Without allowing himself any time to think or reconsider, he cut the heart free and set it aside. When he'd wiped the knife clean on Zeklos's shirt, he pulled out the note he'd written earlier and pinned it to the dead man's coat.
Then, after checking again to make sure no one was in sight, he hauled Zeklos out and laid him next to the telephone. No one walking by could miss him, but the lights of one of the passing cars on the FDR might pick him out first.
Jack then grabbed the heart and tossed it into the East River. He couldn't see it land in the dark, but heard the splash.
He removed his gloves and stored them in a Ziploc, then dashed up the steps and crossed back to 78th Street. He stopped at the corner of York Avenue and leaned against a wall. He'd dreaded that grisly task, but at least it was done. Poor Zeklos deserved better than that, but Jack had to work with the materials at hand. Zeklos was one of those materials.
As he started down York he took out his phone and dialed 911. After three rings a woman answered.
"Emergency services."
"Look, I was just on the riverside walk near Seventy-eighth Street and I think I saw something that looked like a body by the overpass."
"Could I have your name, sir?"
Jack hung up.
The rest was up to the papers. He knew the note and the condition of the body would earn front-page coverage.
12
When he got back to the hospital, the trauma unit's head nurse told him he'd have to wait before he could see his family. Dr. Stokely was with Vicky who was having more seizures despite all the medication.
Helpless, he sat. And waited. And thought. Had to be some way to fix this. Not from here in the hospital, but from another direction.
He simply had to find it and make it work.
THURSDAY
1
Cal accompanied Grell and Novak to the supermarket. The little island had only two. Since Grell was the best cook among the survivors, he landed the task of filling the larders. And since that was no little task, they'd taken the Hummer and one of the SUVs and brought Novak to help carry.
They didn't need Cal, but he wanted to get the lay of the land. He'd known of the safe house for years—and had hoped never to have to use it—but this was the first time he'd stayed here.
The place had a stark kind of beauty. Rolling hills and moors near its center, dunes protecting the shore, thick underbrush, scrub pine, and oak; two-lane blacktops alternated with winding sandy paths, and not a single traffic light to be found. It measured fifteen miles east-west and half that north-south, but seemed bigger. Only locals here this time of year. Summer, he'd been told, was a wholly different story.
They pulled into the Stop & Shop, the closest supermarket. A Grand Union was cross island in the town that cozied around the harbor. Someday this week he'd get downtown and do some wandering. They'd passed through it on their way from the harbor and it looked quaint and friendly.
The Stop & Shop seemed fairly crowded. The low, leaden, late-morning sky and the promise of a big snow on the way probably had something to do with that.
He grinned and nudged Grell, a tall, gangly redhead with a long reach. "Storm coming. Better stock up before the hoarders grab it all."
He nodded. "Good idea."
Cal sighed. Sailed right over his red head.
"I need a Pringles fix," Novak said.
Cal eyed the stocky man's expanding waistline but said nothing.
"You guys do your thing. I'll wander."
He'd have preferred to do his wandering outside, explore the island a little, but the icy, straight-razor wind robbed the outdoors of any appeal. Maybe some other day.
He grabbed a little shopping basket and picked out a few things for personal use. He liked food that crunched, so he picked out bags of carrots and celery. He liked to dip his crunchies in guacamole, but the store had only Marie's guacamole dip. Well, that would do in a pinch.
He saw newspaper racks ahead and made a beeline for them. Today's papers should have reached the island by now. News-wise, the satellite TV at the house offered only the national channels and Boston locals. He wanted to keep an eye on the goings-on in New York, especially for news about eight mutilated bodies being found. Did not want to hear that.
The headline of the Post stopped him dead in his tracks. Even at ten feet the stunner headline screamed at him.
And then the Daily News:
YENICERI? WHO DAT?
"HEIR" TO WHAT?
What the hell?
He hurried to the rack and grabbed a copy of each, found a ledge by the front window, and sat down to read. His fingers trembled as he turned the pages.
The stories were pretty much the same. Someone had reported a body alongside the FDR Drive. The man had been shot once—in the heart, they suspected—but his heart was missing. He carried no identification but was short, slight of build, with dark hair and brown eyes. Anyone with information should call the given number. Then the reporter got to the puzzling note found pinned to the body.
/ ^ yenigeri *Ps. The collection is 8 and growing. The Heir"
The News asked, "Is the Heir a new serial killer?"
Cal sagged back against the window. The Heir… Jack… yeah, he might be just that.
Zeklos… the dead man had to be him. Poor Zek, his heart ripped out like the rest…
Cal shook his head. He'd liked Jack, hadn't had an inkling he would or could do something like this. Especially to someone as innocuous as Zek.
And then to be so blatant about it, to announce it to the world. And announce to the yeniceri that he was the one who'd killed their brothers.
Rage surged but quickly died. Something about this didn't sit right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something seemed askew.
"Davis!"
He looked up and saw Novak giving him the high sign from one of the cashier lanes.
He'd have to tell them. He fought an impulse to buy all the New York papers and throw them away. They had to know. They had a right to know. Even though Zeklos was on the outs, they'd be enraged.
And Miller… Miller would go ballistic.
2
"It's terrible, Jack. Terrible. So awful I can't believe. Like a knife in the heart it hurts. And you… how you must feel… unimaginable."
Jack could only nod.
Exhausted, he leaned on the scarred counter at the rear of the store, with Abe seated across from him. In a way he didn't understand, he took comfort in the familiar clutter, in the sound of Abe's voice, his proximity, his uncharacteristic mother-henning. This was a side of his old friend he'd never seen.
"Also you look terrible. You should be resting. And eating. Are you eating?"
Jack shrugged. "Not hungry."
"You must eat already. You'll collapse if you don't. I have cake. I'll make us some coffee and—"
"Food is the furthest thing from my mind, Abe."
"Some chicken soup then? I can go around the corner—"