After the Ciampi woman arrived, he'd kept watching and saw the big man and his small comrade tiptoe up the apartment stairs and start their "argument." What followed was better than American television. He'd wondered about its purpose, however, until he saw the woman emerge from the apartment and carefully place the bloody handkerchief in a large Ziploc bag, which she then deposited in her purse.
When a man answered his call, Milan spoke quickly in Russian, listened, chuckled at a joke, and then went back to his post at the peephole in time to see the good-looking whore come out. You're confident now, he thought, but justice is coming.
In his office at 100 Centre Street, V.T. Newbury was also thinking about justice as he sat across from Captain Tim Carney of the New York Police Department. The captain had been invited to the meeting ostensibly for some minor internal affairs questions, only to learn that he was the one under investigation.
So far, Carney was in denial. He looked over at Clay Fulton, who sat with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. "Come on, Clay, we've known each other twenty-five years," he said.
"Yeah, and I never liked you for even one of them," Fulton responded. "Now I like you even less. In fact, I'd like to take you out back and beat the snot out of you."
Newbury grinned. "I don't think that will be necessary, Clay," he said. "Mr. Carney's in plenty of hot water as it is. Now, Tim, would you rather explain to me or to a grand jury looking to indict you how it is that a police officer, even a captain, with a mortgage on a modest little home in Yonkers and three kids in expensive colleges can afford a condominium in Key West for…," Newbury knew the number but enjoyed the dramatic effect as he studied the papers in front of him, "one and a half million dollars?"
Carney chewed his lip. He considered saying something snappy like, "By being a careful saver" but realized prudence might be the better part of valor. But he wasn't just going to flop over and said, "Am I being charged?"
"No, not yet," he said. "If you were, I would have already asked Clay here to read you your Miranda warnings. In fact, I want to make it clear and on the record-and by the way, this conversation is being tape-recorded-that you are free to leave. You don't have to answer my questions at all. But tell you what, you have until January 2 to think it over, after which time I will see who-Olav Radinskaya, Shakira Zulu, Hugh Louis, Ed Ewen, or Sam Lindahl-might be more willing to chat."
Carney blanched at the roll call of names. "Why was I your first choice?" he said.
Newbury shrugged. "Call it sentimentality or a choice between a half-dozen evils. You served the NYPD with distinction at one time-four commendations for bravery. I guess you looked ahead and saw penny-pinching in your golden years, and I can understand that wasn't a thrilling picture. But let me be clear-we're talking shades of gray. You might be the lightest shade, but you're still guilty as sin. So I'm giving you a chance to minimize the damage, but you're not going to get entirely off the hook. And by the way, if we hear that you ran back to the Rat Pack and tried to warn them-and let me assure you we will hear, just like we heard about the place in Key West-there will be no mercy."
The police captain swallowed hard and nodded. "I…I want to talk to a lawyer."
Newbury closed the file. "Fine, talk to a lawyer. But do it before January 2. After that we start working our way up shade by shade."
26
Friday, December 31
John Jojola willed his tired feet to shuffle to the tempo of a dozen hide-covered drums. Sweat dripped into his eyes beneath the elaborate kachina mask of painted wood, leather, and feathers that he wore to represent one of the ancestral spirits of his people. The pounding of the drums reverberated off the rectangular, salmon-colored adobe homes of the Taos Pueblo and throughout his body. As he danced, he prayed to the spirits of his people while the drummers sang to the spirits, asking for their help, the repetitive chanting broken occasionally by a ululating cry.
Jojola became aware that someone was talking to him in the waking world, but he wasn't ready to wake up. He knew he was running a fever; the spot on his shoulder where he'd been bitten felt hot and throbbed with the beating of the drum; the old bullet wound he'd received from Cop in Vietnam ached. He didn't know how long he'd been handcuffed to the old wrought-iron bed in a small alcove just outside of Grale's main hall. Days, he was sure, but it was always night in down-world.
The drummers and dancers had been at it since dawn. Sweat glistened on the bare parts of their bodies in the afternoon sun or ran in rivulets through the layer of dust that covered them from head to foot. He and the other exhausted dancers moved trancelike as they willed the beating of their hearts to become one with that of the drums and carry their tired bodies on into the night.
"John Jojola, can you hear me?"
The voice was that of David Grale. When he'd first come to after being knocked unconscious, Jojola found himself handcuffed to the bed and Grale standing over him. "I'm sorry to have hurt you and that you must now remain my guest," the madman said. "But I'm afraid it's necessary."
Grale had explained how he and the Mole People were preparing for "the last battle." On New Year's Eve, even as the terrorists prepared their bomb, they would attack.
"We have numbers on them and have created several access points behind their lines by loosening the bricks in Mr. Beach's old tunnel so that at the right moment we might surprise them. But I don't hold out much hope for success. They are much better armed and trained. And there is always a man standing by the fuse to the bomb; they rotate the guard, but I suspect that whoever's sitting there with his hand on the lighter has orders to blow it if something goes wrong. Their leader has prepared a well-protected egress from the site, so I suspect that he plans to be gone before the apocalyptic moment-a delay that may be our only chance to reach the bomb before it goes off."
"And if you don't, thousands of people will die," Jojola had replied. "Millions, if your prophecy is allowed to come true."
"It's not my prophecy." Grale shrugged. "It's in the Bible."
He had been dancing since the ceremony began without water or food and was entering the phase when exhaustion, deprivation, and the mind-numbing thudding of the drums produced hallucinations. A kachina in a headdress meant to represent a bear danced next to him. They locked eyes. It was his friend Charlie Many Horses. "Wake up, John. If you don't wake up the villagers will die. I will die because there will be no one to invite my spirit into this life; it will be as though I never lived. Wake up, John."
"Wake up, John," Grale said. "I'm going to give a special mass now. If you'd like to attend and receive absolution before the end tonight, I can have you brought into the great hall."
"You're not a priest," Jojola murmured, still locked in the dream by his fever.
"No," Grale admitted. "But I'm all they've got. I'll stop by before we start tonight and see if you'd like to confess and be saved."
"What day is it?"
"Why, I thought you knew. It's the morning of New Year's Eve day…December 31."
He was back dancing next to Charlie in his bear kachina outfit. "Remember what I said. Remember what the bear said. Remember what I said. Remember what the bear said," Charlie chanted to the rhythm of the drums. "Wake up, John. Wake up, John. Wake…"
"…up, John Jojola," a voice whispered in his ear. Someone fiddled with the handcuff that held his wrist to the bedpost. Then his arm was free. Lifted into a sitting position, he was cradled by someone who spoke rapidly but quietly in a foreign language. Vietnamese? He wondered if his dream, or maybe it was real life, had shifted back to Cop's tunnels. "Charlie?" he asked, opening his eyes.