Crown Vic stopped just within a foot or two of John Smith.

Eli lowered his window. “Get in!”

John hurried to the passenger side back door. He slid into the seat and said, breathless, “What the fuck was that?”

“I thought you might be one of them.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“Off a cop.”

Eli’s expression darkened.

“It’s okay,” John said. “The cop wasn’t using it. He was already dead.”

Both Eli and Ashley stared at him.

He shrugged, exhaled a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

Eli put the car back in drive and got them moving forward again. “Something tells me tonight will be full of long stories.”

John settled back in his seat. He looked at Ashley. “How are you holding up?”

Now it was her turn to shrug. “As well as to be expected under the circumstances, I guess. At least I’m still alive.”

John forced a smile. “That makes two of us. Hey, Eli?”

Eli lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “What?”

“Where are we headed now?”

“North.”

thirty-one

Zach flashed his badge at the detective standing near the police cruiser. “Agent Gibbons. How are you tonight?”

“Not so good,” the detective said. “As you can see, this has turned into one hell of a mess.”

Zach nodded thoughtfully, surveying the crime scene and the bodies-the two dead cops on this side of the street, the civilian on the other side, the civilian in the Jaguar.

“So what brings the FBI here tonight?”

“Nothing,” Zach said. “I happened to be in the area, heard what happened, decided to swing by to see if you needed any help.”

This wasn’t at all standard procedure from a Fed, but Zach was banking on the fact this Hoboken detective didn’t know any better. And if he did, so what? There wasn’t a rule against federal agents offering their assistance in a bloodbath like this, even fake federal agents like Zach.

“Appreciate the offer,” the detective said, “but we’ve got pretty much everything nailed down here as it is.”

“What happened anyway? All I heard was there were four fatalities, two of which were your own.”

The detective blew out a breath. “Like I said, it’s one big mess. Witnesses claim our guys approached the Jag. Next thing they knew, one of our guys took a shot at our other guy, then started firing off into the crowd. Killed the woman over there, wounded two others. Looks like he used his flashlight to break the driver’s nose, then a butterfly knife to stab him in the throat. The driver bled out immediately.” The detective shook his head again, this time with disgust. “Fucking insane, right? I even knew both of these guys. They were good cops. I can’t believe Boyle would do something like this.”

“Boyle the lead patrolman?”

“Yeah, he’s the one-Steve Boyle. Christ, he has a wife and two-year-old at home. Neil has a wife and two daughters. This is going to kill them.”

Zach glanced back at the cruiser. “Anyone check the dash cam?”

“Not yet.”

“So was the driver alone?”

“Doesn’t appear to be. Witnesses say the passenger fled on foot. He headed west, but nobody saw where he went.”

“Did you get a description?”

“Caucasian, late twenties to early thirties, shaved head. That’s about the extent of it. Basically bupkis.”

“Who took the shooter down?”

The detective’s expression darkened by Zach’s use of the term “shooter,” the cop no doubt dreading the twenty-four-hour news cycle and how they were going to spin this latest tasty bit of sensationalism. But the detective, either because he was a professional or because he didn’t want to deal with it right now, shook the expression off.

“Civilian, actually. Guy across the street in the pizza shop, keeps a Beretta with him wherever he goes. Has a permit and everything. Just another happy citizen expressing his Second Amendment rights.”

“Where is he now?”

“Down at the station. From what it seems, the man was justified in what he did, but still, he killed a cop. It’ll be a while before it all gets sorted out.”

Someone shouted a name, and the detective turned away from Zach. An officer was waving him over.

“Thanks for stopping by,” the detective said, “but I have to go.”

He didn’t wait for a response from Zach, and Zach didn’t offer one. He was ready to get out of there. He had come for what he needed. He wished he could somehow access the dash cam video, make it disappear. Who knows, maybe Tyson might be able to handle that on his end. The last thing they needed was a solid description of John Smith hitting the airwaves before they managed to track him down first.

He ducked under the crime scene tape as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Tyson.

“How bad is it?” Tyson asked.

Zach headed for his car-not the one he had smashed up, but a new sedan. “Pretty fucking bad. What did you tell Boyle?”

“Just gave him the description of Smith’s roommate’s car and told him to keep it in sight.”

“That’s it?”

Tyson was silent for a beat. “Also Smith’s full name and that we were tracking him to get to his father.”

Zach slipped in behind the wheel, gritting his teeth. “You stupid shit.”

“Hey, I felt the situation warranted the extra intel. What if Smith had made contact with Eli? Boyle needed to know.”

“Yeah, well, Boyle’s now dead, along with three other people, including Smith’s roommate. Any luck tracking Smith?”

“Nothing on the traffic cams.”

“Keep looking.”

“I am. Oh, by the way, we now know who the girl is.”

“And?”

Tyson said nothing.

Zach started the car, the silence on the other end unnerving. “And?” he repeated.

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Say that again?”

“I have to go.”

“Tyson-”

The call disconnected.

Zach held the phone away from his ear for a moment, wanting to smash the thing into a thousand pieces. He took a deep breath, counted to ten in his head, then went to dial Tyson again. Instead, the phone vibrated.

“Tyson, what the fuck-”

“Zach, listen carefully.”

It wasn’t Tyson.

Zach swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah?”

“You and I need to meet for coffee.”

“I’m a little busy right now.”

“Our usual place. Be there in two hours.”

Before Zach could say anything else, the line went dead.

thirty-two

Eli doesn’t take any major highways. Instead he sticks to secondary routes, constantly watching the rearview mirror. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t play the radio. It’s so quiet in the car I want to break something, but instead I just sit in the back and stare out my window at the scrolling scenery of houses and businesses and lights and think about the blood first squirting out of Duncan’s nose and then his neck.

It’s my fault. Duncan’s dead now because of me. Yes, it’s true, I didn’t kill him myself, but it was because of me that he got involved in this whole mess. If I hadn’t called him he would still be at the apartment, stationed on the couch playing a video games. Either that or watching some foreign flick on Netflix, some poorly dubbed ninja assassin thing. In a couple hours he would take a shower, style his hair, dab on cologne, get dressed in his stonewashed jeans and designer shirt and nice shoes, and then head out to some bar or club and flirt with the pretty girls and eventually hook up with one of them and either go back to her place or come back to the apartment and they would have a good time and then, in the morning, they would part ways and Duncan would crash until about noon when he would wake up and eat some junk food, picking up where he left off the previous morning.

Only Duncan will never do any of that ever again.

He’s dead-dead-and it’s all my fault.

Or no-it’s my father’s fault.

Eli, who was never around when I was growing up. Eli, who I had always known as Frank Smith. Eli, who was supposed to be dead, having shot himself in the head, only to suddenly become resurrected as a person who death follows in his wake.

Yes, it’s Eli’s fault that Duncan is now dead, Duncan and everyone else who’s died today. Even Melissa and her husband and their boys-their deaths must somehow tie back to Eli, too.

It makes sense, this line of thinking, but I also know I’m kidding myself.

I’m the one who called Duncan. I’m the one who directed him over the bridge into New Jersey, then down that side street. Yes, it’s safe to assume we were being tracked from the beginning. If the cops hadn’t approached us then, they would have approached us at some point-and if not the cops, then maybe one of those businessmen with the briefcases filled with lethal syringes.

Finally the silence drives me mad. It’s only been, what, ten or twenty minutes, but it feels like an hour.

“Where are we going?”

Eli doesn’t answer. He glances at me in the rearview mirror, only I realize a second later he’s looking past me, out through the rear window.

Impulsively I follow his gaze. There are a few cars back there, but nothing that gives me a chill. Certainly no sedans with stone-cold killers bent on tracking us down and killing us.

Turning back, I ask, “Well?”

Still he doesn’t answer. I can see Ashley looking at him, no doubt wondering the very same thing.

“I have to take a shit.”

This time Eli does look at me in the mirror. “Are you serious?”

Remembering then that I’m in the presence of a lady, I quickly backpedal. “Well, no. And apologies for sounding like a broken record, but where are we going? What’s going on?”

Eli stares at me for another moment in the mirror. It’s only for a moment, so it’s hard to tell what’s behind the stare-disappointment, boredom, indifference-but then he flicks it away and shakes his head.

“We’ll be there soon.”

“Where?”

But my father says nothing and just keeps driving.

• • •

We end up taking the Tappan Zee Bridge back into New York. Eli still doesn’t speak, but I can immediately sense a shift in his mood. His whole body goes tense. His fingers, already tight around the steering wheel, tighten even more. I’m not a specialist in subterfuge like he apparently is, but the meaning is clear enough.

So far it seems we haven’t been followed. True, we’ve mostly stayed on secondary roads, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t cameras everywhere. It’s strange-for most of your life you know cameras are ubiquitous (the mall, the bank, the grocery store, even major intersections) and you don’t give more than a passing thought to their existence. Then, when you understand bad people are using those cameras to track your every movement, you become more conscious to the fact that those cameras are everywhere. And they’re even more plentiful at a bridge like the Tappan Zee.

Traffic isn’t too bad at this time of night. Mostly everyone is using the E-Z Pass lanes anyway. A few others, like us, wait for the cash lanes.

“Give me the hat.”

Eli doesn’t look at me but holds up his hand, extended toward the backseat.

Dumbly, I touch my head, confirming the fact I’m not wearing a hat. “What hat?”

“The hat on the floor.”

Ah, there it is-a New York Giants baseball cap. I hand it to him and he fastens it on his head and pulls the car ahead as the line progresses. Soon we reach the tollbooth.

We get lucky. The employee manning the booth is a younger guy, about my age, who looks like he doesn’t give a shit. He’s probably worked for a couple of hours straight and just wants to go home. Or maybe he just started his shift and can’t wait for it to end. Either way, he barely even glances at us when he takes Eli’s money.

So yeah, we’re lucky in that respect. But that doesn’t mean the people hunting us aren’t watching us right now from the cameras situated around the tollbooths. That doesn’t mean they’re not already waiting on the other side of the bridge. That doesn’t mean-and here my thinking goes complete Hollywood-they don’t have an Apache helicopter waiting under the bridge to rise up as we reach the middle and blast us into a million little pieces.

Eli moves us forward. He keeps the hat on his head. He doesn’t speak. None of us do.

I lean back and stare out my window at the moon rising behind the clouds.

• • •

About five miles after the bridge, Eli turns off at a truck stop. He drives to the far corner where a few cars are parked. He stops the car beside an old Buick. Without a word or even a glance our way, he cuts the ignition and opens his door and steps out.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “I guess that means we should get out, too?”

Ashley doesn’t answer me either. Seriously, it’s like I’m not even here. She opens her door and steps out. Not to be outdone, I open my own door and step out, too.

The night has certainly helped the temperature drop. Ashley crosses her arms and hugs her elbows. Eli is already at the back of the car, popping the trunk.

There are two black duffel bags in the trunk. He has one open, rummaging through it. Finally he pulls out a gold-plated lighter, very similar to the one the faux-businessman used to start the fire back at the Basement.

“You smoke?”

I shake my head.

He considers this for a moment, then hands me the lighter. “Do me a favor and just hold on to this for now.”

“Why?”

“It’s my lucky lighter. I want you to have it.”

It’s such a strange request, I’m not sure what to say. I can’t remember the last time my father gave me anything.

As I slip the lighter in my pocket, Eli moves toward the Buick beside us. He looks casually around the parking lot, then ducks down and reaches underneath the rear fender. A few seconds later he springs back up with a key, which he uses to pop the Buick’s trunk.

“Can you bring those over here?”

I heft first one bag, then the other, both of them weighing maybe fifty pounds each. “What do you got in these?”

“Supplies.”

“Like what?”

“Guns. Ammunition. Explosives.”

I pause halfway to the Buick, the two bags all at once feeling like they weigh twenty times more. “You’re kidding, right?”

He doesn’t answer. His face doesn’t betray a thing.

I glance back at Ashley, who’s watching us intently, then take a few slow, hesitant steps toward the Buick and hand one of the duffel bags to Eli.

He sets it in the trunk, carefully, then takes the second bag and does the same.

He pulls a license plate from the corner of the trunk, along with a screwdriver. After doing another one of his causal visual sweeps of the parking lot-empty cars, empty pickup trucks, empty tractor-trailers-he bends down and starts unscrewing the current New Hampshire plate and replaces it with one from Connecticut.

When he finishes and sets the screwdriver and old plate in the trunk, I say, “You really came prepared.”

He shuts the trunk and turns to me, his eyes dark and hooded. “I should hope so. I’ve been planning for this day for the last thirty years.”

thirty-three

They kept driving north. They took the parkway up toward Albany, then headed east into the Green Mountain National Forest.

Ashley rode shotgun again, Melissa’s father driving, Melissa’s brother in the backseat. None of them spoke. At first John tried asking again what was going on, and again Eli refused to say more than a few words. Finally he promised he would soon explain everything.

“When?” John asked.

“After we pick her up,” Eli said. Then, more to himself than to John or Ashley: “Assuming she managed to get away.”

He, of course, did not specify who “she” was, though at this point Ashley didn’t expect him to. She had become numb to the entire thing. Like she was no longer living inside her body. Everything that was happening-all the events of the day and all that was happening now-she saw from outside of her body, outside of the car, like her spirit or soul or whatever it was that contained her true essence had slipped through her skin and was just hanging out beyond her window. It was there, somehow impervious to the strong wind as the Buick sped forward at sixty miles per hour, just hanging out there and watching her as she sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching the excess of businesses and houses start to fade away into more and more trees as they entered the forest.

This time of night, the trees thick around them, the moon and stars weren’t nearly as bright, and the Buick’s headlights burned a path into the thickening darkness.

They eventually came to a road leading deeper into the park. There was a chain blocking access, and a sign stating what the park hours were and that there was no trespassing.

Eli stopped in front of the chain, extinguished the headlights, and glanced at John in the back.

“Can you move the chain for us?”

John issued an irritated sigh and stepped out of the car and hurried over to the chain. He unlatched one end and took it over to the other end and waited until Eli had driven forward, and then he went and latched the chain to its post again and climbed back into the car.

“If some park ranger ends up interrogating me,” John said, “I’m pointing the finger at you.”

They continued, slower now with only the parking lights to guide their way. The darkness here was even thicker, and a few times the Buick’s tires veered toward the edge of the drive onto the loose gravel and dirt, forcing Eli to readjust. Finally they arrived at a small parking lot, a pair of pavilions standing up on a slight hill, a swing set and slide and other playground equipment stationed off to the side.

Eli parked in front of the playground and turned off the ignition. Here the silence was just as thick as the dark, if not thicker. They listened to the engine tick.

“So,” John said, drawing out the syllable, “should I even bother asking?”

Eli didn’t speak, but his face was tilted toward Ashley. She blinked, her soul or spirit or whatever having returned to its place within her skin, and noticed his gaze was fixed on the glove compartment. With a gesture, he asked, “Mind opening that?”

She clicked it open, a soft light inside illuminating an owner’s manual, a folding map, a small flashlight, and a pack of cigarettes.

“Ah, good,” Eli said. “I was hoping I hadn’t taken those out. Mind handing me the pack?”

They were Parliaments. She handed them to Melissa’s father, who immediately tore off the cellophane wrapping and opened the box and slid out a single cigarette. He went to close the box, paused, and offered it back to her.

“Care for one?”

Ashley, always a social smoker, had felt the sudden craving for nicotine the moment her eyes alighted on the pack in the glove compartment. The need was strong, especially after today, but for some reason she found herself shaking her head.

“Suit yourself.” He glanced in the back. “Mind letting me borrow the lighter?”

“You can have it,” John said, placing a gold-plated lighter in his father’s hand.

“Just want to borrow it, that’s all.”

Eli stepped outside and closed his door and stood against the car, attempting to light the cigarette. He couldn’t seem to get the lighter to work at first and kept shaking it until finally it produced a small flame.

The silence inside the Buick continued. She had the feeling John wanted to say something, maybe a quip to try to relieve the situation, but he didn’t speak. She could hear him breathing. She could hear herself breathing and held her breath, worried it was too loud. Finally that craving become too much and she took a cigarette from the pack Eli had set on the console and opened her door.

John opened his door as she was shutting hers. She didn’t wait for him as she circled the car and met Eli on the other side. He didn’t need any verbal prompt and already had the lighter out, ready for her. Again it wouldn’t light on the first try and he had to shake it a few times before he finally managed to produce enough of a flame so she could get the smoke started.

John came around the car from the rear, slowly, his hands in his pockets. The temperature was still cold but she didn’t feel it as much as before. Maybe it was the cigarette. Maybe it was just that she still felt numb to the whole situation.

“Thanks,” Eli said, holding the lighter out to his son.

John kept his hands in his pockets. “I told you, I don’t smoke.”

“I know.”

“I don’t need the lighter.”

“But I want you to have it.”

“Why?”

“I told you, it’s my lucky lighter.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you take it and put it in your pocket to humor your old man.”

John didn’t look like he was going to budge. Then, finally, he withdrew a hand and took the lighter from Eli and stuffed it in his pocket.

Despite Eli’s head start on her, Ashley finished her cigarette first. She retrieved another from the car and this time had to have John try to use the lighter. Unlike his father, he was successful the first time around. They stood there then in silence, the soft wind rustling the tops of the trees, insects chirping in the leaves and bushes. Ashley eyed the playground and broke away from their small silent group, her shoes crunching the grass until she reached the mulch. She went straight to the swing set, lowered herself onto one of the swings, the rubber seat freezing.

She wasn’t quite sure why she had decided to leave the group. Obviously it was temporary. Whatever was going on, she knew it was unlikely she would be leaving these two any time soon. By now she had accepted the fact that Jeff was indeed dead, and that in many ways it was her fault. She had accepted that she might never return to her apartment, that she might never see Rex again. She wondered how long he would fare without her giving him new food and water. He was a resourceful cat, but he was still a cat, and there were limitations that she knew he would not be able to overcome.

Ashley was so lost in her thoughts, staring out at the dark trees, that she wasn’t aware John had approached until he cleared his throat.

“Mind if I join you?”

She took a deep drag on the cigarette and shook her head.

He sat on the swing beside her, his hands first wrapping around the chains and then letting go. “Damn, that’s cold.”

Ashley said nothing. She saw Eli had gotten back into the Buick.

John said, “You want to hear something pathetic? I don’t think I’ve ever swung on one of these before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen people do it a bunch of times, but I can’t remember a time when I actually sat down to do it myself, even when I was a kid.”

“You don’t like your father much, do you?”

“Not really. He and I have never had what you would call a loving relationship.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happened between you two?”

“He was never around. For as long as I can remember, he was just never there. Him or my mom. They put us in boarding school when we were little, but not all of us in the same schools. They split us up for some reason. On holidays we sometimes saw our mother, but that was it. We never saw our father, so when we did you can imagine how little love we had for him.”

“Melissa said he killed himself.”

“That’s what I heard, too.”

“But obviously he didn’t.”

“Doesn’t appear that way, no. How close were you to my sister?”

Ashley drew the last puff and dropped the cigarette on the mulch. “Like I told you, we were best friends.”

“Melissa was a good sister. I wish I had been nicer to her.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“To be honest, I can’t remember.”

“Did you lie to me before, back at the bookstore?”

“What do you mean?”

“The email.”

He hesitated a beat, then nodded.

She asked, “How bad was it?”

He had been moving back and forth slightly on the swing but now stopped and really looked at her for the first time.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It was all a lie.”

• • •

They waited for another two hours-already well past midnight-before a car materialized out of the darkness.

Eli had run the engine on and off to keep the heater going. He and Ashley had since taken another two smoke breaks. John had joined them because he had the lighter but he didn’t speak. Neither did Eli. Neither did Ashley. Somehow they had come to the simple conclusion that now was not the time to ask and answer questions. That time would come. None of them knew when, probably not even Eli, but at some point soon.

Ashley didn’t know when it happened, but a gun had appeared in Eli’s hand. He watched the car approaching, his other hand on the door handle.

The car slowed and pulled up beside them. Ashley couldn’t see much, other than there was just one person inside, the driver.

Eli held the gun for another several seconds, watching the car as it parked, and then placed it back inside his jacket.

The other car’s door opened and the driver hurried around the rear of the car, headed directly for the Buick. The back door opened and the figure slid into the backseat.

“Everything went smoothly?” Eli asked, his eyes now on the rearview mirror.

“Yes. It took longer than I would have liked, but I managed to lose them.”

Ashley was turned slightly in her seat, trying to take in this new person. It was still too dark, despite the fact her eyes had adjusted to the dark hours ago. The only thing she could make out was that it was an older woman, almost her mother’s age.

Then, directly behind her, John groaned.

“Jesus Christ, Mom”-his voice an incredulous whisper-“you’re involved in this shit, too?”

thirty-four

They ordered coffee and waited in silence until the waitress brought the pot and filled first Zach’s mug, then Hogan’s, spilling a few drops onto the table.

“Oops,” she said, flashing crooked teeth, “sorry about that. Let me go get a towel.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hogan said, reaching for the napkin dispenser.

“Long night, you know? I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

She blew a strand of hair out of her face and deposited a handful of creamers before trudging down the row of booths, the diner moderately busy for one o’clock in the morning.

Hogan said, “I wonder when the last time was she had an orgasm.”

Zach ignored the creamers and packets of sugar and took a sip of the coffee black. It was bitter but strong, just the way he liked it.

“Did you see the indentation on her ring finger? She must take it off every shift thinking if she flirts enough, she’ll get bigger tips. Then again, maybe her and her husband split up, or maybe he died recently. What kind of panties do you think she has on right now?”

Zach glanced over his shoulder and watched the waitress standing farther down the row, the pot set on a table, her pad and pen in hand as she took an order. She was in her late-forties, early-fifties, frizzy hair up in a bun, too much makeup.

“Honestly?” Zach said, turning back to his coffee. “The last thing I want to think about is what kind of panties she has on right now.”

Hogan stared back at him for a moment, his face complete stone. Then, slowly, it cracked and he began to laugh. He shook his head as he opened two creamers and dumped them in the coffee. He asked, “When was the last time you slept?”

Zach took another sip. “Been at least twenty-four hours.”

“How much longer do you think you can go before you crash?”

“I’m not going to crash.”

“Everyone crashes eventually. Besides, the trail has gone cold.”

“It hasn’t gone cold.”

“You lost Eli.”

“We have a pretty good idea where he’s headed next.”

“But nobody knows for sure. For all you know, he could disappear again.”

“He’s not going to disappear,” Zach said, forcing himself to keep his voice low and in control. The last thing he needed right now was to be second-guessed. It was bad enough when Tyson had done it. He wasn’t about to let Hogan do it, too.

Hogan hadn’t yet taken a sip of his coffee. He kept stirring it slowly, like there was a science to it, an art. He said, “This whole operation is starting to spiral out of control.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Well,” Zach said, “good thing I don’t answer to you. In fact, what are you doing here anyway? This isn’t a games operation.”

“You’re right, it’s not. But there’s an FBI agent who’s been asking too many questions. They want me on standby in case he needs to be taken care of, and when I heard about your troubles, I volunteered to assist you until I’m needed elsewhere.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“Listen, Zach, word is going to reach the top very soon, if it hasn’t already. Your best bet is to shut this down as soon as possible.”

“What exactly do you think I’ve been trying to do all day? Our intel was completely off base. Eli was already one step ahead of us.”

“You still managed to pull off the bit with the daughter.”

“Yes, and that worked out perfectly.”

“So then what”-Hogan held up his hands-“everything just fell apart today?”

“Are you saying I’m responsible for what happened?”

“No. But unless there’s a resolution in the next twenty-four hours, they’re going to blame somebody, and who do you think they’re going to blame?”

Zach took another sip of his coffee. “The whole thing doesn’t even make sense. What’s the point of it anyway?”

“You know what the point is.”

“Matheson.”

“That’s right.”

“You know this for a fact?”

Hogan just looked at him.

Zach said, “I’ve had men die today because of this mess. Hell, over a dozen civilians died, too.”

“Since when do you care about civilians?”

“Every time a civilian dies, there’s a chance of exposure.”

“You know we don’t have to worry about exposure.”

“It could happen.”

“It won’t. This whole thing has gone on this long, hasn’t it?”

The waitress reappeared, her pad and pen at the ready, that strand of hair once again hanging in front of her face. “So what I can get for you gentlemen?”

“You know,” Hogan said, giving her his brightest smile, “we haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu yet. Mind giving us a few more minutes?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be back.”

When she departed, Zach said, “I’m not even hungry.”

Hogan opened his menu. “You should eat something.”

“The cop.”

“What about the cop?”

“It raises too many questions. There’s going to be an investigation. The press is going to eat it up.”

Hogan sighed, scanning the specials. “Fucking idiot never should have been there to begin with.”

“Are you saying this was my fault?”

“No, I mean he shouldn’t have been assigned as a cop. Too much of a cowboy mentality.”

“It may never have come out in any of the preliminary tests.”

“Still, he should have known better. Got way too ambitious, forgot his part in this whole production. Any news on Marta?”

Zach shook his head.

“What about the rest of the kids?”

“What about them?”

“Have you taken them out yet?”

“All but David Smith.”

“Why?”

“He’s the closest on this side of the country. If Eli goes for any of them next, it’ll be him.”

“You need to shut this down as soon as possible.”

“You already said that.”

“Yes, but there’s one key piece I’m leaving out.”

“What’s that?”

Hogan turned toward his briefcase beside him on the booth. He opened it and withdrew a manila folder and handed it to Zach.

“We found out who the girl is.”

Zach took the file, suppressing the urge to announce that Tyson had already told him but wouldn’t say who it was. This was his operation, after all. He didn’t like the idea of Tyson or Hogan or anyone knowing more than him.

Hogan took another sip of his coffee and went back to scanning the menu specials. “Take a look.”

Zach opened the file. There were two pages inside, including a glossy photo. The photo was black and white and, judging by the angle and slight graininess, was taken by a traffic cam. It gave a pretty good view of the woman’s face, enough so that they were able to match it via facial recognition. From there they found her name and all her information.

The waitress returned again. “You guys ready?”

Hogan gave her another smile. “Believe it or not, we still haven’t decided yet.”

The waitress forced a smile sprinkled with fatigue. “Take your time.”

All of this Zach was faintly aware of. He had sensed her presence and tilted the folder so the waitress couldn’t see its contents. Then he had moved the glossy photo behind the two papers and skimmed the paragraphs. After the fourth paragraph he paused, closed his eyes. He felt his pulse quicken. He closed the folder and looked up at Hogan.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

thirty-five

We drive for maybe an hour or two in silence, again taking secondary roads. The night wears on and the black starts to fade as the sun gets closer and closer to clocking back in for a new day.

Mom rides with me in the back. She doesn’t have the cane she had back at the cemetery. Stroke, David had said, and I had felt awful for missing out on this important piece of family news. Only now it seems she hasn’t had a stroke.

Eventually we start winding our way up into the mountains. We pass a few homes, a few trailer parks, and keep going up and up. There’s a parking area near the top of the mountain, a kind of look out, and this is where Eli stops. He parks the Buick so it’s pointed toward the valley and shuts off the lights and the engine and just sits there for a moment, staring through the windshield. Then he takes a deep breath and turns to look at us.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a cigarette.”

He takes my lighter and gets out of the Buick and lights himself one of the Parliaments. Ashley steps out of the passenger side and meets him around the front of the car for her own smoke. Mom smiles at me, then turns to open her door.

I reach across the backseat and touch her arm. “Did you really have a stroke?”

The smile fading from her face, she shakes her head.

“Then why the cane at the funeral? Why the limping?”

“Cover.”

“Cover for what?”

“That’s what your father and I need to explain to you.”

We get out of the car, and the morning is cool but not nearly as cold as it was back at the playground. Eli and Ashley are smoking in silence. Mom moves to the front of the car and leans against the hood. I look down into the valley, at the thousands and thousands of houses and lights scattered below like glass shards, and finally clear my throat.

“Okay, so what’s going on? Why are we here?”

Eli stares at me for a long moment, inhaling on his cigarette. Despite what Mom just told me inside the car, I expect him to blow my questions off, so I’m surprised when he motions with the cigarette down into the valley.

“Down there was where you were conceived. Where all you kids were conceived.”

“Gee, Pops, I always wondered when you and I were going to discuss the bird and the bees. Unfortunately you’re about fifteen years too late.”

Eli takes a final drag off the cigarette, drops it to the ground. “I’m gay.”

“What?”

“I’m gay. I always have been. Marta, however, is not.”

He indicates Mom when he says this, but still I shake my head and hold up a hand.

“Wait a minute. Who’s Marta?”

Mom says, “I am.”

“But that’s not your name. Your name is-”

“We had to change our names. We had to change our identities to keep ourselves and you kids safe.”

After everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, for some reason this news shocks me the most. My entire foundation-everything I’ve built since I was a child-has begun to tremble and shake and might soon crumble completely.

I notice Ashley is standing off to the side, distancing herself from the rest of us. She’s watching to see what my response will be, but I don’t have one.

“My name isn’t Frank Smith,” the man who I’ve always thought of as my father says. “It’s Eli Craig. I know I’ve never been a good father. I’d tell you how sorry I am-how I wish things had been different-but something tells me you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“You might be right,” I say. Then, turning to Mom or Marta or whatever she’s called: “What about you?”

She smiles again, only this time it’s forced. “I always wanted children of my own. Granted, I thought it would be under different circumstances, but I’d like to think I was a good mother to you children.”

“You were,” I tell her, not so much to make her feel better but because it’s true. “At least, the few times we saw you. Why did you split all of us up?”

“To protect you,” Eli says. “It’s the same reason we constantly moved ourselves around the country. We couldn’t risk having them find you.”

“Them,” I say. “You mean the people trying to kill us?”

Eli nods. “Marta and I were doctors, once upon a time. I graduated from Harvard. Marta graduated from MIT. We both studied genetics and met when we were hired by Matheson.”

“Who’s Matheson?”

“Dr. Oswald Matheson. He was heading a privately funded study regarding autism. As you know, autism is a disorder in neural development. Nobody is one hundred percent certain what causes it, but it seems that the genetics become mutated in the womb. And what Matheson wanted to do, ultimately, was find these cells in the sperm and egg stage and eliminate them completely.”

“That’s possible?”

“Anything’s possible. It all depends on how hard you work for it. Also on how much money you have to spend.”

“So this guy Matheson, he was trying to cure autism.”

“Initially. A new investor soon entered the picture. This investor brought a huge amount of capital. We didn’t know much about it except that we were being paid even more-over six figures, with a promise of bonuses if we met our goals. There were dozens of other researchers. We were all sequestered to different areas. Marta and I were partnered up. Research subjects were brought in, women in their late teens, early twenties. They were pregnant. We saw them once a week, performed tests, then sent them on their way.”

“Who were these women?”

“Volunteers, as far as we knew. Some of them were already pregnant by the time they came to us. Others we artificially inseminated.”

“And the tests?”

“Standard tests, checking up on the mother, though we also focused on the development of the fetuses. We were keeping an eye on the genetics as closely as possible, waiting to catch any mutations.”

“So what happened?”

“The women began giving birth.”

“That’s pretty standard with pregnant women, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but these women were having more than just one baby. They were having twins, triplets, quadruplets. Some surrogates even had sextuplets. An isolated incident would not have meant much-women can have sextuplets naturally, after all-but it began happening more and more.”

“You suspected genetic manipulation,” I say, not making it a question.

Eli nods. “It certainly wasn’t natural.”

“What happened to the babies once they were born?”

“Experiments were done. Nothing harmful, mind you, but we did check to see if there was any detection of mutations in their cells. Quite honestly, sometimes mutations take years, even decades, to form, so it wasn’t an exact science. In fact, looking back on it now, it wasn’t science at all. If anything, it was the stuff of science fiction. Not that it’s not possible, but the work we were doing, it was too ambitious.”

“But these babies, what happened to them?”

“They eventually ended up going to couples. At least, that’s how it was explained to us. Mostly rich couples, those who couldn’t have children of their own or who didn’t want to go through the normal channels of adoption. Matheson had found a way to … expedite the process. These couples became benefactors that helped continue our work. Plus there were enough surrogates lined up that every week we had new births. Most of the babies weren’t in the facility more than a few weeks before they were adopted.”

“And what happened to the surrogates?”

“At the time,” Marta says, “we believed they were volunteers. We were told these women signed up to be in the program. They were being paid quite a bit of money to give up nearly a year of their lives, away from their families and friends.”

“What do you mean, away from their families and friends?”

Eli shifts his weight leaning on the car, lighting another cigarette. “It was part of their contract. They stayed at the facility twenty-four-seven. They had their own rooms. They had TV, books, magazines, music, whatever they wanted. The only stipulation was they couldn’t contact their families or friends. No phone calls. No letters. Nothing. Only until their part in the project was complete, when they were done and the babies were delivered, could they leave.”

“They were prisoners?”

A hesitant glance between Eli and Marta.

Marta says, “As it turned out, they were. In fact, we all were, though none of us knew it at the time. But we-the doctors and scientists-we were free to come and go as we pleased. We had houses and apartments. We had boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives. Some of us even had children of our own. We all were required to sign nondisclosure forms. We were forbidden to discuss the project even with our families.”

“So what happened?”

“One of the girls,” Eli says, “one of the first girls we ever treated, came back to us. Maybe three years had passed. She looked … different somehow, but I knew it was her.”

“How did she look different?”

“Tired. Exhausted. Scared. You see, most of the girls we saw at first were young and so full of life. They knew what they were getting into, but they also knew the money was worth it, so they put up with the secrecy. So what if they couldn’t see or talk to their families and friends for nearly a year? Once they left, they would have more money than they would ever know what to do with. For them, it was worth it. At least, it was until they realized it was all a lie.”

“What was a lie?”

“The girl, the one who had come through before. I recognized her immediately. Her name was Beth. She acted like she had never seen me before. Actually, she acted like she wasn’t even allowed to speak. She hardly answered any of my questions during her first checkup besides nodding or shaking her head. But I knew she knew the drill, so I didn’t think much of it at the time.”

“I was in the room, too,” Marta says, “and I sensed the same thing. It just seemed … odd. Truthfully, I didn’t think girls could be in the project more than once. I even brought this up to Eli, who went and asked Matheson the next time he was in.”

Eli nods distantly. “I asked him, and he nearly tore my head off. The thing about Oswald Matheson, he’s a genius, and like most geniuses he never liked being questioned. It’s something we all came to learn pretty quickly. Even in his office, he had this quote hanging on the wall from the poem ‘Ozymandias’-‘Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ He always joked he liked the quote because his name, too, was Oz, but I believe he truly thought he was unconquerable. He was quite possibly one of the most brilliant men in the world. But here I went and questioned him and he didn’t like it one bit. He even went so far as to threaten to throw me off the project, which, as you can imagine, was the very last thing I wanted to have happen. Not with all the money I was making. The work, to be honest, was easy, once we had everything squared away. The girls came in, we did our manipulation of the genes, performed checkups every week, and then waited nine months to see the results.”

Ashley speaks for the first time. “Were they all clean births?”

Eli drops his cigarette to the ground, right on top of the other one. “No, I’m sorry to say they were not. Sometimes we lost a few of the babies. Only twice did we lose one of the mothers, but in those instances we managed to save the babies. For the most part, they were all clean, and both the girls and the babies were healthy.”

“Except for this girl who had been there before,” I say.

Eli nods again. “It took a while, but we finally got the story out of her. Actually, it was Marta who got the story out of her.”

“Yes,” Marta says, “it took a few months before she finally confided in me. She was scared. More scared than she seemed that first day we had seen her after all this time. As Eli said, nearly three years had passed. She told me after the first time they hadn’t let her go. Instead she had been taken to another facility somewhere across the country. There she had been made to go through the same process. The promise she had been given before-all the money-was a lie.”

“Jesus Christ.” A slight churning starts in the pit of my stomach. “Who are these people?”

“Bad people,” Eli says, lighting himself another cigarette. “Evil people.”

“But when these girls signed up to be in the program, wouldn’t at least one friend or family member know about it?”

“You would think. But as it turned out the girls were runaways. Matheson and his people picked them up off the streets, fed them, clothed them, made sure they were healthy, then asked if they wanted to partake in an important scientific study for a lot of money. Of course many of the girls were skeptical at first, but they all ended up agreeing. And those that didn’t agree, well, in the end I believe they ended up in the study anyway.”

“So what happened?”

“We found out the truth,” Marta says. “It took a while, and it took quite a bit of investigating, of looking into files we were forbidden to access, but Eli and I soon learned the truth. How these rich couples were not just any rich couples, but all part of something called the Inner Circle. We have to assume the group still exists, and if so, it’s a very wealthy, powerful group that controls much of our global economy. And this isn’t just in our country, but all over the world. It seems like they want to build a new Roman Empire. Which I guess explains, then, why our project was renamed what it was.”

Ashley steps forward, just a little, no longer keeping herself apart from the group. Speaking for a second time in a long while, she asks, “What was the project named?”

Eli blows smoke from the corner of his mouth, staring straight at me as he answers her question.

“Legion.”

thirty-six

Ashley folded her arms across her chest. It was cold out, yes, but the true reason was a chill had suddenly raced down her spine. As outrageous as this story seemed, she knew it was true. She felt it deep in her bones. Otherwise how could so many of the deaths today be explained?

“If what you’re saying is true,” John said, “it’s been over thirty years. How can something like this remain secret for so long? Some nut job shoots up a school and the next day conspiracy theories run rampant all over the Internet.”

“These people,” Eli said, “are more powerful than you can even imagine. Believe me, we tried bringing this to the press several times. Each time the reporters we contacted ‘accidentally’ died.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“Over the past thirty years we’ve been in contact with three reporters from top newspapers. One died in a car accident right after speaking with me. Another had a brain hemorrhage and died in his apartment. The third died from a food allergy-a food allergy, I should add, which some family members later claimed the reporter didn’t have, or at least wasn’t even aware of. Don’t you see? These people control everything.”

“But what’s the point? It’s been thirty years already. If these people are so powerful, why keep it such a secret?”

“We still aren’t sure,” Marta said. “But from what we’ve been able to piece together over the past two decades, they’re working toward something. What that something is, we have no idea, but it’s something big. Something massive.”

Eli sighed, blowing smoke through his nose. “I strongly believe that at the beginning Matheson had his heart in the right place. But then someone caught his ear and he got involved in … whatever this whole thing turned out to be. Making babies wholesale for couples who couldn’t have their own children was one thing. But making babies so that they could eventually be mainstreamed into the general population was another.”

“Wait,” John said. “Back up a sec. What are you talking about babies being mainstreamed into the general population?”

Marta said, “What we learned is that there are other facilities around the country, around the globe, where many of these babies went. There they were raised to be soldiers, brainwashed into following this idea of Roman culture. It was almost cult-like. No-it was cult-like. When they became young men and women, some even in their late teens, they were placed in schools, or colleges, or the military or navy, or even into the general workforce.”

“How many?”

“We don’t know. Hundreds. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Your guess is as good as ours.”

For a long time nobody spoke. The sky was beginning to brighten more and more, the dark purple off on the horizon giving away to dark pink.

Eli was staring curiously at John. “You get it now, don’t you?”

John said nothing.

“Isn’t it obvious now why we kept you kids apart? Why your mom kept moving you around the country? Why Marta and I divorced?” Eli laughed. “Of course, we weren’t even legally married in the first place.”

“Who was she?” John asked.

“Who was who?”

“My real mother.”

“That surrogate I mentioned-Beth? She was nearly eight months along when Marta and I learned the truth of what Matheson was doing. We enlisted the help of another researcher, a man named Cameron. If I remember correctly, Marta had him wrapped around her finger.”

Marta didn’t even smile. Her eyes grew glassy at the name. “He was a good man,” she said quietly. “A good, kind man. I’m sorry what happened to him.”

“What did happen to him?” John asked.

Eli said, “He was killed. The night we tried to break Beth and a few of the other surrogates out of the facility, he was shot to death, along with the rest of the women. We only managed to escape with Beth, and she had been shot in the leg.”

There was another long beat of silence, and then John asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do it? It sounds like you both had a real cushy job. Were making a ton of money. Why did you get involved?”

Eli and Marta exchanged another glance, this one lengthier, deeper, what could have been mistaken for regret but which Ashley sensed was resolve.

“Because,” Eli said finally, “it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do?” John stared off into the valley, shaking his head. “You lied to us.”

“What would you have had us do instead? We kept the truth from you for your protection. Christ, everything we did was for your protection.”

“You could have told us. We would have understood.”

“By telling you we would have placed you in even more danger. As we saw it, ignorance was the only option.”

Standing with his back to them, still staring off into the valley, John asked, “So what happened to her-my real mother?”

“She died giving birth to the six of you,” Marta said.

John turned around, almost too quickly. “But there are only five of us.”

Ashley could see it hit him a second too late that he had used the present tense, not the past tense.

“One of them died within minutes of being born. In fact, you were not too far behind. For the first couple hours Eli and I thought we were going to lose you, too. You were so … small and frail, so much more so than the others. That was why, when we eventually assigned you all names and birth dates, we made you the youngest.”

John’s lips had gone tight.

Ashley, having already found the nerve to speak two times, decided to speak again.

“How were you able to assign them birth dates?”

Eli took a deep breath. “It wasn’t easy. But it helped that we had a lot of money to play with, the money we had transferred to offshore accounts when we realized what we had to do. We found the right people, people who could fake documents that looked more real than real documents. We got the kids social security numbers, birth certificates, all of it. We knew we couldn’t have all their birthdays be the same day, that that would raise too many questions, so we spread them out over the years. Melissa we made the oldest.”

“Why Melissa?” John asked.

Eli shrugged. “Why not?”

Marta said, “But we couldn’t spread your birth dates too far apart, as you were all basically the same age. So after Melissa, we made Valerie and Paul twins, then a year later, David, then you. Five children born over the course of four years seemed believable enough.”

“So how old am I really?” John asked.

“Thirty-two,” Eli said. “All of you kids are really thirty-two.”

John turned away again, staring off into the valley. Ashley watched him, wondering what he was thinking right now. Before she realized it, she found herself asking another question.

“Why are these people still looking for you?”

Eli asked, “What do you mean?”

“You said it’s been thirty years and that their power has been growing. That they’ve been working toward something. Why spend time and energy coming after you?”

“Matheson,” Eli said. “He wants revenge for what we did to him. He was always a proud man. He loathed disrespect. What Marta and I did to him cut deep.”

“Well,” Marta said, a faint smile on her face, “that’s not all you did.”

Eli smiled himself. “Yes, those top secret files we mentioned? In them were the locations of many of the other facilities all across the country. After we made our escape and the children were born and Marta and I had our fake divorce, I went looking for those facilities. Some of them had already been shut down, but others were still operational. I was just one man, though, so it wasn’t like I could raid an entire facility, especially since more guards would have been added after our escape. What I did instead was wait until the babies were transported out of the facility, and then I stopped those vehicles with any means necessary.”

John turned back around, a frown on his face. “What do you mean, any means necessary?”

“I killed the driver and the other men guarding the babies. Yes, John, I’ve murdered before. I’ve taken life. Whatever you want to call it, I’ve done it. I’m not proud of myself for what I’ve done, but make no mistake-those people I’ve killed were not good people. They were not innocent.”

“So then what?” John asked. “After you killed these men, what did you do with the babies?”

“I took them to a safe location where I knew they would be protected.”

“Where?”

Eli said nothing. Neither did Marta.

John took a step forward, an edge to his voice. “After everything you’ve just told me, you can’t tell me where you took these babies?”

“It’s best you don’t know.”

“Why?”

Eli said nothing again, and Ashley saw understanding fill John’s eyes.

“Oh, I see,” John said. “You don’t want me to know in case I get captured and tortured for information, is that it?”

“All you need to know is the babies were taken someplace safe.”

“How many times did you do this?”

“Over the years I managed it four times before I nearly got killed myself.”

“Why didn’t you take us there,” John asked, “me and the others?”

“At the time Marta and I weren’t positive it was a safe location. Having just escaped, we didn’t want to invite trouble elsewhere if we didn’t have to.”

“How thoughtful,” John said tonelessly.

“We did what we could,” Eli said.

“Sure. And meanwhile, me and my brothers and sisters grew up living a lie.”

“You have nothing to complain about. Marta and I made sure you children had as many opportunities as possible. We even saved enough money to put you all through college so you could make something of your lives. Don’t be angry because you decided to waste yours.”

John’s face was stone. He glared straight back at his father, completely silent. Finally he said, “I was happy when I heard you had died.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“Why did you fake your death?”

“For the past thirty years I’ve been looking for Matheson, and, as I told you, Matheson has been looking for me. Quite recently he and his people somehow learned my new identity and location. They came after me. I had no choice but to kill myself.”

“But you didn’t really kill yourself. Whose body was in the coffin?”

“Remember those two men with us today?”

“You mean the ones who then tried to kill us? How could I forget?”

“I hired them to find a body, one that I could trade off as my own. They did. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Whose body was it?”

“I don’t know, and quite honestly, I never want to find out. But it worked. At least it did until word got around to Melissa and she contacted the rest of you kids to come out for a funeral. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“How did Melissa find out?”

Marta sighed. “We don’t know. But once she learned what happened and contacted me, it wasn’t like I could deny it. I tried talking her out of getting everyone together. I even went so far as to tell her I had recently had a stroke and it would be too much. But that made her even more determined to have a proper funeral. So she contacted the rest of you kids and had you come out, and that … that was where they were waiting.”

“Who?”

“These people,” Eli said. “They must have suspected I hadn’t really killed myself. We made it look as real as possible, but again, these people are powerful. They either got hold of a blood sample or what was left of the dental samples or something. They knew it wasn’t me. Or maybe they knew it was me and just didn’t care. But when you kids all came for the funeral, they were waiting to follow you back to your individual homes.”

“If they wanted us dead,” John said, “why not just kill us all at the cemetery?”

“Because they want me. They want Marta, too, but I think they were willing to risk letting her go for the time being. Until then, they had no idea where the rest of you lived. They didn’t know your names, what you did, any of that. But now they did. And they knew that once they started killing you off, one by one, it would draw me out.”

Everything happened too quickly then. Before Ashley knew it, John was charging forward, throwing his weight into Eli and sending them both into the hood of the Buick. Marta cried out in shock. Eli exhaled a large gulp of air as all of the wind was knocked out of him.

John, leaning over him, wrapped his hand around his throat. “You fucking bastard, you set us all up! You made us the fucking bait!”

Eli didn’t fight the hand gripping his throat. He just stared back up into John’s face.

Marta took a hesitant step forward. “John, please, let him go.”

John didn’t move, glaring back down at his father.

“Please”-Marta’s voice was near tears-“we didn’t want it to be this way. We never wanted it to be this way.”

Finally John relented, releasing his grip on Eli’s throat and stepping back. He said to Marta, “Yeah, and how did you want it to be?”

Eli lightly touched his throat as he pushed off the hood. “Had we done nothing, you kids would have become brainwashed soldiers. Either that or these people would have used you in some other way I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“You let Melissa die. You let her family die.”

“What would you have wanted us to do?”

“I don’t know. Warn her. Protect her. Anything than just let her die.”

“That wasn’t a viable option,” Eli said. “Besides, we didn’t think she would be the first one. We … we thought it would be you.”

Ashley expected John to charge his father again, this time with even more rage and fury. She expected him to throw a punch, to draw blood. But he just stood there, completely motionless, his hands balling into fists at his sides, before turning around and facing off toward the valley.

For the longest time no one spoke.

Marta said, her voice hesitant, “John?”

His back still to them, his voice soft and low, John asked, “Why did you even bother saving all of us in the first place if you were just going to let us die?”

“We didn’t plan for this,” Eli said. “We didn’t know what was going to happen thirty years ago. We did everything we could to save you. The rest of it … it’s all out of our hands.”

“But it’s not,” John said, turning back around, his eyes glassy with tears. “You could have done something. You could have warned Melissa. You could have warned all of us.”

“We can’t worry about the wrongs we’ve made. We can only focus on how to make those wrongs right.”

“By doing what? Melissa and her family are dead. Paul and David and Valerie and their families are either already dead or they’ll soon be. So now what do you suggest we fucking do?”

“Fight back,” Eli said.

“Who?” John looked at Ashley, then at his parents. “Us?”

“Do you see anyone else?”

“What about David?” John asked. “He’s only a couple hours away. We should call him. We should call everyone and warn them.”

“We can’t. As soon as a call would be made, these people would have our location. They’d be here within minutes.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“We go to David next.”

Even in the morning shadows, Ashley could see John’s face flush.

“But not to warn him, right?” When nobody answered him, John shook his head. “Of course not. Why would you warn him? He’s the bait.”

thirty-seven

By eight o’clock that morning, we learn that Valerie and Paul and their families have died.

Valerie, who lives with her husband just outside of Houston, became victim of a fire that mysteriously started sometime during the night. Fire crews were dispatched, but by the time they arrived on scene, the house was in blazes. Hours later, when the flames were extinguished, Valerie and her husband were found in what was left of their bed. It was believed there was a gas leak which caused the fire, and which probably stopped their breathing before the hungry flames managed to consume them.

Paul, who lives with his wife and daughter in Rochester, Minnesota, died in a car accident late last night. They were coming back from Paul’s daughter’s ballet recital. The roads were icy, and they hit a patch of black ice that sent them spinning through a guardrail and down an embankment. Their car rolled several times and landed upside down. Despite wearing their seat belts, all three passengers died before police and medical crews arrived on scene.

We learn this news from Marta, who has a jail broken iPhone and has been scouring the Internet ever since we got back on the road headed for Massachusetts. It’s where David works at the Medford Medical Center.

“If they’ve killed Paul and Valerie already,” I say, “what makes you think they haven’t already killed David?”

Marta says, “I haven’t seen any news on his death yet.”

“He and his wife split up, what did you say, earlier this year? As far as we know he lives alone. He could be dead and just waiting for someone to find the body.”

“He’s not,” Eli says.

“How do you know?”

Eli just gives me a look in the rearview mirror, and like that, everything falls into place.

“Oh, that’s right,” I say, disdain loud and clear in my voice. “You’re not the only one using him as bait.”

• • •

An hour later we pull into a truck stop. They have a Burger King inside. Eli suggests if we get anything, we take it to go.

I’m starving, but I can’t bring myself to eat. Still I do go in to use the bathroom, and come back out to find Ashley buying a pack of cigarettes. She’s upgraded this time to a pack of Marlboros.

She gives me a sheepish look and shrugs. “I figure at this point, dying from cancer wouldn’t be so bad.”

We head outside and she tears open the pack and then turns back to the truck stop, exasperated. “Forgot to buy a lighter.”

“Here”-I pull the gold-plated lighter from my pocket-“use this.”

She has to shakes the lighter a few times for it to produce a flame. She hands it back to me but I wave it off.

“Keep it. Eli told me it’s a good luck charm and that I need to hold on to it, but quite honestly he can go fuck himself.”

Currently Eli is gassing the Buick, Marta in the backseat.

Ashley turns her head to exhale a puff of smoke, her gaze never leaving me. “Despite what you may think of him and Marta, they saved your lives.”

“Did they?”

“You’re honestly going to act like it’s not true?”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

“Must be nice, being the only child. You get all the attention, right? In my family-and I’m using the word family pretty loosely-attention wasn’t so easily doled out. You heard Eli-he was never around, so Marta basically raised us the few times we were all together. Maybe once or twice a year we’d get together, otherwise we were shipped off to boarding schools. I was the youngest-at least, that’s what they told me, but obviously it was a lie-so I didn’t get nearly as much attention as the rest of them. I mean, Christ, they named me John Smith. Just how fucking generic is that?”

Ashley doesn’t speak for a long beat. She just stands there, smoking, studying me, until she finally shakes her head in disgust. “That’s complete bullshit. You realize that, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just because you messed up and made bad choices in your life, you can’t blame your parents.”

“They’re not my parents.”

“Of course they are. So what if they didn’t actually give birth to you-they were still the ones who raised you. And so what if your father wasn’t around much-you know now he was keeping his distance to keep all of you safe. Christ, can’t you be thankful for anything?”

She’s right, of course. I am being unreasonable. Fact is, I’m being a fucking douche bag. But it just blows my mind, thinking about how much different my life may have been had I been the oldest, or even one of the middle children, and not the youngest. Would I be any different? Would I somehow have, I don’t know, tried harder in school and in life in general? Look at what Melissa accomplished. Had she done all that because she was the oldest? No, probably not. Even if she had taken my place as the youngest child, she no doubt would have accomplished the same very thing, and that’s what really pisses me off. That in the end I have no excuse for the shitty life I’ve led. Always wanting to blame my parents, my father especially, or whoever there was for not being happy, when in reality it’s always been my fault. Not that this is a newsflash. I’ve always known it, or at least suspected it, but it’s not until now that I finally swallow the truth. And the truth, well, it tastes like shit.

“I’m sorry.”

Ashley waves it off. “Don’t worry about.”

“No, I mean about this whole thing. I’m sorry you got in the middle of this. I’m sorry that your friend was killed.”

She goes quiet, staring off into the distance.

“Was he a close friend?”

She nods slightly. “A coworker, but yes, I guess he was a close friend.”

“And then there’s Melissa.” I shake my head. “You really should just leave.”

“Where would I go?”

“I don’t know. Hole up in some motel room or something. Just wait this out, see what happens afterward.”

The truck stop is relatively busy. Cars and tractor-trailers coming and going. A Massachusetts state police cruiser pulls into the lot. It parks only four spaces away from where Ashley and I stand.

“Or maybe you could talk to him.”

Ashley watches the trooper as he extracts himself from the car and heads inside.

She turns back to me. “How would I know for sure he’s trustworthy? He might be like the cop that tried to kill you back in Jersey. He might be one of them.”

“These people can’t be that powerful. It’s just not possible.”

Ashley drops the spent cigarette to the ground. “I think all your dead brothers and sisters and their families would disagree, don’t you?”

• • •

Eli finishes gassing up and moves the Buick into an open spot nearby. He gets out and heads toward us, the New York Giants hat on his head, his face tilted down, worried just like the rest of us about the cameras.

“You two aren’t eating anything?”

We tell him no. He says he’s grabbing something and will be right back out. Ashley smokes the rest of her second cigarette and we head back to the Buick. She gets in the front, I get in the back.

Marta is still playing with her iPhone.

I ask her, “David still alive?”

“So far it seems he is. I called his office asking for him and they said he was already in surgery.” She tilts the iPhone’s screen toward me. “I’ve pulled up a map of the facility. It’s like any other major hospital, a complete maze. Plus there are cameras everywhere.”

“So we just don’t walk in and grab him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What if we try contacting him?”

“John, I know you think Eli and I are being selfish right now, but this is our only option. We can’t contact David, at least as things currently stand. Like Eli said, they’re not going to touch him until they know we’re in the area.”

“So we’re just going to, what, wait outside and hope one or the other shows up first?”

Marta sighs. She puts down the iPhone, rubs her eyes. She glances toward the truck stop. “I might as well use the restroom while we’re here. We have another two hours ahead of us.”

Once she’s gone, I tell Ashley, “I’m not letting my brother be bait. That’s complete bullshit.”

“I agree, but right now I don’t think we have much choice, just like your mother said.”

“She’s not my mother.”

Ashley sighs.

I ask, “What are you still doing here anyway? Seriously, you should make a run for it.”

“I want to see this through.”

“Why?”

“I have my own reasons.” She pauses a beat, then lets out a deep breath. “I’m a journalist, okay? Almost all my career I’ve done fluff pieces on celebrities. My whole life has been shallow like that. For once, I’d like to do something meaningful.”

“So what, you plan to expose these people?”

“If I can, yes. I can’t stand what they did to Melissa and her family.”

“You heard what Eli said before. They’ve already tried bringing this to the press. Each time it ended in a reporter’s death.”

She’s quiet for another beat, then says in a soft voice, “I still have to try.”

I glance out the window and watch the trooper exit the gas station and climb into his cruiser. He backs the car out of the space and heads for the exit. Coming in the entrance at the same time is a large ambulance. It doesn’t park in front of truck stop but in one of the spaces farther back. Two EMTs steps out and head inside.

I ask, “You still want to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I think I have a plan.”

thirty-eight

The Medford Medical Center sat near the heart of the city, a sprawling twelve-story building that encompassed an entire block. It had a helicopter pad. It had a garden. It had a fountain. It had basically everything you would expect from a modern day non-profit medicine mansion. Even from a half mile away, as they drove closer and closer to the hospital through the city streets of Medford, they could see the large glass structure shimmering in the midday sun.

John asked, “Where’s David’s office located anyway?”

Marta got out her iPhone again. She brought up the map of the hospital.

“It looks like he’s on the third floor, on the south side.”

“How do we know he’s not in surgery?”

“We don’t.”

“Can I see the phone for a sec?”

Marta handed him the iPhone.

“So where are we going to be,” he asked, staring down at the screen, “just loitering across the street, waiting for these people to kill him?”

Neither Eli nor Marta offered up any reply. Ashley wasn’t surprised. She knew they weren’t bad people, not like the people now hunting them, but they weren’t quite good people, either. Hadn’t Eli pretty much admitted to killing years ago? Even if it had been in self-defense, even if those people had been bad, taking a life was still taking a life. How did you come back from something like that?

Handing the phone back to Marta, John said, “We really don’t have a plan here, do we?”

Eli didn’t speak for a couple of long seconds. Finally he sighed. “Yes, we have a plan.”

“And what is it?”

“To kill these bastards before they kill us.”

• • •

They ended up in a parking garage three blocks away from the hospital. Eli parked in a corner on the fourth level. He backed the Buick into the empty space so the trunk was pointed toward the cinderblock wall. They got out and stretched and Eli opened the trunk and started rummaging through the bags.

“Have you ever fired a gun?” Eli asked John.

“Once, a long time ago. I was in Europe and we were drunk and this guy had a pistol, one of those things the Nazis used. He was vague on where he’d gotten it from, but he let me shoot it.”

“Did you hit the target?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember there being a target.”

Eli dug out a silver handgun, started to hand it to John, but hesitated. “You’ve seen movies and TV with guns, right?”

“I’m an American, aren’t I?”

“While the movies and TV are exaggerated, the same basic principles apply. This button here ejects the magazine. You slap it back in like this. This is the safety. If you want to shoot anything, make sure it’s thumbed off. Then all you do is point and shoot.”

John took the gun from Eli, staring down at it warily. “Easiest thing in the world, huh?”

Eli handed Marta another handgun, along with two spare magazines. He pulled out a third gun, hesitated again, then turned to Ashley.

“No,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never shot one before,” she said quickly. “But … I’ll take it if I need to.”

“It’s probably best you do.”

She nodded, knowing it was true and hating that this was now her reality.

Eli placed the gun in her hand and it wasn’t nearly as heavy as she had thought it would be. It was almost too light, like a toy, and the idea that this was a weapon that could take life caused a sour rumbling deep in the pit of her stomach.

“This is like Christmas morning,” John said. “What else did Santa bring us?”

Eli didn’t answer his son. He opened the other bag and pulled out several thick pieces of clothing that at first didn’t make sense to Ashley.

“You know what these are?” Eli asked John, tossing him one of the pieces of clothing.

“Bulletproof vests.”

“Yes, but even though they’re called bulletproof vests, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll keep you alive if someone shoots you.”

John started pulling the vest on over his head. “How comforting.” He tightened the Velcro straps on the sides and said, “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“You’ve given more stuff today than you ever have before.”

Eli grunted. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

• • •

Once they were set, John asked, “Now what?”

“Now we get back in the car and move to another location.”

“What about a bathroom break?”

“John, don’t start.”

“I’m serious. You want us to be in the heat of battle and all I can think about is not shitting myself?”

Eli’s lips became a tight line. He exhaled loudly through his nose and said, “Fine. We passed a McDonald’s two blocks back. You remember it?”

“I do.”

“Be back in ten minutes.”

“Fingers crossed they have enough toilet paper.”

John started away, toward the stairs leading down to the first level.

Ashley waited until he was halfway there before she said, “Um …”

Both Eli and Marta looked at her.

“I could actually use the restroom, too,” she said, then immediately looked away, embarrassed.

Eli sighed again. “Fine, but stick close to John. And remember, keep your head down in case of traffic cams.”

She headed toward the stairs just as John disappeared around the corner. She forced herself not to look back to see whether Eli and Marta were watching her. She tried to hurry in a calm sort of way, weaving between the parked cars, the gun in her jacket pocket digging into her side. Then she turned the corner and there stood John, waiting for her.

“Ready?” he whispered.

thirty-nine

Yesterday was all about bad luck. Today, so far at least, good luck seems to be on our side. At least in terms of Eli letting us go to McDonald’s on our own. He expects us to be back in ten minutes. It’s not quite a reasonable window, all things considering. But it doesn’t matter. When Ashley and I hit the street, we don’t head toward the McDonald’s. Instead we head in the other direction, walking fast.

Ashley keeps pace beside me. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

I try not to laugh. “Are you kidding me? I’m making all this up as I go along.”

We reach the end of the block and I have that strange feeling you get when someone’s watching you. I glance back, and while the sidewalk is pretty busy, I can’t spot anybody watching us.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s move.”

We turn the corner and keep going, nearly jogging.

Ashley says, “The chances of this working are pretty minimal.”

“Try not to think about it.”

“At this point it’s all I can think about.”

She’s right, of course. This plan is barely even a plan. If anything it’s just an idea. Not even an idea-a kernel of an idea. But hey, it sounded good at the time. Now that we’re actually in motion, though, reality has begun to set in.

“Shouldn’t we be headed toward the hospital?”

I shake my head. “I used the map feature on Marta’s phone to look up nursing homes near the hospital.”

“Why nursing homes?”

“This courier I knew used to drive ambulances. Said he made pickups and drop-offs at nursing homes, taking the old folks to the hospital for appointments. He hated it.”

We cross the street and turn the next corner and there it is, the Medford Retirement Community. It’s an officious name for something that’s nothing more than a convalescent home. Six stories tall, red drab brick, it’s a place that exudes death.

“Okay,” Ashley says, catching her breath. “Now what?”

“Let’s head around back.”

• • •

Luck continues to be on our side. The back of the Medford Retirement Community has a rear entrance with a ramp designed for ambulances and delivery trucks. Right now an ambulance is waiting by the doors.

It’s not one of the big boxes like you normally see. This one is a van, painted red and white, the word EMERGENCY printed loudly on both sides.

Ashley and I wait near the corner. We keep looking up and down the block, like that’s going to help us.

She whispers, “What are we waiting for?”

“I just realized something.

“What’s that?”

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Does that mean we’re scrapping the plan?”

“No. Just wanted to get that off my chest.”

An EMT emerges from the building with an old woman in a wheelchair. He pushes her toward the van as the driver opens his door and steps out. He’s a bear of a guy, nearly seven feet tall, maybe two hundred fifty pounds, the majority of it muscle. Shaved head, broad-shouldered, he’s the kind of guy who probably wouldn’t easily back down, even if a gun were shoved in his face.

“I think we should skip this one.”

Ashley peeks around the corner as the two EMTs open the back and wait for a lift to lower to the pavement.

“The old lady, right?”

“Sure. That’s the reason.”

Once the lift comes down completely, they back the old woman’s wheelchair onto the metal plate and secure her with straps and then stand back as the lift rises into the air. Soon she’s in the van, secured even more, and the lift disappears and the two EMTs climb back into their respective seats.

“Let’s wait for the next one.”

Ashley doesn’t respond.

I glance back to check on her and immediately say, “Oh fuck.”

Eli and Marta are standing there. Eli’s face is red with anger. And in his hand, hidden from the rest of the street but very clear to me and Ashley, is a gun.

• • •

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?”

When neither of us answers, when it becomes clear our attentions are focused on the gun, Eli makes an exasperated noise and shoves the gun in his pocket.

I blink and look up at him. “How’d you find us?”

“Why are you here?”

“We’re not waiting around for David to get killed.”

“You’re not?”

“No, we’re sneaking in and saving him.”

He laughs. He glances at Marta but Marta doesn’t seem to find it funny. Her face is pinched, concerned, scared.

The transport van peeks around the corner. It pauses for traffic and then pulls out, headed in the direction of the hospital.

Eli’s smile fades. He watches the ambulance for a few seconds. “Not a bad idea. How were you going to do it?”

“Wasn’t really sure. Figured the guns would come in handy.”

He nods, thinking it over. Another glance toward Marta, who doesn’t speak, and then he says, “I have a better plan that’s potentially less violent.”

“Such as?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket, a different pocket than which he had placed the gun. His hand comes back out with a black object.

“Know what this is?”

“It’s a Taser.”

“Exactly.” He hands it to me. “Now here’s what I want you to do with it.”

forty

It was another twenty minutes-nearly going on two o’clock-before a second ambulance approached the rear of the nursing home.

Ashley stood with John halfway down the block, huddled around a parking meter, John acting like he was depositing coins. Across the block strolled Eli and Marta, side by side, like any older couple out for an afternoon constitutional through the city.

The ambulance was one of those large boxes. It slowed for the turn, disappearing from Ashley’s and John’s view. Eli and Marta could see it from their vantage point, though, and a few seconds later Eli shook his head slightly as he and Marta continued down the block.

No go. This was another pickup, not a drop-off.

And so they waited. The ambulance reappeared and drove off toward the hospital. Traffic-what little there was on this side street-went back and forth. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Ashley and John walked up the block, then down the block, taking their time. Across the street, Eli and Marta did the same. They tried not to be conspicuous about it, but anyone watching long enough might scratch their heads at the inanity of their movements.

Finally, after twenty more minutes, another ambulance appeared.

Ashley and John took their positions by the parking meter. Eli and Marta once again started their stroll across the street.

The ambulance slowed to make the turn, then disappeared around the corner. Ashley and John watched Eli and Marta. For several long seconds neither of them made any signal. Then, slightly, Eli nodded once.

Which meant it was time.

• • •

After making its drop-off, the ambulance started back toward the street. It was going at a slow enough speed, the driver pressing on the brake, but still that didn’t stop Ashley and John from completing their part of the plan.

They were headed down the sidewalk, laughing at nothing, giggling at nothing, John reaching out and tickling her side and Ashley doing the same, going for that spot right behind his arm, and John, turning around, jumped back at the same instant the ambulance appeared around the corner.

Ashley saw it all happen. She saw John jump back just as the ambulance appeared and abruptly stopped. She saw that it barely hit John, but still he fell to the ground, groaning loudly. Ashley, summoning all her courage, followed through with her next part.

She screamed.

The driver and passenger scrambled out of the ambulance. At the same moment, Eli and Marta hurried across the street.

There was little traffic passing by now. One car going south and that was it. It passed them as Eli and Marta reached the other side of the street, as the ambulance driver and passenger approached John, who was still on the ground, his face lowered, groaning.

“Are you okay?” the driver asked.

“Sir,” the passenger said, “what hurts?”

Ashley, not quite sure what to do, screamed again.

“I saw what happened!” Eli shouted. “I saw you hit him!”

“Sir”-the driver now, turning to him-“please let us do our job.”

“And what’s that?” Eli countered. “Running over pedestrians?

Ignoring him, the driver crouched down beside John. The passenger did the same.

“Sir,” the passenger said, “we’re going to turn you over now.”

They placed their hands on John, but that was as far as they got. The moment they touched him, John stopped groaning and flipped over, the Taser already in hand. He tased first the passenger, then the driver. It was only a few seconds each, but both the driver and passenger yelled and convulsed and fell back.

No telling how long the after-effects would last-only seconds, according to Eli. Also no telling who might be glancing out their window, or about ready to turn down the street. They needed to act fast.

Ashley and Eli went for the passenger, just as John and Marta went for the driver. The passenger didn’t put up much of a fight, still dazed. The driver, however, growled and tried to take a swing at John. John used the Taser on him again. The driver’s legs buckled and he fell to the ground, forcing John and Marta to half-drag him toward the back of the ambulance.

How many seconds had passed so far, Ashley didn’t know. She had meant to try to keep track but after the first five seconds it all became a blur.

They got the back doors opened and John jumped inside, pulling the driver up with him. Next was the passenger. Then the rest of them were inside, Ashley pulling the doors closed.

It was tight in the back, but still they managed to make it work, keeping the driver and passenger in the middle, both still groaning in pain.

Eli had his gun out, pointed at the two men. “Strip.”

The driver and passenger didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They just stared back at Eli, at the gun in his hand.

“Do it,” Eli said.

The passenger went first, taking off his jacket, then unbuttoning his shirt, then his pants. The driver followed suit a few seconds later.

Marta and John, meanwhile, rummaged through the supplies lining the side of the ambulance. They came away with some straps. John held them up. Eli nodded and told the driver and passenger to set the clothes aside and lay down.

“What is this all about?” the driver asked.

“None of your concern. We’re not here to hurt you any further. Just do as we ask and you’ll be fine.”

The passenger and driver didn’t look convinced, but still they dropped their clothes and began to lower themselves to the floor.

Marta and John went about tying their wrists behind their backs, then their ankles. They tore some sheets and placed the fabric strips in the driver and passenger’s mouths to keep them quiet.

Eli said, “Hurry, get dressed.”

Ashley had known this part was coming but still she felt apprehensive. John was already taking off his shirt and pants. Ashley, steeling herself, unbuttoned her jeans.

The clothes, once they had them on, didn’t fit well. They were too small on John, too big on her. The bulletproof vests didn’t help either. But it wasn’t like they had time to switch outfits. Already several minutes had passed. Too many minutes. The last thing they needed was someone who may have seen them briefly to become curious, or someone from the nursing home notice the ambulance still parked at the end of the exit.

John slipped through the opening up front into the driver’s seat. Ashley slid into the passenger seat. The passenger had been wearing a baseball cap with the ambulance’s name, which Ashley now wore. The driver’s cap was on the dash. John fixed it to his head and put the ambulance in gear.

• • •

Six blocks, but in the afternoon traffic it took them nearly fifteen minutes before they reached the Medford Medical Center. They had to circle the building twice to find the right place to enter. There was the emergency entrance, but this wasn’t an emergency. What they needed was the ambulance bay.

This turned out to be in an underground garage. John steered them down the ramp and slowed at the bottom, not sure where to go next. Ashley pointed toward the right, where several other ambulances were parked.

John pulled into an empty space and parked the ambulance and glanced back through the opening.

“Wait here.”

Eli asked, “Where are you going?”

“To get a wheelchair.”

John and Ashley climbed out of the ambulance. They met at the rear of the vehicle and surveyed the garage. Farther down was an elevator. Next to it was an entrance into the basement level of the hospital.

“Maybe inside,” John said.

He started toward the entrance, but Ashley waved him off.

“I’ll do it.”

She hurried ahead and walked right through the automatic doors. She made sure to keep her head tilted slightly down, so the bill of the cap obscured her face from any cameras. There wasn’t any security inside the doors waiting to check ID. John had figured there wouldn’t be. And if there was, she and John were in uniforms. They looked official. No reason for anyone to stop and question them, especially with a pair of patients.

Three wheelchairs were parked just around the corner. Ashley grabbed one and started back toward the entrance doors.

“You ain’t stealing that now, are you?”

The voice was low and heavy. It stopped Ashley cold. Blood thrummed in her ears. Her heart thudded against her ribcage.

“I’m just joshing.” A man walked up beside her. “You okay?”

She blinked. Forced a smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Just a long day.”

“I hear that.”

The man wore a plain uniform. He wasn’t security, and he wasn’t an orderly. A janitor, maybe.

The man gestured at the wheelchair. “Need a hand?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

She pushed the wheelchair through the doors, the man keeping pace just behind her. For some reason she expected him to follow her all the way to the ambulance, to again offer his assistance, but he stopped just outside of the doors, pulling a small container out of his pocket. She wasn’t sure what it was at first until he popped the lid, scooped out some black stuff, and stuck it in his mouth. Dipping tobacco. Gross.

“I know, I know,” he said, a sheepish grin on his face. “I’ve been trying to quit. Maybe someday.”

She forced another smile and continued on to the ambulance.

John asked, his voice a whisper, “Everything okay?”

Ashley just nodded.

They opened only one of the back doors. Eli came out first, but in a very slow manner, like he was ten years older with a bad hip. They helped him down, then helped Marta down, who acted even frailer. She was the one who used the wheelchair. Eli stood beside her, the resilient husband, holding her hand.

John wrapped his fingers around the wheelchair’s handles and released a heavy breath.

“Now let’s try to make this work without getting killed, shall we?”

forty-one

We squeeze into the first elevator we find. It takes us up to the first floor, where two nurses get on. Both stare down at their cell phones without a word. They remind me of those commuters on the subway platform obsessed with their gadgets, and right now I’m thankful for them-it puts less focus on us. They get out on the second floor and we ride the elevator up to the third floor.

A signboard outside the elevator directs people either left or right: Cardiology, Oncology, Endoscopy. David’s specialty is Neurology.

An orderly heads our way, a young guy carrying a clipboard.

I ask, “Neurology on this floor?”

“Nah, you have to go back down to the first floor, head up the corridor a bit, then get on the elevators by MRI. That’ll take you up to Neurology on the third floor.”

“But this is the third floor.”

He shrugs. “We’re like rats in a maze, you know? Building’s messed up like that.”

We thank him and wait for another elevator and take it back down to the first floor. Down a long corridor to another bank of elevators where we wait with a bunch of other people-some staff, mostly guests-and then manage to squeeze into one of the elevators that stops on the second floor to let a few people off, then on the third floor to let us off.

Another signboard greets us. Pulmonary, Renal Dialysis, Neurology.

“Bingo,” I say.

We head toward the left. Some more people pass us-nurses, orderlies, even a doctor or two-but the one that gives me pause is a security guard. An older guy, Hispanic, thick mustache and gray hair. He nods at us and then we’re past him, just like that, the large sign for Neurology looming ahead.

“You know,” Eli says quietly, walking beside me, “there’s no guarantee he’ll be here.”

“Way to stay positive, Pops.”

“John, do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t call me Pops.”

I’m tempted, of course, to call him Pops again, but by that point we’ve reached the doors leading into Neurology. Inside is your basic waiting area, chairs lined up against the wall, a few tables with scattered magazines, a flat screen TV showing some looped medical infomercial. There might be a dozen or so people waiting, spread throughout the room.

The reception desk is divided into three sections, with three different women spaced out behind three different computers. All of them wear headsets. Two of them are currently waiting on patients, either scheduling new appointments or taking insurance cards.

I walk up to the third woman, right in the middle. “I’m here to see Dr. Smith.”

The woman wears a plastic smile as she clicks her mouse, places her fingers on the keyboard. “Name, please?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I need to see him right now.”

“Sir, do you have an appointment?”

Off toward the right, a door opens and a nurse steps out. She holds the door open with her back as she reads a name from a clipboard. Immediately an old woman gets up from a chair, setting down an old issue of US Weekly, and begins limping toward the nurse with the use of a cane.

Eli and Marta and Ashley are behind me, Ashley now standing behind the wheelchair.

I motion them toward the door and we start moving as one, beating the old woman with the cane by only seconds. Behind me, the woman with the plastic smile calls out, “Sir, you can’t go back there,” and the nurse holding the door open starts shaking her head, saying, “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?” but we walk right past her, me first, then Eli, then Ashley pushing Marta in the wheelchair. Another nurse says something, her voice going loud, but we ignore her too and head down the hallway.

Most of the doors are open, empty waiting rooms. A few other doors are closed, but they’re obviously waiting rooms, too. I open these, poking my head in, calling David’s name. He’s not in any of them, just startled patients waiting to see their doctor, and I offer up a quick apology before moving on to the next room.

It’s starting to get loud in here. More nurses are telling us we have to leave. A few doors down the hall open. Out of one of them steps David, dressed in slacks and a dress shirt and tie. He looks quite spiffy.

“John?” He blinks, and then looks past me. His eyes widen. “Dad?”

“We need to talk to you,” I say.

He nods dumbly, blinks again, nods harder this time, and steps back so we can enter his office.

“Dr. Smith,” says one of the nurses.

David holds up a hand. “It’s all right, Janice. I’ll take care of this.”

“What about your appointments?”

“Have Ed and Shirley deal with them until I say so. Understood?”

Janice doesn’t look like she does, but she nods anyway.

“Everything’s fine,” David assures her. Then he steps into his office, closing the door, looking first at me, then at Eli, then at Marta, then at Ashley. Finally he shakes his head, rubs his eyes. “What the hell is going on here?”

forty-two

Tyson called and said, “They’re inside.”

“What?”

“Eli and his kid and the others. They’re inside and headed up to Neurology right now.”

Zach sat behind the steering wheel, a block up from the medical center, Hogan in the passenger seat beside him.

“Shit.” He started the sedan and pulled out into traffic. A car behind him screeched as it braked hard to avoid a collision. “How’d they get in?”

“Ambulance.”

“Ambulance?”

Hogan said, “What’s up?”

“Eli’s inside,” Zach told him.

“How?”

“How?” Zach asked Tyson.

“Not quite sure. They tied up two EMTs, had them in the back of the ambulance, left them there. They were gagged but they managed to kick the doors until it got someone’s attention. Word just went out to all security with their descriptions.”

“Are they accessing the video feeds?”

“Yes.”

“Scramble it. Delete it. Do whatever you have to do, but don’t let security track where they’re going.”

“It’s too late. One of the nurses from Neurology is calling them right now.”

“Fucking take care of it!” Zach shouted, one hand on the phone, the other hand maneuvering the wheel as he swerved the sedan around traffic.

Their only options were the emergency room entrance or the parking garage. Zach took the parking garage. He jerked the steering wheel hard and they bumped up over the curb into the entrance. Beside him, Hogan already had his gun out, racking the slide.

Zach punched the gas, tearing them up the incline to the second level, then the third. There were no empty parking spaces here, at least none near the door, but that didn’t matter. He stopped the sedan and cut the engine and threw open his door.

“We’re headed inside now,” he said into the phone as he and Hogan started toward the entrance doors. “Make sure they have the helicopter here ASAP.”

forty-three

Eli doesn’t waste a second. He ignores David’s question and says, “People are out to kill us so we need to leave right now.”

David doesn’t speak right away. He just stands there, staring incredulously at Eli. Finally he says, “I thought you were dead.”

“The longer we stay here the more likely it is we’ll all be dead.”

The wheelchair has brakes on each overlarge wheel. Marta engages them and stands up out of the chair.

David’s eyes widen again. “Mom? I thought you had-”

“I didn’t,” she says. “The stroke was just a story. David, we can explain everything to you soon, but right now we need to leave. They’re probably watching you-and now us-as it is.”

“Who’s they?”

“Good question,” I say, wandering toward the two windows in the office. Both have their blinds up. I move to one of the windows, standing off to the side, and peek out through the glass. I check the rooftops across the street, but I can’t spy any snipers, and besides, I figure that if there are snipers over there, they’re expert enough to make sure I can’t see them. As I lower the blind, I say, “I was just as skeptical as you are now, but so far everything tracks.”

“What everything?” David pauses. “Yesterday morning I received an email from Melissa.”

Eli says, “These people killed your sister and her family. They’ve already killed Valerie and her husband and Paul and his family. They even tried to kill John.”

I lower the blind for the second window, force a smile at David. “Luckily, they didn’t succeed.”

David acknowledges Ashley for the first time. Another frown creases his face. “Who’s she?”

Ashley looks like she’s about to speak, but Eli cuts her off.

“David, we don’t have time for this. We need to leave now.”

David shuffles a few steps back until his legs bump against his desk. He places his hands on the desktop, slowly leans back against it.

“If this … if this is all true,” David says, staring down at the carpet, as if running something through his head, “we need to call the police.”

Eli takes a step forward, speaks between clenched teeth. “Do you want to die?”

“What?” David looks up, startled. “Of course not.”

“Then let’s go. Once we’re far away from here, I’ll explain more.”

David slowly nods, still running through something in his head. “Okay. But I need to let my assistants know-”

“Absolutely not,” Eli barks. “What about this situation don’t you understand?”

David’s expression is the kind you might expect had Eli just slapped him across the face. He looks stunned, hurt, confused.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

David blinks, looks over at me.

“Let’s just go, okay?”

He stares at me for a long moment, then slowly nods.

Marta says, “What’s the fastest way down to the street?”

David shrugs. “The elevators, I guess.”

“Are there any secondary elevators blocked off to the public?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “No, there isn’t. There’s a stairwell, but we’d need to go back through the waiting room. Everyone’s going to see me. They’re going to wonder why I’m leaving. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“That it’s an emergency,” Eli says. The stone of his face cracks just long enough for half a smile. “A family emergency.”

David nods again. It’s like he has to psych himself up to do this. I guess that makes sense, though I wish he would hurry up.

“Okay,” my brother says finally. He starts for the door. Just as he places his hand on the handle, an alarm goes off.

In the corner a strobe lights begins to blink, and immediately I’m hit with a sense of déjà vu.

Eli’s hand drifts toward his jacket pocket, where he has his gun. “What’s that?”

“Fire alarm,” David and I say simultaneously.

Ashley speaks for the first time. “Do you think it’s them?”

Eli says, “It’s definitely them.”

Marta leaves the wheelchair behind and starts for the door. “Then let’s go.”

“Wait.” David turns away from the door, hurries back to his desk. “I just need to grab something.”

“Goddamn it,” Eli says, “we don’t have time for this.”

David opens the top drawer. I’m not sure what I expect him to pull out, but it’s certainly not a black pistol with an extra long barrel that I’m pretty sure isn’t the usual kind of thing doctors keep in their desks. The long barrel, I know from years of watching movies and TV, is a silencer. It doesn’t make the bullets completely silent, just suppresses the sound. Which I guess doesn’t matter much while a fire alarm is blaring and a strobe is flashing and people outside the room are no doubt becoming panicked.

“Sorry, Mom,” David says simply, and shoots her in the throat.

forty-four

Improvisation.

Zach hated the word. Even the idea of it pissed him off.

In his line of work, improvisation created too many unforeseen variables. Too many different ways things could spiral out of control. Too many chances of getting yourself killed.

That’s why he always liked having a plan. He knew the world wasn’t perfect, that plans were subject to change, but he’d been pretty lucky in his profession. Almost always things worked out as planned. Sure, there were the occasional hiccups, like those mercenaries back in New York, but for the most part Zach did a good job at sticking with the plan.

Like today, the plan was to wait for Eli and his group to pop up. Zach knew it would happen. After Eli showed up in New York to save John Smith, it made sense Eli would come for David Smith next. After all, David was the only one that hadn’t yet been killed. Eli probably knew they were using David Smith as bait, just as Eli had been using his own kids as bait. What Eli wouldn’t know was that David had a secret.

But improvisation-Zach hated it. It created risks. Sometimes those risks outweighed the benefits. Already things were getting out of hand. Besides the bookstore fire, there was the mess in Hoboken-a fucking police officer shooting civilians no less. The last thing they needed was for more of this to get out.

And so he and Hogan were rushing through the first floor when Tyson told him it was too late, that security was already on their way up to Neurology. And what were the rent-a-cops going to do once they got there? That was a good question. That was an excellent question. No matter how it played out, the end result would be a clusterfuck. Maybe Eli and his group might manage to escape. Maybe they would get taken into custody. And then what? Zach could get to them then, posing as FBI, or someone else could do the same, but between being taken into custody and the moment Zach or someone else got to them, what all would be said? Any chance of exposure was a chance they couldn’t take.

“Set off an alarm,” Zach said into the phone.

Tyson was quiet for a beat. “What?”

“Fire alarm, intruder alarm, I don’t care. Make it happen.”

He disconnected.

Hogan said, “What are you thinking?”

“Chaos.”

As if on cue, the alarms all throughout the hospital began to sound.

forty-five

Marta staggers back a few steps, her hands moving to touch the big bloody hole in her throat. Gravity pulls her down, her legs going weightless. Ashley, standing only a few feet behind her, rushes forward to catch her. She doesn’t make it in time. Marta hits the floor, not hard, but it’s enough to cause her to release a soft grunt. Incredibly, it’s the first sound she’s made since the moment David’s bullet entered her throat.

Eli reaches for his gun.

David says, “Don’t,” aiming now at the man we all had once thought of as our father.

My own hand, I realize, is reaching for my gun as well. Even as I realize this, it doesn’t stop. In the next second or two my fingers will penetrate the pocket lining of my jacket. A second after that, those fingers will wrap around the handle. How many seconds it’ll take for me to pull the gun out of my pocket, however, is another story. If I’m lucky, it will only take another second. If I’m not-if somehow the gun gets caught in the fabric and I’m left struggling with it like an asshole-then who knows how many more seconds before David fires off another shot and puts me out of my misery.

“Don’t, John.”

I blink. Look up at David.

Despite keeping his gun aimed at Eli, my brother is now watching me. “Let go of it.”

I let go of the gun.

“Take your hand out of your pocket.”

I take my hand out of my pocket.

“Now raise your hands.”

I want to tell him no. I want to tell him to go fuck himself. I’m not even sure why it is I want to say these things. Bravery has very little to do with it. At this moment, I’m far from brave. What I am, actually, is pissed. It’s one thing for nameless killers to come after us. It’s an entirely different thing for someone I know-someone who I have always believed was my brother, who is my brother-to kill the woman who raised us.

Hating myself, I raise my hands.

“Now,” David says, his gaze back on Eli, “take out the gun and set it on the floor.”

Eli doesn’t move.

“You don’t think I won’t kill you?”

Eli’s response is an indignant breath: “No.”

“I killed her with no problem, didn’t I?”

Actually, Marta isn’t dead quite yet. She’s getting there, there’s no doubt about it, but right now she’s still alive. Ashley is on the floor with her, cradling her head. Ashley’s entire body shakes as she tries to fight back tears. It’s clear she wants to do something for Marta, but there’s not much she can do but stare down as blood gurgles up from between Marta’s lips and Marta’s eyes stare up at the ceiling, growing emptier and emptier by the second.

“Yes,” Eli says, his voice gruff, “but I’m assuming Matheson’s main beef isn’t with her. I’m the one he wants. That’s why he wants me taken alive, and that’s why you won’t kill me.”

As if proving this theory, Eli takes a step forward.

“Stop!” David shouts.

Eli takes another step.

David squeezes off another round. This one doesn’t hit Eli, but the wall behind him.

Eli doesn’t push it any further. He stays where he is, his hands down at his sides.

David says, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Why not? You’re my son.”

“I am not your son.”

“Then whose son are you?”

David doesn’t answer. His eyes flick down at Marta on the floor, barely holding onto life. He shakes his head again. “I didn’t want to do that, you know. I’ve never … I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“How did they get to you?”

“Blood test. Did you hear about my wife?”

Eli shakes his head.

“Stupid bitch was sleeping around on me. The day I found out and kicked her out of the house, I went and had a blood test. Thankfully I didn’t contract anything.”

“Thankfully,” Eli says.

The space between them is ten, maybe twelve feet. The space between David and Ashley is more like fifteen feet. I’m the farthest away, over twenty feet. I’m also off to the side. I figure if I did decide to act-reach for the gun, pull it out without getting it snagged-I might have the best chance of squeezing off a round or two. That isn’t to say either of those rounds would hit David, or even be near him, but hopefully it would be enough to distract him and allow Eli the time he needed to grab his own gun.

I start to lower my hands.

“Don’t, John.” David glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Keep your hands up.”

Swallowing, I keep my hands up.

Eli asks, “What are we waiting on?”

“Them,” David says. “They’ll be here soon. They knew you were coming. They’ve been waiting all morning.”

“They gave you the gun?”

David nods. “Said that if you showed up, to keep you in the office as long as I could. Said if things got out of hand, I should use it.”

“They tell you to shoot your mother?”

“For starters, she isn’t my mother. And no, they didn’t. But she was the closest person. It just made sense.”

“It just made sense,” Eli says.

“Stop repeating everything I say.”

Eli tilts his head to the side, as if agreeing to stop. “So the blood.”

“Yeah, the blood.” Sweat has sprung up on David’s forehead. “I had the blood test done. I guess they’ve been looking for us, for our DNA. I don’t know the whole operation, but I figure it’s pretty huge. They must have just recently added the DNA to the database, though, because I’d had blood taken before. I figure all of us kids had at one time or another.”

A knock comes from the door.

“Dr. Smith?”

Janice, the angry nurse.

“Don’t speak,” David whispers. “The door is locked. She’ll go away.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Eli asks.

“Then I guess I’ll have no choice but to shoot her. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. Hopefully by that time they’ll have gotten here.”

“What if I do say something? What if I shout?”

“Then she’ll die, and whoever else comes in with her. You want that on your conscience?”

“What all did they tell you?”

“Not everything, but enough. I know your real name. I know you were once a scientist. I know we’re not your real kids.”

“How about what kind of people they are?”

“I don’t care what kind of people they are. All I care about is staying alive. They promised me I would if I cooperated.”

The woman knocks again, calling Dr. Smith, Dr. Smith, are you in there? She tries the knob, realizes it’s locked, and finally walks away.

For a moment there’s silence, besides the ongoing alarm. Then Ashley, still on the floor, still cradling Marta’s head, speaks.

“It was you.”

So far the gun has been steady in David’s hand. Now it begins to waver, if only slightly.

“What?”

“It was you,” Ashley says. “You were the one who contacted Melissa about your father dying. You were the one who talked her into getting everyone together.”

David grins. “It wasn’t that difficult. I knew Melissa would be the best choice. She’s always been the one who tried to keep everyone together. I had the ball, so I put it in her court.”

As he says this last bit, Marta takes her final breath. Her eyes, which have been growing progressively emptier, go blank. Her body seems to relax. Blood is still between her lips, and there is a bubble there, a very small bubble of blood. A second goes by, maybe two, and the bubble bursts.

Bravery, I’ve decided, is for chumps. Survival, on the other hand, is all that matters. Everyone wants to survive. Nobody wants to die. I don’t want to die. Not yet. And that’s why, I think, I take a step forward.

“Don’t,” David says again.

I hesitate, then take another step forward.

David says to me, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Like Eli said, you aren’t going to kill us.”

“No, I’m not going to kill Eli. That’s what they told me, to keep him alive. The girl, too.”

This gives me pause. I glance at Ashley and see confusion on her face. Then, steeling myself, I take another step.

“Don’t do it, John.” David shakes his head slowly, keeping his gaze on Eli. “I don’t want to have to kill you.”

This stops me for a beat. Then, glancing once more at Marta dead on the floor, I start forward again.

“Goddamn it, John, I said stop.”

I don’t stop. I take another step.

“You know what I was just thinking about, David? When we were kids, back at school, remember what those bullies did to you?”

The gun in his hand begins to shake. I can see it in his face that the memories still haunt him. The bullies holding him to the ground, forcing him to eat gobs of spit.

“I could have let them keep torturing you, but I didn’t. I didn’t because you’re my brother. That’s what you do for your brother. You help him when he’s in trouble.”

I take another step forward, decreasing the space between us by maybe another three or four feet.

“Don’t test me, John.”

Like the dumbass I am, I take another step forward.

“I mean it.”

Another step.

“Goddamn it,” David says, the gun in his hand trembling even more.

Another step.

“I warned you.”

He turns so the gun is now aimed right at me.

Five feet between us.

The gun barrel stares back at me.

David stares back at me, little beads of sweat still on his brow.

The alarm keeps blaring, the strobes keep flashing.

I take another step.

“You know what, David?”

“What?”

“You’re an asshole.”

And I spit right in his face.

forty-six

The girl, too.

Three words. Three simple words. Three words out of hundreds that had been spoken in the past couple of minutes, and yet it was those three words that Ashley kept running again and again in her head.

The girl, too.

It didn’t make sense. Why would he have said it like that? It hadn’t been an afterthought so much as a gradual progression of details. It made sense not to kill Eli, not after everything Ashley had heard and pieced together. Whoever this Matheson was, he wanted Eli kept alive, no doubt so he could kill Eli himself. But why keep her alive, too?

This was what she was thinking as John Smith started to make his advance on David Smith, John taking one slow step after another, David telling him to stop and then stop again, until finally John did the most perplexing thing: he spit in his brother’s face.

After that, things started happening very quickly.

Ashley didn’t see exactly where the spit landed, but she heard David cry out. He crumpled, too, bringing his arms in toward his body as he turned away, the gun no longer aimed at either Eli or John. Eli was moving almost instantly. He threw all his weight into David, throwing them both to the floor. The gun hit the carpet and bounced away. David reached for it but Eli shoved him down again, trying to hold him in place.

Eli shouted at John, “Shoot him!”

John dug the gun out of his jacket pocket. He hurried forward, around the desk, because that was where David and Eli were now, David struggling, Eli holding him down.

Ashley blinked. Suddenly she remembered what she was doing. Who she was holding. Still cradling Marta’s head in her hands. The dead woman was staring up at her blankly. Her head, somehow, felt even heavier than it had only a minute ago.

“Shoot him!” Eli shouted again.

She gently placed Marta’s head on the floor. She wanted to close the woman’s eyes but didn’t want to touch the body any more than she already had. This revelation brought shame, and she wanted to force herself to close Marta’s eyes just so she could prove herself wrong. Instead, she rose to her feet, reaching into her jacket pocket for her gun.

Eli and David were still going at it. David threw an elbow, connecting it with Eli’s nose. Eli jabbed a fist at David’s head. They kept struggling, while John loomed over them, aiming the gun.

“Get out of the way,” John said. He kicked David’s gun toward the other side of the room.

Eli rolled away from David. He groaned in pain. He reached for the desktop, started to pull himself up.

David stayed where he was on the floor. It was clear to him he didn’t have any more options. His gun was out of reach. He currently had a gun aimed at him. He just lay there, staring up at John.

“Shoot him,” Eli said.

John kept the gun aimed at David, but he didn’t pull the trigger. “I don’t … I don’t think I can.”

“He was just about to kill you.”

“I know that. But I … I’m not a killer.”

“This isn’t a morality play, John. We’re talking about life and death here.”

Ashley stepped up next to Eli. Her gun, she realized distantly, was in her hand. Without thinking, she leveled it at David’s chest.

John asked her, incredulous, “Are you going to shoot him?”

She had to think about it. “I’m not sure.”

“Goddamn it.” Eli withdrew his own gun. “We don’t have time for this.”

Eli aimed the gun at David but John said, “No, don’t,” and before any of them could respond, John pulled the trigger.

Without the suppressor, the shot was loud, though not as loud as Ashley had expected it to be. Besides, the alarm was still blaring, the strobes still flashing, that the gunshot was just another part of the bedlam.

John’s bullet, however, did not kill David. It did not enter his throat like David’s bullet had entered Marta’s, or his chest, or his head. Instead it entered his leg, his left thigh to be exact. David howled in pain, gripping the leg, squirming on the floor like a fish out of water.

Eli looked up at John, who just shook his head.

“He’s still my brother. I’m not going to kill him.”

Eli seemed to think this over for a moment. He said, “Fine, I will,” and raised his gun at David’s face.

John was moving before Ashley even realized it. He pushed Eli away just as Eli pulled the trigger. The shot went wide.

“What the fuck?” Eli shouted at John. “He killed Marta!”

“We’re not killers.”

“He deserves to die.”

“He’s your son.”

“No,” Eli said, aiming his gun again at David Smith, “he’s not.”

And before John could intervene again, Eli pulled the trigger.

forty-seven

The waiting area is deserted. The flat screen TV still plays that medical infomercial but nobody is watching it. Every chair is empty. A magazine lies on the carpet by the door leading into the hallway, no doubt dropped in haste.

Eli leads the way. He goes to the door, opens it a half inch, peeks through the crack, then lets it shut quietly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“There are people out there. Patients.”

“How many?”

“A dozen or more. They’re still filing into the stairwell.”

“What should we do?”

“We can’t wait here. We’ll have to try for the other stairwell.”

Each of us has a gun in our hands. Without a word, we slip the guns into our jacket pockets. We don’t let go of the guns, though, and keep our hands in our pockets as we step out into the hallway. With the constant blaring and flashing strobes and almost everyone’s back to us, there’s a chance we won’t be noticed.

Our luck this time doesn’t hold out.

“Where are you going?”

It’s Janice, the nurse who only minutes ago knocked on David’s office door. She appears to be overseeing the evacuation process.

“We’re headed that way,” Eli says, and points like it’s no big thing.

She gives her head a matter-of-fact shake. “This section of the floor needs to use this stairwell.” Her brow creases. “Where is Dr. Smith?”

“He’s coming. He told us to use the other stairwell.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes narrow. At first I think it’s with suspicion, and then I realize she’s staring at Ashley.

“Is that … blood?”

Shit.

Eli says, “Let’s go,” and we continue down the hallway. It’s a long hallway. At the end we see a few other people shuffling into a stairwell.

Behind us, Janice yells at us to stop.

We start running. Which probably isn’t the wisest thing to do when fleeing a murder scene, but right now we don’t have much choice.

The crowd of people shuffling into the service stairwell has thinned by the time we reach the door. We still have our hands in our pockets, gripping our guns. Eli slips his out when he reaches the door. He peeks in, then glances back at us and nods.

Here the stairs are narrow, the walls cinderblock. A long steady line of people shuffles down the steps. Not just from this floor, but the upper floors, too.

A few of the employees notice us but don’t give us much thought. Eli takes the lead again and starts to get in line but stops.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“They’ll be expecting us to come down.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“We head up instead.”

forty-eight

With the stairwells packed, they had no choice but to take the elevators. Zach had Tyson override the emergency controls so one of the elevators would work, and they rode it to the third floor where there were only a few stragglers left.

One of them, a meaty woman dressed in a colorful nurse’s outfit, said, “Excuse me, you’re not supposed to be using the elevators during a fire.”

Zach and Hogan stepped past her, heading for the door leading into Neurology.

“Excuse me,” the woman said again.

Both men stopped. They turned back around. The hallway was empty now besides them and the woman.

Hogan asked, “Are you going to be a problem?”

The woman placed a hand on her hip, her eyebrow rising. She looked like she was going to say something, but before she could, Hogan said, “Yeah, you’re going to be a problem,” and placed a bullet right between her eyes.

“Christ,” Zach said. “We’re trying to keep the civilian fatality rate as low as possible.”

“What else would you have had me do?”

They headed into Neurology, through the empty waiting area, through the door leading back to the corridor and waiting rooms. They knew which office was David Smith’s. That was where David was supposed to keep Eli and the others until they got there. It was a simple task, but as they neared, something hollow filled Zach’s stomach. Even before they reached the office and opened the door, he knew something was wrong.

“Help!”

David Smith was on the floor just inside the door. Judging by the trail of blood it looked like he had crawled across the carpet. He was reaching up, either for the handle or for them, it wasn’t quite clear, but what was clear was he had been shot in each leg.

“Please,” David Smith groaned, his voice barely a whisper, “please help.”

They stepped over him and entered the office. Marta lay dead on the floor, her blood soaking into the carpet.

Zach crossed to the window, split the blinds to see the street below. Already crowds were beginning to form as patients and visitors and staff exited the hospital.

“Hey,” David Smith said. “Why aren’t you helping me?”

Hogan made a sweep of the room and then crouched down in front of Smith. “How long ago did they leave?”

“I need … help. My-my-my legs!”

Hogan snapped his fingers repeatedly in front of Smith’s face, and when that didn’t seem to do the trick, he slapped him on the cheek.

Smith groaned again.

“How long ago did they leave?”

“I don’t … I don’t know. They were here and then they left. Please … I need help.”

“Who shot you?”

Smith groaned into the carpet. “My brother … shot me! AndEli!”

Zach had to smile at that. He knew Eli could be a coldhearted son of a bitch, but it surprised him to hear John Smith could be, too. Only, the more he thought about it, something didn’t add up.

“Why?” he asked, turning away from the window.

“What?” Smith frowned up at him in pain. “What why?”

“Why did Eli only shoot you in the leg?” Zach crossed the room, crouched down beside Hogan in front of Smith. “Why didn’t he just kill you?”

Smith blinked up at him. He stared for a moment, then understanding seemed to light up in his eyes.

“No”-shaking his head in a sort of spasm-“no, please don’t.”

Hogan took his gun and placed the barrel against David Smith’s temple. “You had one task. One simple, fucking task.”

“I tried! I did everything I could! But they … they overpowered me!”

Hogan shook his head slowly, making a tsking sound. “One simple task.”

A few moments later, two dead bodies now behind them, they headed back down the corridor for the waiting area. Zach’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Was just about to call you. Eli and his son and the girl slipped us.”

“I know,” Tyson said. “That’s why I’m calling.”

“You found them?”

“Yep.”

“They reach the lobby yet?”

“Not even close.”

“Where?”

“Fifth floor. For some reason they’re headed up.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. They’re playing right into our hands.”

They burst through the waiting room door into the hallway deserted only for the woman’s dead body on the carpet.

Zach said, “We’re headed up now.”

forty-nine

Up they went, past the people coming down, the steps almost too narrow for two people to fit through at the same time but somehow they managed to make it work, keeping to the cinderblock walls and the metal railing and pushing onward.

Ashley didn’t quite understand what Eli was doing, why he was taking them up when they should be headed down, but it was clear he knew more about what was going on than any of them. So far his instincts seemed to be right, even when those instincts had almost gotten them killed. And so they kept going, past the fourth floor, past the fifth floor, until they reached the sixth floor and the continuous line of people almost disappeared completely. They were all behind them now, nothing in front of them, meaning they could keep climbing the stairs without any interruptions.

But that wasn’t Eli’s plan. He stopped at the sixth floor service door, pulled his gun from his pocket. “This way.”

Ashley and John withdrew their guns. She didn’t know about John, but she found a strange form of comfort in the rubber grip. Especially after everything she had experienced in the past two days. Especially after what David Smith said.

The girl, too.

Those words kept echoing in her head. They just didn’t make sense.

Eli went first, then John, then Ashley.

The floor appeared to be empty.

John asked, “What are we doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

Eli was looking up and down the corridor. Something caught his eye.

“Shit.”

“What is it?”

“Of course.” Eli shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about it before. Come on, let’s go.”

They started down the corridor. As they reached the end, Eli took his gun and swatted at the security camera positioned against the wall near the ceiling. He didn’t knock it down, though Ashley didn’t think that had been his intention. What he had done instead was made it so the lens was now focused not down the corridor, but toward the wall.

John glanced back at the camera. “They know exactly where we are.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re probably headed here right now.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t we head down with everyone else?”

Eli stopped to catch his breath. “They were expecting it. They probably have people down on the first floor waiting for us. We would have been walking straight into their arms.”

“But so would everyone else. There would have been a ton of witnesses.”

“You think these people care about witnesses?”

John said nothing to that. Ashley knew Eli had a point.

“My plan,” Eli said, “was to wait this out. They can’t keep this emergency going forever. It’s only been, what, five or ten minutes? They have to know there isn’t a fire by now, that there’s no real threat. They’re going to have to start letting people back into the hospital soon.”

John was nodding. “And when everyone comes back in, we slip out.”

“That was the original plan.”

“What’s the plan now?”

Before Eli could respond, the alarm stopped blaring. There was a sudden deep silence despite the echoing in her head. But the strobes kept flashing, which meant the alarm was still in progress.

“What does that mean?” John whispered.

Eli looked up and down the corridor. “I’m not sure.”

“We can’t wait here. We’re sitting ducks.”

They started back down the corridor, but slowly, the rubber soles of their shoes making small squeaks on the shiny linoleum. In the silence it was the loudest noise, and every time Ashley’s shoe made a squeak she jumped as if it were a gunshot.

It was so quiet that, several seconds later, they heard the faint and distant ding of an elevator as its doors slid apart.

• • •

A door was open nearby. Eli started toward it. John went to follow but paused, looked at her, and motioned her to go first.

Ashley gritted her teeth just thinking about how much her shoes would squeak. After they had come so far, it would be just her luck that her squeaking shoes got them killed. She lifted her foot and extended her leg and placed all her weight on the toe. She leaned forward and brought back her other leg and did the same motion of placing her weight on the toe until she had reached the door. She had done it without any noise, thankfully, and now here Eli was with his gun up, motioning John to hurry as well.

Footsteps sounded out down the corridor.

John made it through the door without any trouble. Here the floor was still linoleum, not carpet like it had been back down in Neurology.

John whispered, “Now what?”

Eli thought about it for a moment. He glanced around the room, which seemed to be a back office with medical equipment. “Stairs.”

“The ones we just used?”

Eli nodded.

John made a face. Clearly he didn’t like it. Ashley didn’t either. She also didn’t think Eli liked it much, but what else was there to do? These men obviously knew they were on this floor. They were already on this floor, for Christ’s sake, coming this direction. Time was running out.

Eli stepped up close to the door. He peeked around the corner. The footsteps were faint, the men no doubt trying to keep quiet, but still it sounded like they were headed this way.

Eli held up his hand. He whispered, “On three, you two run. I’ll cover you.”

John raised his gun in the ready position.

Ashley did the same.

Down the corridor, the footsteps grew closer.

Eli peeked around the corner again. At once his posture changed. He said, “Shit,” and then shouted, “Go!” and raised his gun down the corridor and started shooting.

• • •

John went first. He grabbed her hand, his gun in the other hand, and leaned out the door firing down the corridor. Then he was out and he was running and she was running, too, both of them running backward, firing up the corridor at the two men coming their way. The men were returning fire but the fire was sporadic, a few shots here, a few shots there. The wall coughed plaster and Ashley flinched as pieces hit her face. But still she kept shooting until there were no more bullets left. By then they were at the service stairwell door. She opened the door and started to take a step forward but screamed when she saw two more men standing just inside, both with guns. John, directly behind her, spun around. One of the men fired at John. John dove away as the other man grabbed Ashley’s arm and yanked her through the door and the other one kept firing and the sound in the stairwell made it seem like her head was going to split and she was screaming and tried kicking but someone held her legs in place and then something was over her face, something suffocating her, stealing her breath, and everything went dark.

fifty

One second she’s there, and the next second she’s gone.

It happens just like that.

The gunfire continues down the corridor, Eli shooting at the two men and the two men shooting back at Eli.

And Ashley is now gone, the door slammed behind her.

I push open the door and step into the stairwell and almost get shot. Bullets zing and thwack against the wall. Bits of cinderblock explode.

I duck down, covering my face, and peek over my arm. A man is standing at the top of the stairwell, right where it turns and ascends to the next level. He takes aim and fires again. I dive out of the way, rolling to the wall. I jump back up, my own gun aimed right at where he was standing, and I squeeze off as many rounds as I can before the slide kicks back. I’m no expert, but I know what that means. The gun is empty. Not good.

But it doesn’t matter anyway. My fire scared the man off. At least, he’s not there anymore. My ears are still ringing and there’s the gunfire back in the corridor, but I can just make out the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

I start up the steps, leaning toward the middle and looking up. I see them there, two men and Ashley. One of the men is the one who was just shooting at me. The other has Ashley draped over his shoulder like a fireman.

I shout at them to stop, which I realize a second later is stupid, as my gun’s empty and theirs, presumably, are not. This theory is proven correct when the man who was just shooting at me stops, leans over the railing, and shoots at me again.

Jumping back out of the way, I push myself against the wall, as if pushing hard enough might cause me to become absorbed by the cinderblock.

In that moment I’m aware of several things. My heart pounding in my chest. The footsteps above me heading up to the next level. The sporadic gunfire back in the corridor.

I weigh my options, but the truth is I don’t have many. Fact is, I hardly have any. I could try to go after Ashley, sure, but there are two men with guns-trained killers, no doubt-who still have bullets for their guns, while I currently have none. And then there’s the other option, which is diving back toward the gunfight behind me while, again, my gun is empty. Still, Eli has bullets, and if he doesn’t, well, then we’re both dead.

In the end, my decision is easy.

Because the man who isn’t carrying Ashley, the one who’s been shooting at me, heads back down the steps. Instead of hearing the two sets of footsteps going higher and higher, one is now going higher while the other is coming down. Right at me.

I dive back into the corridor.

• • •

Eli is coming at me right as I step out of the stairwell. He’s walking backward, shooting down the corridor. He bumps into me and spins around, his gun aimed at my face.

“Jesus Christ!” I shout, holding up my hands.

His eyes shift past me at the door. “Where’s Ashley?”

I shake my head, scanning the corridor. The two men are farther down there, making their advance. Behind me, the shooter is coming fast. Across the corridor is an open doorway.

“In there!”

I push Eli toward the doorway. He starts to protest, but that’s when the men farther down the corridor open fire again. Eli returns fire until, quite suddenly, his gun goes silent. By that point we’ve crossed the corridor into the open doorway. I slam the door shut and lock it, as if that’s going to do any good. Maybe provide us an extra second or two, but that’s it.

“I’m out,” Eli says. “How many rounds do you have left?”

“None.”

“Shit.”

Eli throws his gun at the floor, then takes a deep breath and looks around the room. We’re in an office. Filing cabinets line one wall, a counter with medical supplies lines the other. On the other end of the room is a door.

“Help me,” Eli says, charging toward the filing cabinets.

They’re heavy, but we manage to walk them over to the door just as someone tries to open it. A second later someone kicks at the door, but it only buckles in its frame.

Eli starts toward the other door, asking, “Where is she?”

“They took her.”

Eli opens the other door. A light automatically comes on. It looks like a lab. Hell, it is a lab, medical equipment everywhere.

On the other end of the lab is another door. If the layout is the same as David’s floor, then that door will lead out into a corridor that will loop back to the elevators.

We head toward the door, Eli scanning the contents of the lab, while behind us they keep trying to kick down the door with the filing cabinet in front of it. Pretty soon they’ll break the door down. Pretty soon they’ll enter the office and come tearing into the lab, which means we better hurry.

But Eli pauses at the door. He squints at something across the lab.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head and steps out into the corridor. I follow. We’ve gone maybe ten feet when suddenly he stops. Three gurneys are lined up against the wall. Eli goes to the first one, lifts the sheet hiding the bottom.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer me. He checks the second gurney, then the third gurney.

“Jackpot,” he says, bending and extracting a silver canister from beneath the gurney.

“What is that?”

“Oxygen.” He hands me the canister. “Follow me.”

He hurries back into the lab. He goes straight toward the corner where he was looking earlier. Here there’s a row of vials and beakers. He pushes them aside and grabs a Bunsen burner.

Eli snaps his fingers at me. “Give me the lighter.”

I check my pockets before realizing I gave it away. “I don’t have it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

The door in the office buckles again. A few random gunshots accompany it this time.

Eli starts tearing open drawers, rummaging through them.

“What are you looking for?”

He shakes his head, concentrating, and then says, “Aha!” and pulls a flint spark from one of the drawers. He sets it and the Bunsen burner on the counter, then takes the silver canister. He unscrews the top valve, releasing a soft hissing noise.

“Take this and toss it in the office.”

I may sometimes be an argumentative son of a bitch, but at this point I’m not about to question anything. I take the canister and toss it into the office. When I turn back, Eli has the Bunsen burner in one hand, the flint spark in the other. He lights the burner, then looks at me, the seriousness deep in his eyes.

“Run.”

I run toward the other end of the lab just as the office door finally crashes open. I turn back at the last second and watch as Eli holds the Bunsen burner high over his head and then watch as he throws it into the office. The man standing there is the one from the stairwell. He raises his gun, but that’s as far as he gets. The Bunsen burner hits the ground, only inches away from the silver canister, and the world explodes.

The blast is enough to send a shockwave through the lab. Many of the glass vials and beakers shatter. Eli hits the ground, though it’s unclear whether or not it’s from the blast. The office beyond is filled with fire. At least one of the men is screaming. The sprinklers in the ceiling automatically turn on, and that alarm we heard before starts up again.

I scramble toward Eli. I kneel down beside him and ask him if he’s all right. He groans and nods and takes my hand, and I help him back to his feet. We hurry out of the lab into the corridor. Seconds later we’ve looped around to the elevators. The stairwell door is here. Down the hall we can see the three men. One of them is on the ground, motionless, while the two others stand over him. Neither one of them notices us, which is just as well. I let Eli go first, and then we’re in the stairwell headed down.

fifty-one

The first floor isn’t deserted like the others. We come out of the stairwell and there are people everywhere, mostly staff running around and shouting to be heard over the alarm. Whether the alarm had briefly gone off down here is impossible to say. The strobes are still flashing and the alarm is still blaring and almost immediately an employee spots us and hurries over and directs us toward the main exit.

“What’s happening?” Eli asks.

“We’re not sure, sir, but we’re looking into it. For now, please wait outside. We’ll let you know as soon as you can come back in.”

She doesn’t ask for our names, what floor we’re coming from, whether either of us is a patient. She’s too harried, too under pressure, to worry about things like that. She simply ushers us out the glass doors where even more employees are waiting. Someone else directs us toward the street. There are hundreds and hundreds of people lined up on the sidewalk. A few are in wheelchairs, some in beds.

“We did this.”

I speak before I even realize it, my voice a hushed whisper.

Eli says, “What?”

“All of this. We caused it by coming here.”

He shakes his head. “We didn’t do this. They did.”

We attempt to fade into the crowd. It’s not easy. Everyone is clustered so close together we have to force our way through. Many people are on their cell phones, calling loved ones. Some are crying. Sirens can be heard off in the distance, fire and police, though some are already here, a few police cruisers blocking traffic on the street.

I follow Eli and don’t even hear the helicopter at first. But Eli does. He pauses, tilts his head, then turns and looks up at the sky. I do the same.

Taking off from the top of the hospital is indeed a helicopter. But it’s obviously not a medical helicopter-no red cross on the side, nothing to associate it with the Medford Medical Center. It’s just black. And as we and everyone else around us watch, the black helicopter takes off and zooms over the closest buildings and disappears.

Eli tugs at my jacket, prompting me to start moving again.

We fight our way through the crowd, making it to the other side, just as the fire trucks arrive. Because of the cluster of people, they don’t have much room to navigate.

When we reach the next block, I ask, “That was them?”

“I believe so.”

“Where are they taking her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are they taking her?”

For some reason I expect him to give the same answer. He doesn’t. He doesn’t give any answer, either verbal or physical. Not even a grunt. Not even the slightest shake of the head. He just keeps walking.

Soon we’re back in the parking garage. The fourth level is deserted. As Eli approaches the Buick, his pace begins to slow. He takes one deep breath after another. He turns and looks at me. I expect him to say something but he just stares. After several long seconds, he shakes his head and turns back to the car.

“Hey.”

He turns back to me.

“Now what?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. It’s over.”

“What about Ashley?”

“What about her?”

“They’re going to kill her.”

“No they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Why?”

Eli opens the driver’s door. “We should go.”

“Where?”

“Away.”

“And just, what, run for the rest of our lives?”

“Run. Hide. It’s all the same.”

“Everyone is dead now.”

“No,” Eli says, “not everyone. You and I are still alive.”

“But for how much longer?”

Holding the car door open, he gestures for me to get inside.

I don’t move.

Smiling, he shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s remarkable seeing it in you. You want to go back there and fight more of the bad guys, don’t you?”

I say nothing.

“And then what are you going to do if you find them?”

“Kill them.”

“Are you a killer now? You couldn’t even kill David.”

“Neither could you.”

“But I should have. He killed Marta. He deserved to die.”

“Then why did you let him live?”

“What do you want me to say, John? That it was a moment of weakness? Fine, it was a moment of weakness. The only reason I’ve survived this long is that I never show mercy to my enemies. If you show mercy, even the slightest bit, it can get you killed. That’s something you need to understand. And David-he betrayed you. He betrayed all of us. He was our enemy. We should have killed him.”

“So now what?”

“Now nothing. This was a once and done thing. We only had one shot to make this work and take out Matheson. For some reason I thought we had a chance, but fate had other ideas. Now come on, we can’t wait any longer. There are cameras everywhere. One of them may have spotted us.”

“Why is she special?”

“What?”

“Ashley. Why won’t they kill her?”

Eli takes another deep breath. He looks like he’s going to say something, but hesitates. His eyes light up.

“What is it?”

“The lighter I gave you. What happened to it?”

“I gave it to Ashley.”

Immediately he shuts the door and marches to the back of the car. He pops the trunk and starts rummaging first through one duffel bag, then the next.

“Should I even bother asking what you’re doing?”

He doesn’t answer, not at first, but when he finds a thick black device, he turns to me and says, “The lighter is more than just a lighter. It’s also a tracker.”

He opens the device. It’s like a small laptop. A screen on one side, a few buttons on the other. He powers it up and then looks around at our surroundings.

“We might not be able to get a strong reading because of the concrete.”

“How accurate is it?”

“Extremely. Assuming she still has it and that they didn’t search her and empty all her pockets.”

He presses a few of the buttons. The screen lights up. At first nothing appears on it until lines begin to waver and solidify. Soon it shows a map of the entire United States. Then, quickly, the picture shifts as it begins to zoom into the New England section of the country. It keeps zooming until it shows Milford.

“I’ll need to zoom back out.”

“This is GPS?”

“Yes. In fact … ah, here we go.”

On screen a red blinking dot has appeared.

“Where is it headed?”

“South.”

“How far away?”

“At least ten miles from our current location.” Eli steps back and slams the trunk. The device in hand, he starts for the driver’s door. “Let’s go.”

I don’t move.

He opens his door and looks at me. “What’s wrong now?”

“Ashley,” I say. “You don’t really want to save her.”

I don’t form it as a question, so it’s not surprising when he doesn’t answer.

“This is just a second chance to get to Matheson. This is just another way to continue your … mission.”

Eli blinks down at the device. He sets it inside the car and then places his arms on the hood.

“What do you want me to say, John? That I’m a bastard? That I was a shitty father? We already went through this once. If you want to hate me, hate me. At this point I don’t care. I have one purpose right now, and that’s getting to Matheson. And if tracking Ashley to wherever the hell they’re taking her gets me to Matheson, then so be it.”

“Even if it means getting her killed?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“If I got killed, would you even give a shit?”

Again he gives no response.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s why you gave me that lighter, isn’t it? Not to try to keep me safe. You gave it to me so if I got taken by these assholes you could find me. Only you didn’t care about actually saving me if that happened. I was just a means to an end. We all were.”

Eli takes a deep breath, pushing off the car. “Five minutes ago you were ready to go back to the hospital to kick some ass. Now listen to yourself.”

I say nothing.

“You want to keep making me out to be the villain, fine. Ignore the fact that if it wasn’t for me, you and your brothers and sisters would have ended up as soldiers in this nameless war. And if not soldiers, then something worse. It’s because of me you all got a different life. It’s because of me you all had the chance to make something of yourselves. And you know what? Your brothers and sisters did. They did incredible things. But you”-he shakes his head in disgust-“what did you ever do besides just skate by all your life?”

I say nothing.

“I’ll be the bad guy if that’s what makes you happy. If that’s what you need to keep kidding yourself you didn’t waste your life. Blame it on your old man, that’s fine. Why else did you think I gave you such a hard time when you kept asking for money? I expected more out of you. Especially with your advantage.”

“What advantage?”

Eli starts to answer, but then something catches his attention. He leans down into the car, comes back up with the device.

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“I think I know where they’re going.”

Without a word I start toward the passenger door and climb inside. Eli hands me the device. On the screen I watch the red blinking dot move farther and farther away from our location.

“So tell me,” I say. “Why are you so certain they won’t kill her?”

He starts the engine, lets it idle for a couple long seconds, then offers up a sad, distant smile. “You mean you haven’t figured that out by now?”

fifty-two

The first thing Ashley became aware of was the smell. It smelled like … home. Not her home home-where she grew up as a girl, where she played with her dolls and stuffed animals-but her summer home. They had the same kind of smell-that perpetual familial scent-only this was slightly different. It smelled … like the ocean.

She opened her eyes.

It was dark. The curtains were closed. Hardly any light streamed in through the slits.

She was lying in bed-her bed, she realized a second later, noticing the pictures on the walls, the bedside table, even the white-painted dresser.

This was her summer home, or rather her parents’ summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. Growing up, Ashley had come here every summer, sometimes during the off season too for one event or another, and this had always been her bedroom, back when she was a little girl and even until recently when she visited her parents and stayed for a couple days.

But … no, that couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be here. Not right now, not after everything that had just happened.

A comforter was covering her, keeping her warm. She pushed it off and slowly sat up. At once her head pulsed with pain and she had to close her eyes, stop moving for a couple of seconds until the uneasiness subsided. On the bedside table was a tray with a soup bowl. The bowl was empty but she could still smell chicken noodle soup. Campbell’s, most likely, the only soup her mother trusted to fight a cold. A few saltines lay beside the soup bowl.

Feeling confident that her head wouldn’t throb again, she swung her feet out from under the sheets and onto the floor. Her feet were bare. She was, however, wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.

She stood, just as slowly, and shuffled over to the window. She pushed the curtain aside. Water lapped away down by the sand. The light was fading-the sun almost set-but she could just make out Nantucket across the sound.

Well, that settled it. This was her summer home. But what was she doing here?

She went to the door and opened it as quietly as she could. She thought she remembered it squeaking at some point, but the door swung open without sound. She stepped out into the hallway. Here framed pictures lined the walls. Pictures of Ashley and her parents. Pictures of just her parents. Pictures of her father with important people-celebrities, politicians, even the first President Bush.

She tiptoed down the hallway, then down the stairs, taking them slowly, quietly, not wanting to make the slightest noise. The pain had faded, but her head still pounded. It was like she was hungover, only she couldn’t remember having anything to drink. What she did remember, though …

“Ashley, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

She blinked. Her mother stood in the kitchen by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Her mother was smiling at her, waiting for a response, but when none was forthcoming the smile faded.

“Ashley? Are you feeling better? If you’re not, maybe you should go back to bed.”

“How did I get here?”

“How did you get here?” Her mother looked confused. “Why, you came here with us. We drove up yesterday. Then you came down with the flu, and …” Her mother’s voice trailed away, worry filling her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Ashley shuffled farther into the kitchen. She pulled out one of the stools from the counter, carefully lowered herself down onto the cushioned seat.

“Oh dear.” Her mother leaned forward and touched the back of her hand to Ashley’s forehead. “You still feel warm. Maybe you should lie back down.”

“Why are we here?”

“Dear?”

“Why am I here with you? Shouldn’t I … shouldn’t I be at work?”

Her mother just frowned at her. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Is our little girl up?”

Her father walked through the French doors leading in from the living room. He wore his reading glasses and carried an iPad. He smiled at her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Feeling better?”

Her mother said, “I think she’s still running a fever.”

The smile dropped from her father’s face. “Well, that’s not good. Maybe you should go back to bed.”

Ashley quickly stood up, the legs of the stool scraping loudly against the hardwood floor.

“I want to know what’s going on here.”

Her parents exchanged a confused look.

“Honey,” her mother said, “we don’t know what you mean.”

“Everything”-Ashley shook her head, trying to get a sense of everything that had happened and all that was happening now-“it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?” her father asked.

“Everything after Melissa’s death.”

Her parents exchanged another look, only this one was filled with sadness.

“Yes,” her father said softly, “we were sorry to hear about that.”

“Such a tragedy,” her mother agreed.

“That’s why we came up here.” Her father forced a smile. “You said it was too difficult to deal with and you wanted to get away, so we drove up. Then you came down with a fever and have been in bed most of the time.”

Ashley was shaking her head. “No. No, that’s not what happened.”

Her mother frowned. “Dear?”

“Melissa-”

“Yes,” her father said, “we know what Melissa did. It’s awful, but what’s done is done. I know it hurts, especially as she was a close friend and you just had lunch with her the other day, but we need to do our best to push forward.”

“What about Jeff?”

“Who?”

“I worked with him at the paper. He died.”

“Oh dear,” her mother said. “What happened?”

“He was killed.”

Another exchanged glance between her parents.

“Ashley,” her father said, “are you sure this wasn’t in your nightmare?”

“My … what?”

“You were having a nightmare earlier. You kept tossing and turning in bed, talking in your sleep. Your mother tried waking you to get you to eat some soup. Don’t you remember?”

Ashley wasn’t sure what to say. A nightmare? Yes, everything that had happened was a nightmare in one way or another. But it had been real. Hadn’t it? Yes, it had. Or at least she thought it had been real. Only …

“Melissa,” she whispered.

Another hesitant glance between her parents, and then her father, frowning: “Yes?”

“How did you know I had lunch with her?”

Her father hesitated. “You told us you did. When you came over to our place Monday night.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, dear,” her mother said. “You told us about her father and how he had … well, how he had taken his own life.”

Ashley was shaking her head again. “No, I purposely didn’t mention Melissa. So how did you know it was her?”

The look that crossed between her parents this time was filled with desperation. They both appeared completely lost, unsure what to say or do next. First her mother opened her mouth to speak, then her father shook his head and motioned at her to stop.

Ashley began backing away from them. “What’s happening? What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Ashley”-her father attempted a small smile-“you realize your mother and I love you very much, don’t you?”

“Yes,” her mother said, nodding vigorously, “we love you deeply. And we, we, we would never want anything to happen to you.”

Ashley kept backing away from them. She didn’t know where she was going, exactly, only that she wanted-needed-to get away from her parents.

“We can make this work,” her father said. “I promise you, we can make this work.”

His words didn’t make sense to her. She wasn’t sure why, until an instant passed and she realized he wasn’t even speaking to her. He was facing her, yes, but his gaze was focused on something behind her.

A second later she went to take another step back but couldn’t go any farther. Something solid stopped her. She turned around to find she had walked into a man. Another man stood beside him. She thought she recognized one of them but couldn’t be sure. Both had guns in their hands.

One of the men released a weary sigh. “Guess it’s time for Plan B.”

fifty-three

We stand against the railing and stare out over the water. The ferry moves at a moderate pace. Several people are outside their vehicles, while a few others wait inside by themselves or with friends or family. Where Eli and I stand, nobody is nearby, which is just as well as our conversation probably isn’t suited for innocent ears.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Eli says.

Watching the island as we approach it, I nod distantly. “Of course you do.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve been truthful about everything else so far. Yes, granted I may have not been so forthcoming with some of the truth, but eventually I told you everything.”

“I guess that makes everything okay, then.”

He ignores my sarcasm. “The work Marta and I and the others were initially doing, to try to cure autism, it all narrowed down to trying to perfect cells. It certainly wasn’t an easy task, and it took years of research, not to mention the decades of research that had been done before us, and quite honestly, I doubt they’ve succeeded yet. If there is a cure for autism, don’t expect anyone to know about it.”

“Eli?”

“Yeah.”

“How about sticking to the point.”

“Right. So anyway, when Marta and I began investigating what Matheson was up to, we came across several files that detailed projects which were … extraordinary, to say the least. These researchers were continuing with the manipulation of cells, only they were trying to change them at will.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they tried to isolate different cells during the embryonic period. Cells that would determine a person’s height, weight, even their hair color. What Matheson ultimately wanted to do was isolate the neural stem cell that would eventually form an individual’s fear. Not just the amygdala, which some believe is the fear center of the brain, but every cell associated with the emotion of fear. Matheson believed that while everyone has the fight-or-flight instinct, it’s possible to tweak it so that flight is never an option.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re saying that essentially these people would experience no fear?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Matheson’s ultimate task-what he had been hired to do by this new backer-was to create an army. And what good are soldiers if they experience fear?”

“Everyone experiences fear.”

“Do you?”

He’s watching me from the corner of his eye, and it gives me pause.

I turn to him, leaning against the railing. “Yes, of course I experience fear. Just the other day I was afraid I was going lose my job. I was afraid what would happen to David unless we saved him.”

“But those are base fears. Being afraid of losing your job is something everyone has, because they’re expected to. The same with fear for the safety of loved ones. I’m talking about true, animalistic fear. Tell me, when the barrel of David’s gun was pointed at your face, were you afraid?”

I say nothing. I think about what Duncan said to me right before he died-how I had a death wish. Maybe it wasn’t a death wish, after all. Maybe it was just that death didn’t scare me.

“Remember in the parking garage, how you wanted to head straight back to the hospital? You’ve never been afraid a day in your life. Just like your sister.”

This catches me off guard.

“Who?”

“Melissa. I believe she was much like you. The rest of you kids not so much. But Melissa had no fear. That’s what made her a great lawyer. She could face the most hardened criminals and not even blink. Her family, though, was her only weakness. I believe she loved and cared for her husband and children very much. If she had any fear, it was the base fear that something might someday happen to them.”

The ferry bounces up and down as we head closer and closer to Martha’s Vineyard. Judging from the distance and our speed, we’ll be there in less than ten minutes.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want there to be no more secrets between us. Plus, I thought you should know so that way you can be careful.”

“You don’t think I’m careful?”

He gives me a dry look. “You’re entire life has been riddled with careless mistakes.”

“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?”

“I knew it when you were a kid. When your mother had you children at the house in Georgia. You would climb the trees in the backyard as high as you could. You always tried going higher.”

“I fell from one of those trees. Broke my leg.”

“That’s right. By then I was out of your life, but I always checked in with Marta. She told me what happened. I was curious to hear what you would do once your leg healed. And do you remember what you did?”

I nod, remembering it perfectly, but say nothing.

“You climbed that tree again. You didn’t even hesitate. Don’t you understand what fear is? A child touches a hot stove, that child knows the stove is hot and not to touch it again. He becomes afraid of the stove. That’s where we learn fear, from experience. But you, John, you just climbed that tree again. You experienced pain and knew what could happen, but you didn’t care. You learned from the mistake, and you pushed on.”

The island is very close now. Everyone else has begun drifting toward their cars.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want to see you die. You may not be afraid of these people or what we’re about to do, but you should be.”

“But don’t you think it’s a good thing, if it’s true? If fear is such a weakness, then I’m better off not having it.”

“That’s the major flaw in Matheson’s work. An army without fear would soon be a dead army. It’s only until they understand fear is vital to their existence will they survive.”

Eli pulls something from his jacket pocket, places it in my hand.

“And in the end, John, we should all want to survive.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply and slides past me toward the Buick. I watch him go, holding the lighter he just gave me. It’s much like the one he first gave me at that truck stop and which I later gave to Ashley, only this one isn’t nearly as heavy. I weigh it in my hand for a couple more seconds, then toss it over the side where it bounces with the waves like a tiny ship about to capsize.

• • •

We drive by the house once without stopping, just to check it out. It’s an impressive two-story overlooking the water. The thing probably costs a couple million dollars. In the driveway are two cars. One is a silver Mercedes. The other is a black SUV.

Eli says, “One is not like the other.”

We do a U-turn at the end of the road and head back. The rest of the homes are quiet. A few have lights on, but nobody is outside. The sun has almost set.

Eli parks the Buick along the street and cuts the engine. “Remember, from here on out, don’t worry about what happens to me. It’s the others that are the priority. It’s the others that you must save.”

I’m gripping the gun in my lap a little too tightly. My thumb touches the safety as I think back to Hoboken, the cop standing over me, and how in that instant I thought I was going to die but wasn’t afraid.

“John.”

I blink, tear my gaze away from the gun. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure you can do this?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He reaches for the door. “Now let’s go see if anybody’s home.”

fifty-four

The men with the guns told her to walk to the living room.

Ashley looked around the kitchen, searching out anything she could use as a weapon or some form of escape. But then her gaze settled on her mother’s face and the sadness in her mother’s eyes, and Ashley knew it was no use. It was no accident these men happened to show up when they did. They had been here the entire time. Ashley hadn’t been having any nightmare, at least none of the sleep variety. Everything that had happened had truly happened, and these men had taken her from the hospital and brought her here to her parents’ summer home. And her parents-her parents! — played along with whatever story they had been fed.

“Mom?”

Her mother just shook her head. Tears began to well up in her eyes.

One of the men behind her said, “Move,” and shoved her forward.

“Hey,” her father said loudly. “There’s no need for that.”

“Sorry, sir,” the man mumbled.

A hand touched her back again and pushed her forward, this time more gently.

Ashley started moving. Past the counter and her mother. Past her father who couldn’t seem to meet her eye. Into the living room where there was a small fire going in the fireplace, the flames licking the stone and crackling the wood.

“The couch,” one of the men said, and Ashley, purely out of spite, lowered herself into one of the leather armchairs facing the fire.

Her parents shuffled into the living room, her father holding her mother’s arm for support. They sat on the couch. Her mother had begun to cry silent tears. Her father comforted her mother as best he could, telling her that it was okay, that everything would be all right, and then looked up at the two men and motioned at Ashley.

“May I?”

One of the men nodded for her father to go ahead.

Before her father could speak, though, Ashley asked the two men, “Are you going to shoot me?”

Neither man answered.

“If you’re not going to shoot me, can you at least put away the guns?”

The men didn’t look like they were going to give her any response. Then, after a moment, the one man holstered his gun, followed by the second man.

“Thanks,” Ashley said. “Oh, and while you’re at it, you can go fuck yourselves.”

“Ashley,” her mother gasped.

Her father was shaking his head. “Ashley, these men are not here to harm you. They’re simply here to … make sure everything goes according to plan.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure they’re responsible for Melissa and her family’s death.” She looked up at the two men. “How did you do it? How did you make it look like a murder-suicide?”

Neither man answered.

Her father said, “Ashley, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. These men are here to help you.”

“Help me?” She wanted to laugh. “They’ve been trying to kill me.”

“Ms. Walker,” one of the men said, “I can assure you that isn’t the case. There has been some … confusion about certain matters that your parents are now going to explain.”

“Confusion?” Ashley looked from the men to her parents and then back to the men. “You mean about Melissa and her family being murdered?”

A tissue box sat on the coffee table. Her mother leaned forward and plucked a tissue and immediately began dabbing her eyes. Her father placed his arm around her, kissed her head, took a deep breath.

“Ashley, your mother and I love you very much. It was always our dream when we first got married to have a child. Several children, in fact. But, well, this wasn’t meant to be. Your mother and I were heartbroken. We wanted a child to share our life and our legacy with. We looked into adoption and considered a number of agencies. But then … we became aware of another route.”

Ashley didn’t know why it had taken this long, but everything began falling into place. “No,” she said quietly. “This … this can’t be happening.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, but nothing bad ever happened to you, even before you came into our lives.”

Ashley started shaking her head, her body now trembling, the entire room beginning to shift and tilt around her. She tried standing but her legs had gone weak and she fell back down onto the armchair.

“I know this is difficult to accept,” her father said, “but just remember that your mother and I love you. We did everything we could to make sure you had the very best life possible. And you did, didn’t you? You had a great childhood. You have a great life.”

Her body still trembling, her head still shaking, Ashley attempted to stand once more. This time she managed to stay up, despite the weakness in her legs.

The men with the guns started to take a step forward, either to help keep her steady or push her back down onto the chair.

Her father said, “Don’t,” and raised a hand to stop them.

The men stopped.

Ashley said, “I … you … no …”

Her mother was openly weeping now. She plucked another tissue from the box and blew her nose.

“It’s going to be difficult at first,” her father said. “We understand that it will be hard to accept the truth. But just remember that we love you. Remember that you will always be safe.”

She wanted to run away. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab one of the men’s guns and use it to shoot herself in the head. It was such a wild, irrational thought, but after everything she had gone through, after everything she had learned, to find out that she had been …

No. She refused to accept that. She refused to believe she had been a test tube baby. Born in a lab. Born for purposes other than what she eventually became.

“How?” she whispered.

Her father frowned. “How?”

“How can you be associated with these monsters?”

Her father opened his mouth but said nothing. He appeared to be at a loss. He even looked toward Ashley’s mother for help, but the woman was still crying, clearly no help at all. It didn’t matter anyway, because at that moment, the doorbell rang.

fifty-five

Zach immediately reached for his gun.

Hogan waved him off. He said, “Mr. Walker, does anyone on the island know you’re here?”

The old man thought about it for a moment. “I don’t believe so. But we have several neighbors who live here year round. They may have noticed our car out front and came to say hello.”

“Have any of your neighbors been known to do this in the past?”

Before the old man could answer, the girl said, “Christ, I’ll answer the door,” and started toward the hallway.

Zach stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

She glared up at him. “Move.”

He didn’t even bother shaking his head. “Ma’am, maybe you should have a seat.”

Her jaw clenched. “This is my house, and I’ll answer the goddamned door if I want to.”

The old man said, “Ashley, please, sit down.”

She didn’t move.

Hogan said, “Ashley? I know you don’t want to believe it, but we’re not here to hurt you. In fact, we’re here to protect you and your family. So if you could sit down until we get this all sorted out, that would be great.”

Still Ashley didn’t move.

The doorbell rang again.

Hogan released a breath. “Zach, check and see who it is.”

“That’s not necessary,” the old man said. He started to stand from the couch. “I can get it.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Sir,” Hogan said, “it’s best if one of us checks it out first. Zach?”

Zach broke his staring contest with the girl. He turned away and started down the hallway. He could see a figure out on the porch. It appeared to be one person, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t potentially be others hiding nearby. Then again, maybe it was a neighbor who simply wanted to stop by and say hello.

He withdrew his gun and held it at his side as he approached the door. The light was on in the hallway. There was no light on outside. It was dark enough outside which put Zach at a disadvantage. It would be best if the hallway had no light but the porch did, so he could peek out the window and see who was there before opening the door.

The doorbell rang a fourth time.

There were two switches beside the door. Zach tried the one, but it extinguished the hallway light. He turned it back on, flipped the second switch. The light outside came on. He peeked through a slit in the curtain and immediately turned his head and shouted, “Hogan, come here!” and then realized that was a mistake, as he no doubt warned the man on the other side of the door.

Fuck it. He could hear Hogan hurrying down the hallway but he couldn’t wait any longer. He tore open the door and there stood Eli, looking a little worse for wear, smiling back at him.

“Hi,” he said, his voice chipper, “I’m selling magazine subscriptions. Would you be interested in purchasing one?”

Zach aimed his gun right at Eli’s face.

“Well,” Eli said, “a simple ‘no thanks’ would suffice.”

Hogan hurried up behind him and then stopped dead. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Eli asked, “Would you be interested in buying a magazine subscription?”

Hogan said, “Get him inside and search him.”

Keeping the gun leveled at Eli’s face, Zach grabbed the older man and pulled him into the house. Hogan then covered Eli with his own weapon as Zach patted him down.

“He’s clean.”

Hogan said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry”-Eli looked back and forth at them, frowning-“do I know either of you two gentlemen?”

Zach asked, “What should we do with him?”

“I’m not sure,” Hogan said.

And that’s when, back in the living room, someone screamed.

fifty-six

At first it doesn’t look like the plan is going to work. Only one of the men leaves the living room. The other one stays with Ashley and her parents. He isn’t holding a gun, though it’s clear he has one. If what Eli said is true-and so far all the evidence points in that direction-then Ashley’s parents are very well connected, so connected, in fact, that men who are trying to kill us treat them like royalty.

So I’m not surprised the man here doesn’t treat Ashley poorly when she refuses to sit back down. He asks nicely. When she doesn’t comply, he asks nicely again. Then, finally, the other one calls for him and he leaves Ashley and her parents alone in the living room. Ashley turns back to her parents, her face burning red. Then she looks up and sees me as I step closer to the patio door. She might not notice it’s me at first, and it looks like she’s ready to do something-call out, maybe-so I press my face as close to the glass as I can with a finger to my lips.

Inside, Ashley’s father asks her a question. She blinks and asks him to repeat what he just said. He does. She shakes her head and hurries forward, past her parents on the couch, to the patio door. She turns the deadbolt and opens it. Saves me the trouble of having to break glass.

“What are you doing here?”

Before I can respond, her mother screams.

It’s more of a startled scream than anything else, but it’s enough to set things in motion.

“I’m here to rescue you,” I say, and hand her a gas mask.

“What’s this for?”

“Just put it on.”

“Ashley,” her father shouts, “get away from him!”

Footsteps stampede down the hallway toward us.

Ashley’s mother screams again.

Her father once more shouts at her to get away.

Ashley still hasn’t taken the gas mask, and for a moment I realize this entire plan has fallen apart. The whole purpose-well, okay, half of the purpose-is saving Ashley. But what if she doesn’t want to be saved? According to Eli, because of who her parents are, Ashley will get a free pass. Her life will stop being in danger. She’ll be allowed to return to her old life, no questions asked. Sure, there will be questions, no doubt about it, but she’ll manage to make things work and by this time next year it will be like none of this ever happened.

The two men are almost to the living room. They’re not moving as fast because they’re dragging Eli with them. Eli is doing the best he can to put up a fight, but it’s not much. Time is running out.

“Come on,” I urge Ashley, and show her the tear gas canister in my other hand.

She takes the gas mask and places it on her face.

Her mother screams again.

Her father shouts again.

The two men enter the living room and raise their guns.

I pull the pin on the canister and toss it. At once there’s a flash and a white cloud begins to spread. Ashley starts toward the patio door but I push her back into the living room, securing a gas mask over my own face. One of the men lets off a round in our direction. Glass shatters. Ashley’s mother tries to scream again, but it turns into a fit of coughing.

The gas becomes thick fast. I take Ashley’s hand and lead her into the kitchen, then down the hallway. I’m aware of Ashley’s parents coughing behind us. I’m aware of a couple more shots going off.

We reach the front door, where just seconds ago Eli was standing. I tear it open and push Ashley through. I don’t bother closing it. I now have a gun in hand and raise it toward the hallway, keeping it aimed as we start down the steps in case one of the men appears.

Ashley tears off her gas mask. She’s breathing heavily. “Now what?”

Taking off my own gas mask, I say, “Now we run. The car’s down the road.”

“Where’s Eli?”

I shake my head.

“We can’t just leave him.”

“That’s what he wants. It’s part of the plan.”

“What plan?”

“I’ll explain later. But first, how pissed off are you at your parents?”

“Pretty pissed. Why?”

I hold up a detonator. “Eli and I set some charges around the house earlier. It’s not going to kill anybody, but it’s going to bring the property value down and should, hopefully, give us some time.”

Ashley barely even gives it a second’s thought. She hold out her hand, says, “Let me,” and when I place the detonator in her palm, she immediately uses her thumb to squeeze the plunger.

fifty-seven

Zach didn’t mind tear gas. It wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, of course, but it was far from being his most hated. Like Hogan, he had been trained well. He was always ready for the worst he might encounter. He was accustomed to the burning in his eyes and the back of his throat, and he was prepared when John Smith tossed the tear gas canister. So was Hogan. That was how they managed to get Eli and the Walkers out of the house as quickly as possible.

While Eli was certainly important to their mission, the Walkers were even more important; after all, they were members of the Inner Circle. Hogan was the one who led them out the patio door and down the patio steps. Both of them fell to their knees in the grass, coughing and gagging.

Zach dragged Eli out and threw him aside. He wasn’t worried that Eli would run off. Even if he did, he wouldn’t get far.

“Breathe,” Hogan was telling the Walkers. “Take deep breaths.”

He turned toward Zach and was about to speak when one of the trees in the backyard exploded. A second later another tree exploded, followed by a third. The charges had been set near the bases of the trees. For a moment nothing happened, and then they began to fall forward, right toward the house, their branches and leaves shaking in anticipation, until they crashed onto the roof and into the side of the house.

Luckily, they were far enough from the closest tree that no harm came their way. Still, Mrs. Walker screamed and Mr. Walker shouted. Eli, still on the ground, tried to crawl away, and Zach stepped over and kicked him once in the ribs.

“Shit,” Zach said to Hogan, reaching for his phone. “That’s going to draw attention.”

He dialed Tyson, and when the tech answered, he said, “You’re going to need to divert all emergency calls on the island for the next several minutes.”

“What happened?”

“Eli and his kid set charges on the trees around the house. They just went off.”

“Eli and his kid?” There was both incredibility and excitement in Tyson’s voice.

“Yeah, that sort of threw us, too. Unfortunately, the Walker girl and John Smith have taken off. But it’s not like they’re going to get far. It’s an island, for Christ’s sake. We have anybody across the water who can wait for them at the ferry?”

A slight pause as Tyson checked the database. Finally he said, “No, but I can get someone there in twenty minutes.”

“Do it. Also any marinas nearby should be monitored.”

“We don’t have the extra people for that.”

“Make it happen. I want them found.”

“Are the Walkers okay?”

“They’re fine. Just a little sick from the tear gas.”

“Tear gas?”

“We’ll be headed to the airport in the next minute. Make sure the jet’s ready for us.”

“I’m on it,” Tyson said, and clicked off.

Zach slipped the phone back in his pocket. He noticed Eli was trying to crawl away again, and again Zach kicked him in the ribs. He leaned down, grabbed a fistful of Eli’s hair, and yanked him to his feet.

“What are you up to?”

Eli said nothing.

“How did you find this place?”

“I told you,” Eli said, his voice screwed up in pain, “I’m selling magazine subscriptions.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hogan called. He was helping the Walkers to their feet. “We’ll get our answers later.”

“What about the other two?”

“They can’t leave the island without us knowing. We’ll get them.”

They started toward the front of the house, smoke and dust thick in the air, Hogan helping Mrs. Walker as she sobbed, “Our home-our beautiful, lovely home.”

fifty-eight

“The lighter, huh?” Ashley laughs, shaking her head. “And all this time I thought smoking would eventually get me killed, not save my life.”

We’re parked behind a restaurant. It’s been fifteen minutes since we made our escape. I had expected to pass some police cars, even a fire truck or two, but there was nothing, just normal sporadic traffic.

A beat of silence passes, and Ashley says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Saving my life. I didn’t think I’d ever see you guys again.”

“The way Eli explained it to me, you were probably better off playing along with your parents.”

She shudders. “I don’t even want to think about it. But, well, I do feel kind of guilty.”

“About what?”

“Having those trees fall on the house. I understand the need to do it, but I … I wanted it to be worse. I wanted the whole thing to go up in flames.” She frowns. “Why didn’t we blow up the cars, too?”

“Remember, we just wanted enough time to get away. We didn’t want to leave them without a vehicle, for Eli’s sake.”

“Right,” she says, nodding, then gives me a curious look. “Have you accepted it yet?”

“What?”

“The truth of where you came from.”

“I’m still working through it, I guess.”

“I keep thinking about it. Had they told me I was adopted, that would be one thing. I could deal with that. It wouldn’t be a big thing. But to find out that I …” She shakes her head again. “They really do love me, though.”

“You want to go back?”

“What? Hell no. Not after everything I now know about these people. And my parents, somehow being part of all this …”

She shudders again.

The back door of the restaurant opens and a guy comes out, carrying two garbage bags. He takes the bags to the dumpster, throws them in, then pauses to light himself a cigarette.

Ashley says, “I’m sorry about Eli.”

“I told you, leaving him is part of the plan.”

“You really think it’s going to work?”

“He said there would be surrogates there. Women pregnant with babies just like us.”

“But …”

“How can I trust him? Yeah, he’s lied to me too many times. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive him for a lot of things, but I do know the one thing he wants above all else is to stop Matheson.”

“But these people,” Ashley says, “they’re too well trained. You and I won’t be able to stop them.”

“Like I told you, we won’t.”

“Because that’s not part of the plan.”

I nod. “That’s right.”

The guy ditches his cigarette and heads back inside. He barely even glances our way. There are a dozen cars parked back here, probably all belonging to employees.

“The main thing right now,” I say, “is getting off this island. The problem is, we can’t take the ferry.”

“Right. So, what, we swim?”

She says it with a smile in her voice, trying to ease the tension, but I only shrug.

“If we have to.”

There’s another beat of silence, and then Ashley speaks again.

“I think I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s this guy I know who still lives on the island. Or at least he did the last time I checked. We went out a few times years back before he got married and had kids. If I tell him I need to use his boat, I’m sure he’ll let us take it. In fact, he might even offer to drive it.”

I pull Eli’s phone from my pocket. “You don’t have the number memorized, do you?”

“No, but if that thing has Internet, a quick search will bring it up.”

I go to hand her the phone when headlights splash the vehicles to our left. A car is coming this way around the restaurant. A police cruiser, actually, two cops inside. In another second their headlights will be aimed right at us.

“Shit.”

I go to turn on the car-why, I’m not quite sure-but before I can, Ashley leans forward. She touches my face and tilts it toward her, and the next thing I know her lips are on mine. Automatically my eyes close and I’m lost in the moment, and it’s right then the police cruiser’s headlights hit us. They pause a little too long.

Ashley breaks the kiss and stares out the window, holding up her hand to shield her eyes from the light.

The police cruiser doesn’t move for another moment, and I’m certain that these cops are not cops at all, but members of the legion, just like that cop back in Hoboken. They’ve been instructed to look for us, and now they’ve found us and are either going to kill us or take us away.

I try to remember how many bullets are left in the gun, whether they will be enough to give us a fighting chance, but then the cruiser continues forward, completing its sweep of the parking lot. We can just make out the two cops inside smiling and shaking their heads at having stumbled across our amorous display.

When it’s clear the cops aren’t going to make another sweep, Ashley sits back in her seat. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize.”

“It just … it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You don’t hear me complaining.”

She smiles at me, and then, just as quickly, the smile fades. “You don’t even know me.”

I’m not sure what to say to this, so I don’t say anything.

“So why … why try to save me?”

“You’re a good person.”

“Am I?”

“You were Melissa’s best friend. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.”

Ashley drops her head back against the headrest, stares out her window. “I was always envious of her. She was always so smart, so classy, so full of energy and kindness. She made it look natural. And me … I always wanted to be everything that she was. I wanted to come from nothing, to build my career, to create a family. And now … now she’s gone.” She wipes at her face. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear all that.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just … everything’s starting to hit me. “

“It’s okay.”

Sniffing back tears, she says, “Can I have the phone now?”

I hand her the phone. She powers it on and starts typing on it. It takes only a minute for her to find her friend’s phone number, and within seconds she has the phone to her ear and the tears are gone and she’s once again all business.

“I really hope his wife doesn’t answer,” she says. Then, seconds later, “Hi, is Don home?” A beat of silence, and judging by Ashley’s face, Don’s wife is asking a question. “This is Ashley. I went to school with Don.” She bites her lip, hoping the lie will work, and then releases a silent sigh of relief. “Sure, I’ll hold.”

A second later, a smile on her face: “Hi, Don, it’s Ashley Walker. I’m sorry to call, but I’m hoping you can do me a big favor.”

fifty-nine

Don’s boat was really his late father’s boat, a twenty-one-foot-long Pro-Line with a single outboard motor. He explained that he had been meaning to sell it but had just been putting it off, not wanting to let it go just yet. He told Ashley and John this because it seemed he didn’t like the sound of silence, even while they were on the water, headed away from the island.

John didn’t say anything, just sat near the back of the boat and stared out at the water.

Ashley sat beside Don, who steered them over the small waves. She forced a smile but wasn’t sure what to say.

“So really”-Don’s voice went low-“just what kind of trouble are you in?”

“It’s really best you don’t know the details.”

“Am I”-he swallowed, trying to find the nerve-“am I in danger, too?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

Don said nothing, turning his attention back to the water. It was complete night now and he was driving without the use of any lights-which, he had explained more than once, was extremely dangerous, let alone against the law. But as Ashley had told him, it was for the best that they try to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

A silence began to grow, an uneasy silence, and to break it Ashley asked Don about his kids.

“What about them?”

“What are their names?”

“James and Kelly.”

“Those are nice names.”

“They’re four and six. Kelly looks just like her mother. Who, I should add, is not very happy that I’m doing this.”

“Again, Don, you have no idea how much we appreciate this. The boat, the shoes and clothes, everything. You’re a lifesaver.”

Don had brought Ashley a pair of his wife’s running shoes as well as a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Now he glanced back over his shoulder at John, who continued to stare out at the water. When he spoke next, his voice was barely a whisper.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Coworker?”

“Don, please, I know it’s a terrible thing to ask, especially as you’re helping us like this, but please don’t ask any questions. Truly, it’s best if you just don’t know.”

He nodded but said nothing. Despite it being nearly ten years since she had last seen him, Don hadn’t changed much at all. He still had the cute, boyish face, though he had put on a few pounds, his love handles more pronounced, and there was some gray starting to creep into his hair, even at his young age, but still he was just like the guy she remembered.

“I’m not going to get arrested, am I?”

This caught her off guard. She wanted to laugh at the simplicity of the question-if anything, getting arrested would be a walk in the park-but wasn’t sure what to say to relieve him of his worry. Still, there was the chance his worry might blossom into guilt, and with guilt he might want to contact the authorities himself, and this was something Ashley couldn’t allow.

“My friend and I didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t break any laws. We didn’t hurt anybody.”

“So you had nothing to do with the destruction of your parents’ place?” He saw her expression and shrugged. “It’s a small island. Word travels fast. Especially when explosions are heard.”

It hadn’t even been two hours since that took place, though to Ashley it felt like a whole day had passed.

“There are some things that just can’t be explained,” Ashley said finally. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

• • •

Twenty minutes later they neared a marina. Don flipped on the lights, as now it would seem suspicious to try to dock without them. He eased up next to one of the docks, and John secured the boat with a rope and then hopped out.

“Want me to show you which one?” Don asked, placing a set of keys in Ashley’s hand.

She shook her head. “You already described it. We’ll be fine.”

She embraced him and held him tight, smelling his aftershave and a faint whiff of Italian food, maybe what he had had for dinner. She could even imagine it-he and his wife and their two children sitting around the dining room table, pasta on their plates, garlic bread in a basket, Parmesan cheese sprinkled on the sauce-and it caused something to swell deep inside of her, the knowledge that she would never have a family like Don, or like Melissa, or like Jeff, who was dead now because of her, and did his wife even know about what had happened yet?

Ashley blinked, pushing the question away. She couldn’t think about that right now. She refused to think about that right now. So she let go and stepped back and thanked Don again, and then she turned and took John’s hand and stepped up onto the dock.

John untied the rope securing the boat to the dock and tossed it back into the boat.

“Thank you,” he said.

Don merely nodded. “You keep her safe, you hear?”

“I’ll do my best.”

• • •

The pickup, just like the boat, had once belonged to Don’s late father. A late-model Ford, the thing nearly twenty years old. It smelled like an ashtray.

“Can’t imagine why he hasn’t found someone to buy this yet,” John said as he slid in behind the wheel.

Ashley didn’t care for the sarcasm. “After everything he’s done for us, you could be a little more grateful.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely grateful.” He inserted the key and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. He tried it again with the same result. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Figures.”

“Try it again.”

“The battery’s dead. It must have been sitting here for God knows how long. We might as well-”

“Try it again.”

She could tell just by the tightening of his lips that trying it again was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, he sighed and turned the key again, obviously expecting the same result-only this time, the engine coughed to life. It wasn’t a healthy cough by any means, and there was the fear that it might go silent at any second, but John revved the engine once, twice, three times, until he was certain the thing wasn’t going to stall.

“Talk about good luck,” he said.

“So now what?”

He opened his bag and pulled out the device. The screen lit up as they waited for it to find a signal.

“They’re still on the move. Judging by the speed, they’re in a plane.”

The tracking device that had been in the lighter was now in Eli. He had swallowed it whole.

“Where do you think they’re going to take him?”

John shrugged. “No idea. But let’s hope it’s somewhere in the country. And let’s hope it’s somewhere within driving distance.”

“Where are they headed now?”

“South.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a very good thing,” John said, revving the engine once more and then shifting it into gear.

• • •

It was four o’clock in the morning by the time they reached the storage units in New Jersey. Fortunately, there was no locked gate to keep them out. They drove toward the back of the facility and parked the truck in front of the storage unit Eli had secured.

“The key?” Ashley asked.

“There,” John said, nodding toward a green dumpster several yards away.

“We need to swim through trash?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

They climbed out of the pickup and marched toward the dumpster. The stench of trash was overbearing. John dropped to the ground and reached underneath.

“Anything?”

John said nothing. He moved to the other side of the dumpster and reached underneath again. Finally his face lit up. “Bingo.”

He stood back up with a tiny blank magnetic case. He slid the top off and from inside extracted a single key.

They headed back to the storage unit.

John grabbed the GPS device from the truck. He opened the lid and then held the key up toward Ashley.

“Want to do the honors?”

She did. Seconds later the storage unit door sprung open and she flicked on a light inside to reveal a black Lincoln Town Car.

“Impressive,” Ashley said.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

John set the device on the hood, extracted the gun from his pocket, gripped it by the barrel, and brought it down hard on the windshield.

Nothing. Not even a scratch on the glass.

“Bulletproof,” John said.

Ashley tilted her head toward the GPS device. “They still on the move?”

“Doesn’t look like it. At least, judging by the speed, they’re no longer in a plane. Which means they’ve landed and are headed toward someplace within driving distance.”

“Where?”

“Maryland.”

John left the device on the hood and opened the driver’s door. He retrieved the key from the sun visor and went next to the back of the car.

“Ready to see something really impressive?”

He popped the trunk and stepped back so Ashley could peer inside. In the previous car, Eli had had his equipment in duffel bags. Here they were not restrained by cloth but open for all to see. Guns, rifles, ammunition, explosives, even what appeared to be-

Ashley, her voice incredulous: “Is that …”

John picked up the rocket-propelled grenade, hefted it and placed it on his shoulder.

“I’ve never been a violent person,” he said, “but after what these people have done to my family and everyone else? I say it’s time we go to war.”

part three

NOTHING BESIDE REMAINS

sixty

Eli opened his eyes to brightness.

He immediately squinted and tried to use his hand to shield his eyes, but his hand wouldn’t move. Neither would his other hand. He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t move. His arms, his legs, his feet-they were all secured to the bed he was lying on.

The room was completely bare except for the bed. The floor and walls were a dull white. Every fluorescent in the ceiling was on, blinding him.

He assumed a camera was stationed somewhere in the room, watching him, but he couldn’t be sure until his eyes adjusted to the light.

Across from Eli stood the only door in the room. He watched it, counting in his head, expecting the door to open at any second.

After a full minute, the door remained closed.

So this was it, he thought. After thirty years of trying to stay off the radar, of getting supplies together in the event he ever did have to go after Matheson, of losing nearly every person who ever meant anything to him, it all ended up here in a sterilized room, tied to a bed, with the intent that he would stay here until the day he died.

He wondered when that would be. Today? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? Now that Matheson had him, would he kill him right away, or would he take his time, maybe even torture Eli? It wasn’t like Eli had any information Matheson would want-or anything, really-but that wouldn’t stop the madman from inflicting pain on Eli just for the hell of it. In the end it would all come down to principle. Eli had betrayed Matheson, and because of that Matheson wanted Eli and everyone Eli cared about to suffer.

They had stripped him of his clothes. Now he wore a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. His feet were bare and cold.

He wondered whether John and Ashley were all right. Had they made it off the island? If so, had John managed to find the storage unit in Jersey?

Eli’s mind began to race. He thought about the tracking device he had swallowed and which now lay somewhere inside of him. Depending where he was, there was a chance John might not be able to track him. And if that was the case, then this entire thing had been for nothing. Every life that had been lost because of him-his children and his grandchildren-chipped away at his soul. He had never intentionally put them in harm’s way until the very end, and even then it had been out of his hands, just something he had to accept. Did that make him a cold bastard? Yes, he supposed it did.

After several long minutes that may have been several long hours-Eli’s eyes having adjusted to the brightness and spotted the camera in the corner of the room-the door finally opened.

The same two men from the house on Martha’s Vineyard entered. It was difficult to tell them apart. One was a bit taller than the other. One was a bit wider in the shoulders. They both had short hair. They both had dark eyes.

Eli asked, “Where’s Matheson?”

The shorter of the two said, “He’s coming.”

“Which one of you murdered Melissa?”

The taller one raised a hand. “That would be me.”

“How?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t that difficult. Despite her having twenty-four-seven protection, our people still managed to gain access to the apartment. We waited for the husband and kids to come home, tied them up, then waited for your daughter. She always worked late, from what we could gather. Always put her job before her family, I guess you’d say. But then she did come home. We tied her up, too. We set the scene, where we wanted the bodies found. We shot the husband and children ourselves, though we made sure we put just the right amount of gunshot residue on your daughter’s hand. We sent the email and walked your daughter up to the roof and pushed her off. The security footage afterward wasn’t hard to fix.”

“She was just like you.” Eli fought hard to keep the tremor from his voice. “All my children were. If it wasn’t for me, they would have become foot soldiers in this ridiculous war. But I saved them. I gave them a second chance. I gave them the opportunity to lead a normal life.”

The shorter man said, “And now they’re all dead thanks to you.”

The taller man wore a radio on his belt. A slight beep issued from it, and both men turned away and headed back toward the door.

Before they opened the door, though, the shorter man said to Eli, “I have to admit, you got a lot further than we originally thought you would.”

“Your point?”

“It’s impressive. You should be proud of yourself.”

When Eli didn’t respond, the man smiled, snorted a laugh, and opened the door. He and the other man stood back and waited as Oswald Matheson entered the room. He did not do so on his own two feet, but instead with the help of a motorized wheelchair.

Eli was in his late-fifties. The man in the wheelchair was at least twenty years older, and he looked it. Sunken eyes, translucent skin, white hair. Time had not been kind to him.

Matheson navigated the wheelchair to stop right in front of the bed. He raised a frail hand and waved the two men away.

The men took their leave, closing the door quietly behind them.

Matheson’s pale lips parted in an ugly sneer.

“Hello, Eli. Welcome back.”

sixty-one

Zach and Hogan walked down the corridor in silence. At a door near the end of the corridor they entered another room, this one much less drab and dull. There was a refrigerator, a coffee maker, several tables and chairs.

Hogan approached the refrigerator. “Thirsty?”

Taking a seat at one table, Zach said, “I could go for a soda.”

Hogan retrieved two cans and brought them to the table. He handed Zach his can as he took a seat and then each man popped the tops of their cans and listened to the carbonated fizz.

Hogan held up his can. “To another successful mission.”

“I wouldn’t quite call it successful,” Zach said, but he tapped his can against Hogan’s anyway.

“We ended up securing the target, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but at what cost? We lost good people. We risked exposure one too many times.”

Hogan shrugged. “Again, we secured the target. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

The men were silent for a minute, drinking their sodas.

Hogan asked, “So what’s next for you?”

“Sleep.”

“And then?”

“Whatever new assignment comes my way. Why?”

“Thought maybe you might want to come over to the games side of things.”

“And do what-work for you?”

“We’d be working together, but yes, I’d run point.”

“As Simon?”

Hogan nodded, grinning. “You bet.”

“You really enjoy it, don’t you?”

“It’s a blast.”

“You get a power trip from it.”

Hogan downed the dregs of his soda and popped his lips. He crumbled the can in a fist, rose from his seat. “I could go for some junk food. You want some junk food?”

Zach waved away the offer and watched Hogan open one of the cabinets over the counter and grab a small bag of Doritos. He returned to the table and opened the bag.

“So what’s on your mind?” Hogan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve known each other now for over, what, twenty years, give or take? I know when something’s bothering you. What is it?”

Zach wasn’t sure he wanted to get into it with Hogan. It was true, they had known each other for nearly twenty years-had ended up in the same training school, in fact, had even become bunkmates-and he knew just how dismissive Hogan could be. Hogan was great at what he did-no doubt about it-but still he could be difficult at times.

“Just thinking about Eli.”

“What about him?”

“How he and his kid managed to find us on the island. And then how he just came to the door, like … like he wanted to get caught.”

Hogan munched on the chips, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that’s been bothering me, too. We know why he came to the door, though, to distract us so his kid could get the girl.”

“But why? They didn’t know each other. There was no connection besides the fact she was friends with Melissa Baxter.”

Silence then, both men thinking it over.

Hogan said, “We checked the girl once we got her in the helicopter. She didn’t have anything on her except the throwaway phone and a lighter, and we destroyed the phone.”

“The lighter, then.”

“What about it?”

“Maybe it was more than just a lighter. Maybe it was a tracking device.”

“Seriously? I think you’re reaching.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“So you think after everything Eli went through not to get caught, he just, what, suddenly decides to turn himself in?”

Zach was quiet for a moment, thinking about it. “Did we check him?”

“Of course we checked him. He was clean.”

Silence again, Zach staring off into space, running everything through in his head. Something just didn’t feel right. Something didn’t make sense.

“Hey,” Hogan said, snapping his fingers.

Zach blinked. “What?”

“Do you remember why I ended up helping you out on this?”

“Something about an FBI agent.”

“That’s right. So you want in?”

“On what?”

“On dealing with him.”

“I doubt I’d get approval.”

“I already got you approval. Called and confirmed it an hour ago. If you want in, you’re in.”

“And what’s this about again?”

“An FBI agent stumbled across the games, started asking too many questions.”

“So you’re taking him out?”

“Him and his family. Guy’s got a wife and a baby boy at home.”

“You’re going to make it look like an accident?”

“That was the plan at first, but after what we just dealt with, I could use some entertainment. I’m thinking about throwing him into a game. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a waste of time.”

“Why?”

“The guy will know at once he’s in a game. He’ll probably already know the stakes, and know they’re bullshit.”

“Still, just imagine the surprise on his face when he wakes up.”

Zach pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache had been building for a while now, and it was just starting to get worse. He kept thinking about looking through the front door window and seeing Eli out on the porch. The stupid act the man had tried playing, like he was there to sell magazine subscriptions.

“We need to check him again.”

“Who?”

“Eli. We need to scan his entire body.”

Hogan started munching again on the chips. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Zach rose from his chair and walked toward the locked cabinet in the corner, pulling a key from his pocket. “Something just doesn’t add up.”

Hogan held out a hand, his fingers already stained with orange Doritos dust. “Are you crazy? Matheson’s in there with him now. You can’t interrupt him.”

Zach inserted the key into the lock and opened the cabinet. Inside were weapons-rifles and guns-as well as several electronic devices. The selection wasn’t nearly as varied as Zach would have liked-this was a satellite location, after all, the closest facility to Matheson-but Zach found what he needed anyway, closed and locked the cabinet.

“You’re going to piss him off,” Hogan said.

Zach started toward the door. “He’ll get over it.”

sixty-two

“Thirty-two years,” Matheson said, his voice low and rusty, the wheelchair beginning a harmonious hum as he maneuvered it to the side of the bed so he could get a better look at Eli. “For thirty-two years I’ve been waiting for this moment, and now here it is, and I’m still not sure yet what to do with you.”

Eli kept his gaze level with Matheson, his mouth a tight line.

“You disappointed me, Eli. I always held you in such high regard.”

“And yet you never told me the truth.”

“I wanted to. I was even going to, once I received permission, but by then you had betrayed me.”

“Your judgment became clouded.”

“Clouded? If anything, my judgment became crystal clear. You know why I began the work I did, don’t you? Of course you do. Your sister-what was her name again?”

Eli said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” Matheson said, his words tinged with annoyance. “But your sister-who we tried to find, by the way. What did you do with her, hide her or did she die?”

Eli said nothing.

“We had quite a few discussions about your sister’s Down’s syndrome before I hired you, if you recall. After all, you saw exactly what kind of harm her disease did to your family. My own sibling was mentally retarded. It killed my parents’ marriage. Their entire fate-mine included-changed the moment he was born. My parents started fighting all the time. They started blaming each other for my brother. Sometimes, when they were most desperate, they even tried to blame me. But it was nobody’s fault. It all stemmed from a mutation in the genes. That’s it. One simple, innocuous mutation, and it caused such friction that my parents eventually divorced and sent my brother away so he would become someone else’s problem.”

“My parents loved my sister just as much as they loved me.”

“I’m not saying my parents didn’t love my brother-I believe they loved him very much-but still he was a …” Matheson tilted his head back and forth, searching for the right word. “Well, a burden. And not just on my family, either. There were the people who came to work with him. The staff at school. The doctors and nurses and everyone else. And I realized it wasn’t just my brother-it was all these people with disabilities, all over the world. They were draining the life from their families, from their caregivers, from the people who came to work with them. Some might find a place in society at some point performing menial tasks, but most of them would do nothing more than take up space until the day they died.”

Matheson shook his head slowly, staring past Eli.

“I knew it didn’t have to be that way. I knew that, in theory, these mutations could be eliminated. It would take hard work, and it would take smart people, but I knew it was possible, and I wanted to be the one that helped find a cure.”

“What changed?”

Matheson blinked, looking at Eli as if just remembering that he was there. He took a deep breath.

“The simple realization that even if these mutations were eliminated, it wouldn’t change anything. Yes, we might manage to do away with mental retardation and autism, but what then? That wouldn’t save the world. If anything, it would cause even more trouble.”

“How so?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Matheson said, leaning forward in the wheelchair, his voice gaining in pitch, “the world is going to hell. War, famine, genocide-you name it, it’s happening.”

“Is that why you created an army?”

“You think you know what this is all about, don’t you? You know nothing. The world is falling apart, but the people I work for are going to save us all.”

“Well,” Eli said, “judging by the last thirty years, they seem to be doing a bang-up job.”

“The time is coming soon. When, I don’t know, but in the next several years it will happen.”

“What will happen?”

“Change. A tide so large and powerful it will alter our entire society for the better. I’m just disappointed that I may not be around to see it happen.”

“Why?”

Matheson’s frail and bony hand, marked with liver spots, floated dismissively between the two of them. “Cancer. Despite everything we’ve accomplished, we have yet to find a cure for cancer.”

“So now what happens-you’re going to kill me?”

“Eventually.”

“You didn’t have to kill the others.”

“But I did, Eli. You understand that, don’t you? Their deaths were all part of your punishment.”

“What is the rest of my punishment?”

Matheson released another deep breath, his frail body looking as if it was about ready to sink in on itself.

“That’s a good question. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long, you’d think I would be better prepared. There are so many different options worth exploring, but killing you outright isn’t one of them. What fun would that be? After all the trouble it took to get you here, why would I just end your life? No, now that you are finally here, I think we’ll come up with something much more appropriate and fitting.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Eli said. “You don’t want to die before I do.”

Matheson smiled. “Not to worry, I won’t.”

“ ‘Nothing beside remains.’ ”

“Excuse me?”

“That line you had up in your office, the one from ‘Ozymandias’-‘Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.’ You do know what that line is really saying, don’t you?”

Eli could see from the slight wrinkle in the old man’s eyes that he didn’t. For years-decades, even-Matheson had probably had that line up in his office, always chuckling about it, always quoting it, but had never taken an extra minute to read the entire poem.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Eli said. “Some day soon I will die, you will die, everyone will die, and nothing of what you are trying to build will remain.”

Matheson leaned forward in his chair, the slight movement clearly causing him pain. “That’s where you’re wrong, Eli. It will remain. And even if I’m not alive when it happens, people will know what I did. They’ll read about how I helped change this world for the better. That’s my legacy. What’s yours?”

A hurried knock came from the door, and the two men from earlier entered.

Matheson turned awkwardly in his chair. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The taller of the two men approached the bed, carrying an electronic device. “I’m sorry, sir, but I need to check something.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The electronic device was the size and shape of a flashlight. The man flicked a switch and hovered the device first over Eli’s feet, then began to move it up his legs.

That harmonic hum started up once again as Matheson turned the chair around, his face growing red. “You fool. You didn’t scan him already?”

The man didn’t answer. He slowly moved the device up the length of Eli’s body.

“Apologies, sir,” the other man said, standing by the door. “We did scan him when he first arrived, but Zach just wants to-”

The device beeped, a light on it turning red.

Zach paused, keeping the device hovered right above Eli’s stomach.

“What is it?” Matheson’s voice had turned to a growl. “What does that mean?”

Before anyone could answer him, the lights in the ceiling flickered as the room trembled slightly. Almost immediately, a small LED just above the door began to flash red.

Matheson stared up at the ceiling. “What in the world is that?”

“That,” Eli said, staring straight back at the scientist with a cold smile, “is my legacy.”

sixty-three

When the first bomb goes off, it goes off. For some reason I was expecting the same kind of blast that those charges had made back on Martha’s Vineyard, the ones we used to bring down the trees, but this one creates ten times the blast, if not more, the whole world momentarily shaking.

“You okay?” I ask Ashley, who’s crouched beside me, taking cover behind a fallen tree, the both of us maybe three hundred yards away from the building.

She nods distantly, her gaze focused on the smoke and fire and all the bits and pieces of concrete the explosion has created. I had set the charge at the corner of the building, away from the garage entrance. The building itself is two stories tall, seemingly abandoned, the parking lot small and empty with faded white lines. Weeds stick up through cracks in the concrete, the surrounding grass high and ragged. The building sits a quarter mile off the main highway, hidden behind a cluster of trees, a sign along the highway announcing that a lease is pending.

My mind usually isn’t one to jump to crazy conspiracy theories (at least not until the past couple of days), but I’m guessing that this building is meant to look abandoned, and has looked like this for several years, just as the lease has probably been stuck in pending purgatory for just as long. It’s enough of an eyesore that nobody wants to give it a second glance, but not too much of an eyesore that it will stick in anyone’s mind.

It’s just an empty building, one of thousands across the country, except this empty building has state of the art security cameras bolted near the roof. They’re almost impossible to see-almost too tiny, little black circles-but I saw them as I circled the building to drop off the charges. Whether those cameras are connected to anything, it’s impossible to say, though I’m betting they are. I can even imagine a room somewhere packed with computer screens, all the screens showing different views of the surrounding area. Several of those screens would have shown me only minutes ago, sprinting forward to do what I needed to do, because this wasn’t a time to act inconspicuous, especially considering that there’s nobody around, and my fingers were crossed the entire time that there was nobody currently viewing those computer screens, and if there was, that maybe they had taken their bathroom break for the minute or two it took me to do what I needed to do and hurry back for cover.

And, well, nothing happened-no alarm started blaring, no guards with Uzis came scrambling out of the building, no laser cannons popped up out of the ground, searching for my heat signature. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this building was just an abandoned building and nothing more. But I do know better, thanks to the GPS signal-Eli’s location-currently coming from somewhere inside.

Plus, there was the car that twenty minutes ago came breezing down the drive, its brake lights flaring red as it stopped in front of the overlarge garage door. It sat there for a few seconds, just idling, before the garage door slowly creaked open and the brake lights winked out as the car glided into darkness.

The car’s windows were tinted, so we have no idea how many people were inside, but the car had come after we had already arrived, so it was safe to assume that the person who had just arrived was Matheson, the son of a bitch responsible for all of this.

Now, several seconds after the explosion, dust and smoke enveloping the building, Ashley whispers, “Now what?”

It’s just after ten o’clock in the morning. We’ve already made the calls we needed to make-to the local police, to the local news, direct calls that ensured we were speaking with what we hoped were normal average citizens and not part of the legion. We explained that there had been an explosion at this location. Will they come? Maybe not, but our hope is they’ve already sent someone out here, a few fire trucks and police cars, anyone who is trustworthy and willing to stand up against this evil.

I grab hold of the second detonator and press my thumb down on the plunger.

Another explosion, this time on the other side of the building, causes the ground to shake beneath us.

I strap the RPG over my shoulder, then grab the assault rifle, my gaze focused on the closed garage door three hundred yards away.

“Now we wait.”

sixty-four

The LED above the door still flashing red, Zach said to Hogan, “How much support do we have?”

Hogan took a moment, biting his lip, working the numbers through his head. “Two guards, two staff, and the driver that came with Dr. Matheson.”

The phone in Zach’s pocket vibrated. He pulled it out, saw who was calling, placed the phone to his ear.

“Tyson, tell me you know what’s going on.”

“I just accessed the security feed. It looks like John Smith managed to find you.”

“Yeah, I just confirmed how he was able to do it. Eli must have swallowed a tracking device. Do you know where Smith is now?”

“Two of the cameras went down from the blast, and the rest are just showing smoke right now.”

Zach started toward the door, the old man behind him demanding to know what was happening. “Smith has to be acting on his own,” he said into the phone. “Maybe he has the Walker girl with him, but either way we can eliminate him.”

“That’s fine,” Tyson said, his voice hesitant, “but I’ve just been instructed to tell you to execute a code black. The rest of the staff has been notified. You have twenty minutes.”

This made Zach pause, turning his wrist to glance at the plain watch he-just as everyone else-was required to wear in the facility. Already the screen showing the time had been wiped clean, now with the numbers 20:00:00. As if on cue, they began to count down.

“Why?”

“We received word that an anonymous call just went out to local police and local news about the building.”

“Can’t you redirect them?”

“We might be able to hold them off for a little, but that’s it.”

“Don’t we have any people in the area?”

“We have one guy, a state trooper, but today’s his day off.”

“Well fucking call him and get him over here.”

He clicked off, more irritated now than ever before, staring off at the blank wall, seething, when another blast caused the building to shake, to tremble, to feel like it was about ready to fall down around itself.

Behind him, Matheson shouted, “What is happening?”

Hogan, doing a better job of restraining himself than Zach: “We have to leave, sir.”

“How could you let this happen?”

Zach spun around, his face a volcano about to erupt, the words on the tip of his tongue bubbling lava, but instead he said, as calmly as he could, “Sir, we are executing a code black. It’s best you come with me and my associate right now.”

“What about him?” Matheson asked, a bony, accusatory finger pointed straight at Eli strapped to the bed.

Zach kept it as simple as possible: “He can stay here and die.”

sixty-five

The smoke is starting to clear.

Thirty seconds have passed since the second blast, maybe a minute, and nothing has happened.

The garage door still remains closed.

I can feel Ashley looking at me, wanting to get my attention, so I glance at her and see it in her eyes, the questions, the confusion, the worry, the same things probably mirrored in my eyes right now. Because this, this right here, isn’t right. Stuff should be happening. Those two blasts should have put things in motion, big things, life-altering things, things that may be too big for me to handle, though I’m going to try. That’s why I’m here, after all, Ashley, too, the two of us wearing the Kevlar vests, the ones that are supposed to stop bullets, though Marta had been wearing one when David shot her in the throat and look how effective her vest had been then.

My mind is drifting, filling with worry, with excuses, stretching the time out much longer than is possible, so that a second feels like a minute, a minute an hour, an hour a day. Only an hour hasn’t yet passed. A minute’s hardly passed. And still nothing has happened besides the smoke starting to clear. The sound of sporadic traffic out on the highway, the smell of grass and leaves and dirt around us, the blood pounding in my ears-all of it is how it should be at this moment, and yet that damned garage door still hasn’t moved.

I look at Ashley, wanting to tell her something, but before I can, her eyes narrow and she ducks down, her voice soft and tiny with just one word: “Look.”

Now, besides the clearing smoke, is a single figure moving around the building. He’s dressed in tan slacks and a robin’s egg blue shirt, like he’s just your average nine-to-five office worker, only he has a rifle in his hands, much like the one I’m currently gripping. And right now he’s headed around the building, having probably exited through the front door, the man swiveling his head back and forth searching for me. Because these people, they have to know by now who’s tracked them down, who set off those two bombs, the son coming to rescue the father.

I grab the third detonator, lightly touch my thumb to the plunger.

“Wait,” Ashley whispers, “don’t-” but by that point I’ve already pushed down on the plunger, and a second later the third bomb goes off … only the blast comes from the other side of the building, not the side the man with the rifle is currently on.

I look down at the ground in front of me, at the two detonators I’ve already used, and the one that I haven’t. Obviously I picked up the wrong one. I’d thought I laid them out in order, but apparently not, and now the guy with the rifle is still alive when he should be dead, blown to pieces in the blast.

I consider grabbing the fourth detonator, setting the last bomb off, but it’s too late. The man, thrown to the ground by the blast, has gotten back to his feet. He’s coughing because of the smoke and the dust, wiping at his eyes with the hand not gripping the rifle, and he’s looking around the area, trying to find our location. Another blast would eliminate him in no time, but I don’t want to waste it if I don’t have to, so I say to Ashley, “Go to the truck, now,” and I grab the assault rifle and rush forward, through the trees, down the slight incline, focused on the man who spots me coming and takes aim.

I’m aware of a tree close by exploding, splinters of bark hitting my face, but it’s a secondary awareness, like muzak at the grocery store. Instead my main focus is on the trees ahead of me, the branches, the roots, visualizing them as taxis and buses and cars on a busy Manhattan street, pedestrians up on the sidewalk, horns blaring, construction off in the distance, exhaust and ozone thick in the air, and there I am on my bike, pedaling as fast as I can, trying to make the deadline while at the same time taking in everything around me-litter in the gutters, a hot dog stand, a homeless guy parked just outside a bank, holding a misspelled sign-and I’m doing it all here, noticing it all, soaking it in like a sponge, ignoring the man shooting at me, knowing that he isn’t going to hit me, that he can’t hit me, and then before I know it I’m well within range, close enough that I’m comfortable aiming the rifle and firing.

The man doesn’t go down, not at first. I’m no expert with a firearm by any means, but I understand the basic principles. The guy starts to run toward the building for cover, and I keep squeezing the trigger, aiming for him, then aiming ahead of him, toward the space he’s going to be in the next second, and one of my bullets cuts him down before he reaches the building, his body jerking once before falling to the ground.

I pause then, breathing heavily, blood singing in my ears, surprised that I’m still alive.

I glance back over my shoulder but Ashley’s gone, now headed toward the truck. Good. That’s good. And it’s also good that I’m still alive. I even pat my chest, my legs, expecting to touch blood, a bullet hole, something, but nothing appears to be out of place.

Just then, less than one hundred yards away, the garage door starts to rise.

sixty-six

“No,” Matheson said, petulant, crossing his arms like a child, “absolutely not. He must come with us.”

It took everything Zach had at that moment to keep his composure. He caught a warning look from Hogan and nodded slightly, acknowledging the fact that he knew what was at stake. Matheson was no longer the big cheese he liked to believe he was-his role in everything had come to an end years ago-but he still carried some weight and had the ear of several important people, almost all of those in the Inner Circle and even higher, so those on Zach’s and Hogan’s level knew better than to disrespect him. Most times. Times when their own lives and the possibility of exposure weren’t at risk.

“Fine,” Zach said, “but we need to hurry.”

Hogan started for the door. “I’ll head up top and secure the area.”

Zach nodded and started after him.

Matheson asked, “Who’s going to bring him with us?”

Shit.

Zach turned, his hands balled into fists, the nails digging into his palms, hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t bother answering. He just moved quickly, hurrying over to the bed, undoing first the straps keeping Eli’s feet to the bed, then his hands. He stood back, ordering Eli to stand up, keeping his distance because even though the man was much older than Zach, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

Another blast then, causing the building to tremble just like before, except this time the sprinklers in the ceiling went off, a steady patter of artificial rain.

Watching Eli carefully as Eli swung his feet off the bed and started to stand, Zach extracted his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Tyson.

“Yeah?”

“Another blast just occurred. Unless there’s a fire upstairs, it turned on the sprinklers. Can you override the system and shut them off?”

“I can try, but it’s doubtful. The sprinkler system hasn’t been updated in a few years. It’ll have to be done manually.”

“Forget it. Any word on that trooper?”

“He’s on his way, but it’ll be at least ten minutes before he gets there.”

“What about the local news and police?”

“We’ve created distractions for them both, but it won’t hold forever.”

Zach disconnected the phone, shoved it back in his pocket. Eli was on his feet now, staring at him as he blinked away the falling water.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Eli did as he was told. Zach circled the bed, taking one of the straps and using it to secure Eli’s wrists together. He took Eli’s arm and steered him toward the door, Matheson following behind them.

Zach pushed Eli out into the corridor. Farther down he saw the two staff members getting the children together. None of the ten children were reacting to the flashing red LEDs along the corridor or the sprinklers. None were crying. None were even showing any kind of fear. They were quiet, passive, their spirits having been broken long ago. They did as they were told because that was their nature.

“Where are the surrogates?” Eli asked.

“What surrogates?” Zach said, then remembered he shouldn’t waste a breath on this man. He turned back and waited for Matheson to steer himself out of the room, all too conscious of the seconds counting down on his watch, and then they started down the corridor.

The two staff members were women. Zach asked them, “Either of you have a gun?”

One of the women handed him a Beretta.

He nodded his thanks and pushed forward past the children, his one hand gripping the gun, his other hand gripping Eli’s arm.

“Why are there children here?” Eli asked.

“Shut up.”

They came to the elevator. Zach smacked the button. It lit up briefly, then went out.

Behind him, Matheson said, “It won’t work in case of a fire.”

The door leading into the stairwell stood beside the elevator. Zach kicked the door open, turned back to face the scientist.

“Can you walk at all?”

“No.”

Of course not.

Zach shoved Eli face first up against the wall, tore the bindings off his wrists, spun him back around, and pushed him toward Matheson.

“Carry him.”

Eli nearly tripped over his own feet, almost went down right into Matheson, but managed to catch himself on the arm of the wheelchair. He stared at Matheson for a long moment, then stood up straight and turned back to Zach.

“No.”

The LEDs still flashing red, the sprinklers still raining down water, those seconds ticking off on his watch as palpable as anything else in the world at that instant, the knowledge that John fucking Smith was responsible for all of it, Zach momentarily lost control of himself. His fist slammed into Eli’s stomach, and the old man doubled over, falling to his knees, wheezing. Zach wasted no time-he grabbed Eli by the back of his soaked sweatshirt, yanked him to his feet, and pressed the barrel of the gun into the side of his head.

“I’m not telling you again. Carry him.”

sixty-seven

The garage door opens. Almost immediately an engine growls inside. Headlights flash on, tires squeal, and a car is racing toward me. It’s the same car that entered the garage twenty minutes ago, the windows tinted so I can’t see the driver or anybody else in the car, but right now none of that matters because it’s almost reached me, intent on running me over.

I dive out of the way at the last moment, rolling into the grass and dropping the rifle in the process. Scrambling back to my feet, grabbing the rifle again, I watch as the car brakes hard and fishtails. The passenger’s side window lowers and a man leans out, gun in hand. I fire at him before he has a chance to fire at me, and it gives me an extra second of breathing room, that’s all, before the guy just points the gun out through the window and starts shooting blind, or at least not completely blind, seeing me through the tinted windshield while I can’t see him.

The distance between us is maybe eighty yards.

Time to make some real fireworks.

Tossing the rifle aside, unstrapping the RPG, I drop to one knee and place the missile launcher on my shoulder. Having looked over the thing earlier, I know exactly what I need to do to make it fire, and I do those things now-flipping open the sight piece, flicking the safety off so the thing is primed and ready to go.

The driver and passenger understand my intention immediately. The gun disappears back inside the car as its tires start to squeal again, only this time the car doesn’t rush at me. Instead it starts to speed backwards, down the drive.

I can’t wait any longer. I aim low and squeeze the trigger. The RPG shakes on my shoulder and then the missile is gone, one-quarter second in the launcher, the next one-quarter second under the car.

The explosion is massive, a gigantic fireball, sending the car airborne. It hangs there above the ground for a second or two before gravity pulls it back down, tipping over and landing on its hood.

I don’t move at first, completely amazed that it worked as well as I had hoped. Then I toss the RGP aside, grab the rifle, and hurry toward the open garage door.

sixty-eight

“What are you doing with those children?” Eli asked.

Nobody answered him. Not Zach, and not Matheson, who Eli currently cradled in his arms like a husband ready to take his bride across the threshold. Only they weren’t going over any threshold. They were going up stairs, a full flight, if not two flights, the ten children already ahead of them with the women, marching single file like silent, vacuous robots.

“My wheelchair,” Matheson said. “We can’t just leave my wheelchair.”

“You’ll get another one,” Zach said. Despite the fact he was soaked-they were all soaked, thanks to the sprinklers-he still looked intimidating, his eyes hard, his face stone, his jaw clenched so tight Eli wouldn’t be surprised if he cracked a tooth. The gun stayed in Zach’s right hand, aimed at Eli’s spine.

“Why can’t you carry me?” Matheson asked, looking at Zach over Eli’s shoulder.

Zach, staying a few steps behind as Eli trudged up the stairs, said nothing.

Eli had never been a super strong man by any means, but Matheson wasn’t very heavy, maybe one hundred fifty pounds, the cancer leaving him all skin and bones. Sure, Eli was being forced to do this, or at least that’s what Eli wanted Zach and Matheson to think. Eli had been all set to keep refusing, no matter how many times Zach beat him, until an idea sprung up in the back of Eli’s mind, an idea as bright and beautiful as a rainbow after a storm.

And so he carried Matheson, step after unsteady step, the children ahead of them having already reached the top, being ushered out through a single door, while Matheson kept whining for his chair until, realizing he wasn’t going to get his way, the old scientist started threatening Zach.

“I’ll call Caesar myself, don’t think I won’t. He’ll have your job for this. He’ll kill you for this.”

“The wheelchair stays,” Zach said, his voice showing no hint of fear, “plain and simple. I’m sure you have the money to buy another one, and if not, someone will buy it for you. But right now? Right now we’re facing a code black, which means we have to evacuate this place”-a pause as he checked his watch-“in just under thirteen minutes.”

“Then why don’t you carry me? It’d be faster than this slug’s pace.”

“And give Eli here an advantage? I don’t think so.”

They trudged on, Eli carrying Matheson, Zach maintaining a three-step buffer behind them. No one had spoken for several long seconds, so Eli decided to voice his question again.

“What are you doing with those children?”

Zach said, “Don’t worry about it,” while at the same moment Matheson said, “They’re for the games.”

“What games?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zach said, louder and angrier now.

“But what about Project Legion?”

“The project is complete,” Matheson said. “It’s been complete for nearly ten years.”

“That’s enough,” Zach said. “He doesn’t need to know anything else.”

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the children were gone, as were the two women. The door was closed.

Zach went to the door, placed his hand on the knob, his back to Eli as he said, “You’re going to need to carry him out here, too.”

“No I won’t.”

Zach turned around, hesitant, sensing something in Eli’s words. His hard eyes went even harder when he saw Eli and what Eli intended to do.

“Don’t,” he said, and aimed his gun at Eli’s face.

Eli leaned back against the railing. Matheson was still in his arms, and the old scientist seemed to know exactly what Eli meant to do with him, because he started squirming around, trying to break out of the hold.

“What are you going to do?” Eli asked. “Shoot me? Go ahead.”

The gun in Zach’s hand didn’t waver. He stared straight back at Eli, his face impassive.

“Help me!” Matheson shouted, trying to crawl out of Eli’s arms. “Help me!”

Eli said to Matheson, “Say goodbye to your legacy,” and with what little strength he had left, he pushed Matheson over the railing, pushed him as hard as he could, distantly aware of the gunshots and the bullets as they tore into his back, watching the old scientist crying out and flailing as he fell to the bottom.

Eli stood there then, his hands now clutching the railing, his body jerking as another bullet tore into his back.

“You piece of shit!”

Zach was beside him in an instant, the barrel of the gun burning into Eli’s neck, and Eli, still clutching the railing, three bullets in him, began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. He just started laughing, and before he knew it, Zach moved the gun down to his stomach and pulled the trigger once, twice, three times, and all the while Eli laughed, blood deep in his throat, and he felt Zach grab him again and the next thing he knew he was in the air, weightless, seeing first Matheson’s sprawled and broken body at the bottom of the stairs and then seeing Zach at the railing, watching him, and even this didn’t stop Eli from continuing to laugh as he fell and fell and reached the point where he could fall no longer.

sixty-nine

The moment I step through the garage door, a bullet nearly takes me out.

I duck low, sprinting as far left as I can, returning fire at the man shooting at me.

The garage is mostly filled with vehicles. Two cars, one SUV, and a large white delivery truck.

The man is standing near the delivery truck. He empties his entire magazine, and it’s when he pauses to reload do I get the advantage.

My rifle kicks out its last shell. I toss it aside, grab the gun secured in the waistband of my jeans, aim at the man, and fire.

The man slaps a fresh magazine in his rifle, starts to shoot back at me, but one of my bullets strikes his shoulder. He spins away. His rifle clatters to the ground.

I advance across the dark garage-the few lights stationed about flickering red-and place two bullets in his head.

That’s when I notice someone in the driver’s seat of the truck.

I raise my gun but pause when I see it’s a woman.

She screams, “Don’t shoot!”

I lower my gun.

She raises a gun.

I duck as she fires, as she steps out of the truck, and I fire blindly again, running for safety beside the sedan parked beside the truck. I must be lucky, because she stops shooting, and when I look, I see that she’s on the ground, blood filling the pool that was just a moment ago her left eye.

I eject the empty magazine, reload another, approaching the back of the delivery truck. Here is where the surrogates will be.

Before I check on them I do a quick sweep of the rest of the garage, making sure the other vehicles are empty. Still, I approach the back of the delivery truck with caution, ready for anything.

The delivery truck is parked with its nose toward the garage door, its back end facing three concrete steps that lead up to a door. Before I can go through that door, though, I need to check the truck.

It’s slight, but I hear movement inside.

The surrogates.

I take hold of the lever which is locked in place. I lift the catch, spin the lever, and push up the door.

I expect to see women. Young women eighteen years or older. All of them pregnant.

But all that’s in here are children.

White children, black children, brown children-there are nearly a dozen of them in all.

They’re completely soaked, water dripping from their hair, from their clothes. They stare back at me, their eyes not wide at the gun in my hand, but indifferent, bored.

Not sure what else to do, I lower the gun.

And watch as one of the children stands up and aims a gun at me.

I realize at the last second that it’s not a child, but a woman, just like the driver, a small, petite woman with short brown hair.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word, as she shoots me in the chest.

seventy

They’d parked the U-Haul a quarter mile down the highway. Ashley had retrieved it and driven it here to the entrance of the drive leading back to the building. The plan, if everything went accordingly (fingers crossed), was that John would bring the surrogates down the drive to the truck in a vehicle. If there was no vehicle, he would call her and she would drive back to the building, but since the drive was a quarter mile long, they didn’t want to take any chances. That was why she was supposed to wait here, just wait, while John might be getting himself killed behind the grove of trees.

The windows were down and she could hear the distant gunfire. Fortunately there were few buildings on this section of the highway. A tiny strip mall a half mile away, a tire store across the highway, and that was it. The traffic passing back and forth was sporadic, and she hoped it would stay that way.

At one point there came another explosion, what sounded louder than the ones before, even through the trees.

She closed her eyes, offered up a silent prayer.

After a minute or two or three, she spotted flashing lights, and something dropped down deep in the pit of her stomach. It was the police. They were here, finally. Only she and John had hoped to be long gone by the time they arrived. Because otherwise they would be held for questioning, and it was a safe bet that the people behind all of this-people like her parents and even those further up the chain-would be able to get to Ashley and John if they were in custody, or even held for questioning. That’s why they needed to be long gone with the surrogates.

As the flashing lights grew closer, Ashley realized they didn’t belong to a police cruiser at all, but rather to a pickup truck, a Toyota Tundra to be exact. Its paint was red, gleaming in the sun like it had been freshly washed and waxed, and it slowed as it began to make the turn onto the drive but then stopped abruptly. The red bubble light kept flashing on the truck’s dash.

The driver wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes as he stepped out of the pickup, but she saw his solid chin, his massive chest, and pegged him at once for a cop.

He approached her. “Ma’am?”

A silver handgun rested on the passenger seat. Her fingers wrapped around the rubber grip as Ashley used her other hand to open the door, all the while keeping her gaze on the cop. She stepped down out of the cab, her right hand still on the handgun, just to be safe.

She stood that way then, her two feet planted on the ground, the door open, her left hand at her side, her right hand squeezing the gun.

“Ma’am, can I see your hands?”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Woods, ma’am. I’m a state trooper. Can I see your hands?”

He was reaching for his gun, holstered to a black leather belt with a Sam Browne buckle. He wore jeans and sneakers and a polo shirt. Hardly official police attire, even if he was a state trooper. It was almost like … like he was working on his day off. Like he had been called here for a specific purpose.

Ashley said, “Are you here stop the legion?”

Woods hesitated a beat, his lips slightly parted, his eyes hidden behind the shades, but it was all Ashley needed to confirm the truth.

She brought the silver handgun out just as Woods unsnapped the gun in its holster.

She aimed at his chest and squeezed the trigger.

The distance between them was barely forty yards. More than enough space for her to get off a good shot. And still the bullet went wide, taking out the Tundra’s headlight.

Woods barely even flinched. He glanced at the pickup, stared a moment, then turned back, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You stupid bitch,” he said, and started toward her.

Ashley squeezed the trigger again, and again, and again, leaving the hulking shadow of the U-Haul and advancing toward the trooper. Her second bullet missed its mark just like the first, but the third and fourth bullets struck the trooper in the shoulder.

He didn’t stop, though, just kept coming, pulling his own gun from the holster.

Ashley fired off another round, this one hitting the trooper square in his chest. By then the distance between them was less than ten yards and he ran straight into her, knocking her to the ground.

She lost control of the gun during the fall. The trooper was on top of her, his weight almost too heavy. Despite being shot, he was still alive, though barely. She could hear him gasping for breath. She could feel him trying to hold her down as he moved the gun toward her head. Even as he died, he was attempting to finish his task and kill her.

Ashley bucked beneath him, trying to push him off, but the man was too strong. Her own gun was just out of reach, and she knew better than to waste time trying to go for it. She would never have the chance, not with the man holding her down, blood now dribbling from between his lips, his sunglasses askew, one eye staring back at her filled with rage, and before Ashley knew it, she reached up, knocked the sunglasses off his face, and plunged her thumbs into his eyes.

The trooper did not scream, or shout, or even make the slightest sound. But he dropped the gun and grabbed at Ashley’s hands, trying to pull them away.

Ashley barely even struggled. Her main objective had been met-the trooper dropping the gun-and she grabbed it off the ground and pressed it against the trooper’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The trooper’s body jerked on top of her, and she squeezed the trigger again. The trooper’s body jerked once more, the rage disappearing from his eyes as they went completely blank.

She pushed the trooper off of her and scrambled to her feet. She just stood there then, the gun in her hand, staring down at the dead man.

She realized she was shaking. The gun in her hand trembled. She let it go, like it had just burned her, and backed away toward the U-Haul. Then she thought, no, she couldn’t leave the gun, not with her prints on it, and she scrambled forward again, scooping the gun up from the ground, then remembering the other gun and scooping that one up, too.

And the trooper-what was she supposed to do with him? He was just lying there, splayed out on the ground for all to see. And there were people who could see, weren’t there? Yes, there were. The sporadic traffic passing back and forth for one. Plus there was the tire shop across the highway, and despite the fact its parking lot was empty, there was still a chance someone inside-a bored clerk, for instance-might have witnessed the entire thing and was right now calling 911.

Move the body-that’s what she needed to do. She would have to grab the trooper’s arms and drag him from view. She would hate having to touch him after having killed him-killed him; it made her nauseous to think about it-but she knew she had no choice.

She tossed the guns in the U-Haul, wiped her hands on her jeans. Steeling herself then, she approached the dead man, hoping that wherever John was right now, he was having better luck than her.

seventy-one

Like a cannon blast to my chest, the bullet sends me flying back to the ground. All my oxygen is gone. I can barely breathe. As I try to move, I’m distantly aware that I’ve let go of the gun. Where it is, I have no clue, but it’s not in my hand where it needs to be. Because right this moment the small, petite woman pushes the children aside to get to the back of the truck. She’s yelling at the children, but I can hardly hear her. All I hear is ringing. The world fades away, fades back, fades away again.

I cough, or at least try to cough. This hurts my chest even more. But at least it gives me a chance to move again. In the movies and TV, they make it look so easy. You get shot, lie flat on the ground for a moment, then sit up. Maybe open up your shirt or jacket to reveal-voilà!-the bulletproof vest underneath. But this isn’t the movies or TV. This is real life, and getting shot in the chest, even with a bulletproof vest, fucking hurts.

The ringing in my ears begins to fade. I can hear the woman still shouting at the children as she pushes past them, as she reaches the edge and jumps down onto the concrete floor.

I blink, reach out as far as I can to my side. My fingers flex again, gripping air. Where is the gun? Where is the gun? Where is-

The woman stands over me, her gun aimed at my face.

I just stare up at her. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. Maybe Eli was right-maybe I can’t experience fear.

A gunshot roars and I do blink, I can’t help it, knowing that this time the bullet hasn’t been stopped by the vest but has passed through flesh, the thin layer of epidermis that has protected me my entire life up until this point.

I look at the woman and see her expression has changed. No longer is it cold and determined. Now it’s … confused.

That’s when I notice she’s bleeding. It’s coming from her neck, and for an instant I flash on Marta, my mother, hitting the floor of David’s office, staring up at the ceiling while I was stuck across the room, helpless to do anything to save her.

The woman falls away from view. She hits the ground.

I finally tilt my head enough to see one of the children-a little girl-standing only a few feet away. She watches me carefully, my gun in her hands.

When she speaks, her voice is soft.

“Are you here to help us?”

Unable to speak, I nod.

The girl doesn’t respond to this. She just nods herself. Then, seeming to remember that she has a gun in her hands which she just used to kill the woman, she quickly sets it on the ground before standing back up and folding her hands in front of her.

The other children, I realize now, are watching me.

I roll over, and the pain hits me again. I try to take a deep breath, and that hurts even more.

Sitting up, climbing to my feet, staying on my feet-it all takes more effort than I care to give. I’ve been doored several times, have even been thrown off my bike and went flying through the air, but nothing has hurt like this. But now that I’m at least standing, I can do something. And what is that something? To save these kids, of course. These kids-that’s my purpose now. To save them. To get them out of here. But first …

“Where are you going?” the girl asks once I turn away and start toward the three steps leading up to the door into the building.

I pause long enough to glance back at her and the rest of the children. How do I tell them? How do I explain that Eli is somewhere in this building, and that I need to find him? How do I explain that I’m going inside to kill Matheson?

I open my mouth, start to speak, but then remember what Eli told me.

Don’t worry about what happens to me. It’s the others that are the priority. It’s the others that you must save.

Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t have time to at least check to see what’s become of Eli.

“Mister”-another child, a frail Asian boy-“please don’t leave us.”

And at once, all thoughts about checking to see what has become of Eli or Matheson leave my mind. The children are what’s important now, and I need to get them out of here.

The girl who saved my life is still standing on the concrete floor. I lift her up into the truck.

“I’m going to drive us out of here, okay?”

The children just stare back at me. A few nod.

“I’m going to have to lock you in here for a few minutes. But it’ll just be a few minutes. Okay?”

Again, a few nods.

I reach up, grab the rope, and pull it down, bringing the door with it. I swing the lever closed. Then I turn away, start toward the front of the truck, when something about the small, petite woman makes me stop. She’s lying on her chest, her legs and arms splayed to the side. And it’s her left arm that catches my attention. On her wrist is a black watch. It’s tilted just right that I can see the small LED face … and the numbers counting down.

5:37 … 5:36 … 5:35

I bend down and loosen the watch from her wrist. Standing back up, I stare at the numbers, at first not sure what to think about them.

Then, all at once, everything clicks into place.

They’re going to destroy this building.

In less than six minutes.

Which means I have to fucking hurry and get these kids out of here.

Strapping the watch to my own wrist, I sprint to the front of the truck and climb up into the driver’s seat. Luckily the key is still in the ignition. The transmission is stick shift. I press the clutch, turn the key, and the engine rumbles to life. I shut my door, put the truck in gear, and begin to ease it toward the open garage door.

I barely get more than a few yards when the driver’s door is flung open and I’m grabbed and pulled from the truck. I hit the ground, hard. That pain I’d felt before comes back again, though thankfully not as strong. I blink and look up and see the guy from Ashley’s parents’ place.

He’s aiming a gun at my face.

“I just killed your old man,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fitting if I didn’t kill you, too.”

Before he can, though, I kick him in the knee, then in the balls. He starts to go down, but it’s clear he doesn’t intend to do so without squeezing the trigger first. I’m rolling away then, just as the bullet strikes the concrete. I climb to my feet, crouch down low, and fling myself into the man, aiming for center mass. We go down hard, and I’m faintly aware of his gun clattering away, under the truck-which is still slowly moving forward, stalled but still in neutral.

His hand grips my throat, squeezing tightly. I use my elbow on the man’s neck, then on his chest, knifing it as hard as I can. He lets go, wheezing, trying to push me off, but now I’m in a good position, holding him down, that I start punching him in the face, both fists going at once, bruising bone, tearing flesh, drawing blood.

A part of me-the part that wants vengeance, that wants retribution for what this man has done to everyone I ever cared about-wants to keep going until this man is dead. I even look around wildly, searching for the gun, searching for anything I can use to end this man’s life.

What my eyes fall on, instead, is the watch strapped to my wrist.

3:57 … 3:56 … 3:55

I struggle to stand up off of the man. I kick him one last time and start to hurry away, back toward the truck that is still drifting forward, when he grabs my leg, yanking it out from under me. I hit the ground, my chin striking the concrete. I try to kick my foot out of his grasp, but he doesn’t let go. He’s grinning back at me, blood on his face, between his teeth. He knows what the countdown means, and he intends to keep me and the children here to experience what will happen when the numbers reach all zeros.

Gritting my own teeth, I kick one last time with my other foot, my free foot, right at the man’s face.

The satisfying crunch of bone, and at once he lets go of me.

Scrambling away, I run straight for the truck. The door is still open, and I jump up inside. Pressing the clutch again, turning the key, the engine rumbles to life once more and I steer the truck toward sunlight.

seventy-two

Zach lay on the concrete floor, staring at the ceiling, choking on his own blood. Somewhere beyond him, the truck’s engine faded as it headed up the drive, John Smith taking the children to safety-assuming, of course, the state trooper wasn’t waiting for them out by the highway, or someone else Tyson called as a second line of defense.

His nose was broken. His ribs were cracked. He was feeling weak. Might as well give up now. Just lay here and wait for the end. It would come in less than four minutes. It would be quick. A drone somewhere in the area, one with a missile locked on this building’s coordinates. That’s all it would take. One second the missile would be in the air, the next it would be in the building, and boom: goodbye, world.

But no-fuck that. He wasn’t ready to die just yet.

Tilting his head, coughing up blood, Zach attempted to sit up. It wasn’t easy, but he had learned long ago that nothing in life was easy. He turned his wrist, just enough to see the face of the watch. One hundred twenty seconds left. He could do this. He could. Zach knew he could. He just had to … move.

He clenched his teeth against the pain, just as he had been taught. He reminded himself that there was no pain, because there wasn’t any pain. No, of course there wasn’t. No pain, no pain at all, and he managed to sit up, bring up his knees, climb to his feet. Before he knew it, then, he was stumbling toward the garage door, holding his ribs, shuffling forward and trying not to close his eyes. Seconds later sunlight hit him and he smelled smoke and gasoline.

Someone was shouting his name.

Pausing, turning, he saw Matheson’s car flipped over onto its roof, still on fire. Hogan was halfway through the broken passenger window, trying to climb out.

Zach glanced at the wristwatch.

One hundred seconds left.

Ninety-nine seconds.

Ninety-eight seconds.

Zach started toward Hogan. He fell to his knees beside the car, all too aware that the flames might cause the car to explode at any moment.

“My leg,” Hogan said, his face scrunched up in pain. “It’s stuck on something.”

Zach lowered his head and peered inside. The driver-Matheson’s driver-was dead, secured behind the steering wheel, already half charred. Hogan’s pants had also caught on fire, but most of the fire had died out.

Hogan’s foot was secured in the webbing of the safety belt. In Hogan’s mad rush to escape the fire and possible explosion, he had managed to tangle himself.

“Hold still,” Zach shouted. He leaned in, pushing past Hogan’s bulk, and loosened the safety belt holding Hogan in place. Then he was leaning out, just as Hogan was crawling out, climbing to his feet, and then they were running, away from the building, heading toward the trees, and Zach glanced at his watch at the same moment the numbers turned to all zeros and the building behind them exploded.

The blast, even at over two hundred yards away, was enough to send them both sprawling forward. Hogan went right into the trunk of a tree. Zach tripped over a root and hit the ground. They didn’t move for the longest time. Then, slowly, they turned back to see the flames and the black smoke billowing toward the sky.

Hogan groaned in pain, touching his forehead that was wet with blood. “Wonder how they’re going to cover this up.”

Zach used the support of a low-hanging branch to pull himself to his feet. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked. He tried powering it on anyway but it wouldn’t respond.

“Your phone working?”

Hogan dug in his pocket. Then he dug in his other pocket. “Shit,” he said, struggling to his feet, “I must have lost it when the RPG hit us.”

“RPG?”

Hogan shrugged.

Zach said, “Let’s move.”

They moved. It would be another half hour before they made it out to the other side of the woods. It would be another ten minutes before they found a phone and Zach got in contact with Tyson. It would be another minute before he learned the aggravating news that John Smith had managed to slip their surveillance; even satellites had lost them. That the state trooper Tyson had sent as a second line of defense had even been shot and killed. But all of that was in the future. For now, the two men walked through the woods, away from the destruction, neither one speaking, until finally Zach couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

“So,” he said, spitting a gob of blood at the ground, “tell me more about this FBI agent.”

epilogue

They arrived in two minivans, John driving the one, Ashley the other. It had taken them a full day of driving, after having abandoned the U-Haul back in the city. They had already planned ahead for such a crisis, knowing that there was a very good chance they would be watched from the sky. And so they took the U-Haul into a parking garage, where the two minivans were waiting, and it was into these that they made their escape, leaving from two separate exits, making one circuitous route after another before they were convinced they weren’t being followed. And so then it was time to stop, get the children food, and continue on their way, through Maryland, through Pennsylvania, to a town just outside of Erie.

The house itself wasn’t so much a house as it was a mansion. Three stories tall, over fifty rooms, made completely of stone, perched on nearly twenty acres of woodland. A sign beside the drive leading back to the mansion exclaimed ST. NICHOLAS HOME FOR CHILDREN.

They parked in front of the main entrance. Off in the distance, children in gray uniforms played a game, two nuns in habits watching them.

Ashley told the children to wait. They just stared back at her. She wasn’t sure if any of them could understand her. Hardly any of them had spoken this entire time. It was almost like they didn’t know how.

Up ahead, John exited his van. Ashley opened her door and stepped out. The air was fresh and smelled of pine trees.

John forced a smile. “Ready for this?”

“I could go for a cigarette.”

“That’s probably not a good idea. The nuns might frown on smoking.”

“I’m not even Catholic.”

“Neither am I.”

“Are you sure this will work?”

“This is where Eli told me to bring the surrogates. I figure it’ll work just as well for the kids. Didn’t you see the sign out along the road?”

The main entrance doors opened then, and two nuns stepped outside and descended the steps. One looked to be in her fifties, the other in her thirties. It was the older one who spoke.

“May we help you?”

“Yes, hi,” John said, clasping his hands behind his back. “My name is John Smith. This is Ashley Walker. We were hoping to speak with Sister Catherine.”

At once, the expressions the women wore-natural smiles-faded, and their eyes turned sorrowful.

“Regrettably,” the older nun said, “Sister Catherine passed away three years ago. I’m Sister Sara. This is Sister Anne. How may we help you?”

Ashley watched John from the corner of her eye, as he assessed the situation. This certainly threw a wrench into the plan.

When the silence ensued for more than a few seconds, Sister Sara asked, “How did you know Sister Catherine?”

“I didn’t,” John said. “But I knew someone who did. His name was Eli Craig.”

The younger nun’s expression didn’t change, but the older one’s did. Ashley watched her eyes, waiting to see a reaction, and there one was, first alarm before quickly becoming guarded.

“Sister Anne,” the older nun said, “please give us a minute.”

The younger nun didn’t look like she wanted to leave, but she nodded without a word and headed up the steps, disappearing inside.

“Eli Craig,” Sister Sara said slowly. “Has he”-her gaze drifted momentarily to the vans-“sent us something?”

“You could say that. The thing is, the situation we’re in, it’s not exactly ideal.”

John had brought his hands out from behind his back, and Sister Sara immediately spotted the bruising on his knuckles.

“I’m sure it’s not,” she said simply.

John exchanged an uneasy glance with Ashley. He asked, “Did we make a mistake in coming here?”

The nun didn’t answer for a long time. Then she sighed. “No, you did not. I met Eli once, nearly twenty years ago. It was the last time he came here. He brought us four babies. After he left, Sister Catherine told me about him. She was vague about many of the details, but she made it sound like it was a … dangerous situation.”

John said, “That’s putting it mildly.”

“We don’t want trouble here, you realize.”

“We understand.”

Another sigh. “So what have you brought us?”

“Children. Ten of them.”

“And where did they come from?”

“It’s best if you don’t know, Sister.”

The nun’s lips became a tight line. “Don’t these children have parents?’

“They might. But there’s a very good chance that their parents are dead, and if they’re not, it’s probably even better these children never see them again.”

Sister Sara studied John’s face for a long time, before briefly studying Ashley’s. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”

“My friend and I saved these children from a terrible fate. We’re not quite sure what that fate is, exactly, but we know it’s bad.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because bad people were holding them captive. Bad people who killed my entire family.”

Sister Sara let this soak in for a beat. Finally she turned to Ashley. “And you?”

“That’s a much longer story,” she said.

John said, “Sister Sara, I understand if you don’t want to take on the responsibility like this. If it’s a money issue, we have money to give you. A lot of money.”

Along with the weapons in the Town Car had been a briefcase filled with nearly a half million dollars in cash.

Sister Sara shook her head. “That isn’t necessary. Marta has donated a generous amount of money nearly every year for the past two decades.” She caught John’s expression and asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

“You knew Marta?”

“She grew up here. I did not know her myself, but Sister Catherine told me stories before she passed away. She always said Marta was very bright, and she was so proud of her when she eventually attended MIT. As you can imagine, not many of the children who pass through here manage such an impressive feat. Tell me, do you know what’s happened to her?”

John looked away, looked down, finally looked back up. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“She’s dead.”

Sister Sara covered her mouth with a hand. “I’m so sorry. What about Eli?”

“He’s dead, too.”

The nun’s eyes glistened. “How did they die?”

“Not well. They died helping protect these children. That’s why we brought them here.”

The nun began nodding. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’m just … I’m not sure how Evelyn will take the news.”

Ashley and John glanced at each other.

John asked, “Who’s Evelyn?”

Sister Sara was trying to compose herself, wiping at her eyes, attempting a calm face. She took a deep breath.

“Hmm? What’s that? Oh, Evelyn. Well, she hasn’t seen or heard from Eli since he was last here, and she’ll just be devastated.” When neither John nor Ashley spoke, understanding filled the nun’s face, and she said, “Oh, I see. He didn’t tell you about her, did he? Why, Mr. Smith, Evelyn is Eli’s sister.”

• • •

Sister Sara consults the other nuns, briefly explains the situation, then has them bring the children inside from the minivans. You’d think the children would be leery of their new surroundings, but they’re eerily complacent.

Sister Sara shakes her head sadly. “These children’s souls have been broken. We will do what we can to fix them.”

She takes us inside and leads us through the hallway.

“How many children do you have here?” Ashley asks.

“We currently have sixty-three children. Well, now seventy-three.”

We turn the corner and head down another hallway. Here the windows look out over a large field leading down to a pond and gazebo. A few ducks float around on the water.

“Typically, if a child has not been adopted by the age of eighteen, they are released from our care. With Evelyn, however, we knew it was best to keep her here. Of course, we made it her choice, and she was happy to stay. In fact, she’s been a great asset to us and the children.”

“Is she a nun, too?” I ask.

Sister Sara pauses in front of a closed door to think about it. The corners of her lips rise in a smile. “An honorary nun, you might say.”

She opens the door.

Inside a group of children and two nuns are sitting at tables, playing board games, a few others putting together a gigantic puzzle. They all look up and smile at Sister Sara as she enters the room.

“I believe it’s time for dinner,” Sister Sara says. “Why don’t you head to the dining room?”

The children push away from their tables and file past us into the hallway. The two nuns begin to make their way, too, when Sister Sara says, “You can stay here for a bit, Evelyn. These kind people would like to speak with you.”

Evelyn wears a gray skirt and white blouse. It’s clear by the softness of her face, the oval eyes, that she has Down’s syndrome. She smiles and nods and takes a seat at the nearest table.

Sister Sara turns to us then, her voice low. “Despite her disability, she’s smart, sweet, and hardworking. This news will crush her, I’m sure.”

“We don’t have to tell her,” I say.

“No, I think you should. She needs to know. Otherwise she’ll always wonder.”

Sister Sara leads us to the table where we take a seat. Pieces of the puzzle are scattered in front of us. Judging by the pieces already put together, the picture shows a red covered bridge.

“Hello,” Evelyn says. She looks to be in her late-forties, brown hair going gray.

“Hi,” Ashley and I say at the same time.

There’s a beat of silence.

Sister Sara clears her throat. “Evelyn, this is John and Ashley. They’re friends of Eli’s.”

Her face lights up at once. She leans forward, smiling, and it breaks my heart that I have to tell her something that will wipe the smile from her face.

“How is he?” she asks, eager. “Can I talk to him? Will he visit me soon?”

I swallow. Glance at Ashley. Ashley’s watching me, waiting for me to continue. Because it’s my job, isn’t it? Of course it is.

Before I can speak, though, Sister Sara takes pity on me and clears her throat again.

“Evelyn, I’m sorry to tell you that Eli has passed away.”

Just as I feared, the light goes out of her eyes and the smile starts to fade. But that’s it. She doesn’t burst into tears. She just takes a deep breath and says to me and Ashley, “What about Marta?”

I nod, my voice cracking. “She passed away, too.”

“Was it … the bad people?”

“Yes.”

For the first time, fear fills her face. “They won’t find me here, will they?”

“No,” I tell her, though the truth is I have no clue. Ashley and I have done our best so far at watching our backs, but so did Eli and Marta, and look how it turned out for them. Still, we are being as careful as possible, and we have brought the children here because there was nowhere else to take them, and now we are here, in this recreational room, sitting at this table with Eli’s sister, and I’ve just told her her brother is dead.

“How did you know Eli?”

The question catches me off guard. I’m not sure why, but I wasn’t expecting this. I glance at Ashley, as if asking for help, but she just stares back at me. She nods, slightly, and I know what I have to do next.

“Eli,” I say, and my voice cracks again. “Eli … was my father.”

The light in Evelyn’s eyes returns. She says to Ashley, “And you?”

“No,” Ashley says. “I’m just a friend.”

Evelyn turns back to me. “So if Eli was your father, that makes you”-her eyes drift up to the ceiling as she works it out in her head-“my nephew.”

The smile growing on her face is so contagious I find myself smiling, too. Then her smile fades, and she stares off past me.

“I miss him,” she says softly. “He was such a good big brother. He always looked out for me. He always looked out for everyone.”

I think of the man I’ve hated for the past ten years. The man whose funeral I nearly skipped out of spite. The man who I threw up against the hood of a car out of frustration. The man who, when all is said and done, saved my life.

Nodding distantly, I say, “He was a good man.”

“We played games when I was little. He taught me how to play checkers and chess. I’m okay at chess, but I’ve always loved checkers. We played the last time he visited me. I always”-her voice breaks-“I always wanted to play one more game with him. But now … now that will never happen.”

Tears finally fill her eyes. She wipes at them, begins sniffling. Sister Sara retrieves a box of tissues and hands it to Evelyn.

“Thank you,” Evelyn says, and takes one of the tissues and dabs at her eyes and then blows her nose.

I look around the room, wanting to leave, wanting to escape, hating myself for bringing this terrible news to this woman, news that has caused her to cry, when something catches my eye a few tables over. A red and black checkered board. Stacks of red and black plastic pieces.

“I’ll play checkers with you.”

At first I’m not even sure it’s me who has spoken until Evelyn smiles and then shakes her head.

“You don’t want to play me,” she says.

“Sure I do.”

“I’m very good. I’ll probably beat you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Before she can say anything else, I rise out of my chair and retrieve the board and pieces and bring them back to the table.

“What color do you want to be?” I ask.

“Red.”

I set up my pieces, Evelyn sets up hers, and then we just sit there, watching each other.

“Are you sure you want to play me?” Evelyn asks, and there’s something mischievous in her voice. “Eli taught me some tricks.”

I smile. “Eli taught me some tricks as well.”

“To make it fair,” Evelyn says, “I’ll let you go first.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Trust me”-she grins-“you’ll need the help.”

I look at Ashley and see that she’s smiling. I realize I’m smiling, too. After everything we’ve been through, after all the lies, all the deaths, it’s nice to take a moment to breathe, to smile, if only for a few minutes. Soon Ashley and I will leave this place. We’ll leave the minivans with the nuns and find new transportation. We have enough money to keep us going for the next few years. And then what? What will we do then? Keep running from these people, or stand up and fight? I know what I want to do, but I have no idea what’s on Ashley’s mind. That’s something we’ll have to discuss later.

But right now neither of us is thinking about that. All of our worry is momentarily gone. We’re here now, in this place, with a woman who turns out to be my aunt, and a checkerboard laid out in front of us.

“Ready?” Evelyn asks.

“Ready,” I say.

And, leaning forward, I make the first move.

Content

Robert Swartwood
Legion

part one

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

part two

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

thirty-two

thirty-three

thirty-four

thirty-five

thirty-six

thirty-seven

thirty-eight

thirty-nine

forty

forty-one

forty-two

forty-three

forty-four

forty-five

forty-six

forty-seven

forty-eight

forty-nine

fifty

fifty-one

fifty-two

fifty-three

fifty-four

fifty-five

fifty-six

fifty-seven

fifty-eight

fifty-nine

part three

sixty

sixty-one

sixty-two

sixty-three

sixty-four

sixty-five

sixty-six

sixty-seven

sixty-eight

sixty-nine

seventy

seventy-one

seventy-two

epilogue