"Yes."
"I can hear a wall giving way down here."
"I'll see if I can get them to move a little faster."
"If they can't get us out right now," said Hawkes, "I've got to go in and get that bullet out. I think its pressing on the liver. If it penetrates the liver…"
"I get the picture," said Stella.
"Ironic," said Hawkes, looking at Custus. "I've got all the tools for removing a bullet from a dead body. Now I have a live one."
"Ironic," Stella agreed.
"There's more," he said. "I became a medical examiner and now a field investigator because I didn't want to work on living people. I didn't want to have anyone's life in my hands again."
"I know," said Stella.
Devlin and the young fireman were back at the rim of the pit as Stella closed her phone.
Devlin showed her a blue plastic case that fit easily into his palm.
"Morphine. I'll get it down to him," said Devlin. "Let him know it's coming."
"What about…?"
"I think we might have to take a chance or two here to get Doctor Hawkes and the other man out," said Devlin. "The sooner we can get down there, the better, before…"
"Before…?" Stella asked.
"Before it collapses," he said. "I'm not overly concerned about it, but we're still better safe than sorry."
"You have a family?" Stella asked.
The other fireman had gone back to monitoring the pump.
"Mother, father, brother, sister," he said.
"Married?"
"No."
"I don't have any family," said Stella. "No mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, husbands or children."
"You can't go down," Devlin said. "I'm trained to do it. I've done things like this before. You wouldn't know what to do."
"You could tell me," she said.
"We don't have the time and I don't think you'd have the strength that might be needed."
"I work out," she said.
"I bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds," he said. "This isn't a game of whose cojones are bigger, Detective."
"You're right," she said. "I'll get back to the dead. I know how to deal with them."
There was no answer at the number Alvin Havel had written on the card his father carried.
Maddie Woods, uniformed reception officer at the precinct, had tried the number four times before calling the telephone company and getting the address. A car was dispatched to check out the address before driving the shivering man there in the endless downpour.
There had been no problem finding dry clothes for the man to wear. There were three boxes of clothes in a closet next to the evidence room, clothes that had belonged to victims, drug dealers, a few murderers.
No one on duty spoke whatever it was Waclaw spoke. She did know the man's name, Waclaw Havel. That was all she could read on the inter-national driver's license in his wallet. He had reluctantly given up the wallet after much coaxing as he dressed in a pair of brown oversize winter corduroy slacks and an XX large T-shirt with a pocket. On the back of the T-shirt were the words "Life Sucks."
Maddie, short and plump with dyed blonde hair in a feather cut, tried communicating with the wild-haired man by using creative sign language. She had one basic question. What the hell had happened to him and how did he get to the front door of the police station? Sign language proved fruitless. Officer Jimmy Tuskov was brought in from directing traffic. He tried Russian. Waclaw didn't understand. Jimmy tried Czech, of which he knew just enough to get by. No luck.
"It's Polish," Jimmy decided.
Detective Art Rogetti wandered by the room as Waclaw was speaking to Jimmy.
"What's he talkin'?" asked Art, who had a cup of coffee in his hand. Art was tall, thin with a little belly, and a year away from retirement.
"Polish," said Maddie with a sigh. "You talk Polish?"
"No," said Art. "But I know someone who does."
"Who's that?" asked Maddie.
"Perp I'm bringing this coffee to," said Art. "Caught him looting a porno shop."
"It's not being called looting yet," said Jimmy.
"Okay. B and E then," said Art. "You want the guy?" he asked Maggie. "You don't want the guy?"
"We want the guy," said Maddie.
"Good, then I'll get the guy. His name is Zbilski."
A few seconds later a tough-looking little man in his late twenties was marched sullenly into the room. He looked at Waclaw and said something in Polish. Waclaw answered eagerly.
"What do I get?" asked Zbilski.
"Our sincere thanks," said Art.
"I just forgot how to speak Polish," said Alex.
"Remember fast," said Art. He handed the coffee to Zbilski.
Waclaw looked at Zbilski and said, "Rozumiesz polsku?" (Do you understand Polish?)
Zbilski answered, "Mowie po polsku."
"Well?" asked Art.
"Maybe it's coming back to me," said Zbilski.
"You deliver, you walk," said Art. "I'm feeling generous and curious." Truth was, Art didn't have enough evidence on Zbilski to be sure the breaking and entering charge would stick anyway.
After five minutes of talking to Zbilski, the three police officers knew why Waclaw had found his way to the station.
"Havel," Art said, looking at the driver's license Maddie had handed him. "Name rings bells. Wait a second."
Art left the room. Waclaw spoke again.
"He wants to know what happened to the car," said Zbilski.
"What car?" asked Maddie. "We've got abandoned cars all over the place."
Waclaw was in the process of explaining when Art returned and said, "Ask him if his son is Alvin Havel, the school teacher."
Zbilski asked. Waclaw said yes.
"He's dead," said Art. "Murdered at the school in Manhattan where he teaches."
"You want me to tell him?" asked Zbilski.
The three police officers exchanged looks.
"Make it gentle," said Maddie. "Real gentle and you walk. Okay with you, Art?"
Art nodded his agreement. Jimmy shrugged.
Zbilski smiled and handed the coffee he was holding to Waclaw, who accepted it with two hands. Then Zbilski leaned over, hand on the older man's shoulder and told him, gently.
Waclaw took a sip of coffee and handed the cup back to Zbilski, who handed it to Art. Then Waclaw wept and rocked and started to talk rapidly.
"What's he saying?" asked Jimmy.
"He's talking too fast," said Zbilski, who asked Waclaw in Polish to slow down.
Waclaw looked at him and kept talking.
"He says he knows who killed his son," said Zbilski. "He knows who and he knows why. He told his son to stop, but his son wouldn't listen. Now he's dead. His only son."
"Who does he think killed his son?" Maddie asked.
Zbilski asked the question and Waclaw Havel answered.
"What'd he say?" asked Maddie.
"He said, 'She did it,'" said Zbilski.
"Who is she?" asked Tuskow.
Zbilski asked and Waclaw answered.
"She's in the book," Zbilski translated.
"The book?" asked Art. "The phone book?"
Waclaw spoke rapidly. Zbilski said, "Wow wolniej."
Zbilski looked at the cops as Waclaw began speaking and said, "I asked him to slow down. Just says 'the book,'" said Zbilski.
"Che mi sie siusiu," said Waclaw.
"What'd he say?" asked Maddie.
"He has to pee," said Zbilski.
8
Two Days Earlier
Manhattan
CONNOR DRANK HIS DRAFT BEER and smiled at the foam.
What had he come to? Sitting in the middle of the morning nursing a beer in a First Avenue bar while he waited for a frightened jack rabbit to come skulking in. The man he was waiting for would have to be urged, nudged, wheedled into what Connor planned, but he was reasonably sure he could do it. Connor had done his homework.
Once, both long ago and not that long ago, Connor had commanded respect. He was a bloody bombing genius, first for the IRA and then for anyone who would pay for his expertise and daring. But fewer and fewer wanted his artistry. There were bombers and bomb makers all over the globe blowing everything up, including themselves. And these amateurs were called masterminds. There had been a time when if a group with a grievance had wanted something blown up, Connor was their boy. Only Connor hadn't been a boy for a long time and he'd had to fall back on his other profession, which paid him only slightly better in the long run than explosives.