Bastard.
"I know what you're thinking: Why do this piecemeal? Why not go from Oculus to Oculus—say, one a day—and kill each in a serial massacre? Perhaps because all the pieces of the elaborate clockwork I've been assembling are not yet in place. And although the deaths of the Oculi are necessary to the plan, they are but one facet. So it amuses me to spend the intervening time—and you may trust me that it will not be long—removing you poor excuses for prophets at random intervals. The human mind is comforted by patterns, but I shall offer none.
"Now, a question you're probably asking—besides why must I face this alone?—is why is he telling me all this? Well, call it a weakness, but the truth is, my existence does not allow me much opportunity to talk about these things—at least with someone who knows the truth."
The Oculus wished he could shout his own take on the truth: You want to gloat!
"I used to have a companion. I called him Mauricio, but that was not his name. I could discuss anything with him—even argue with him. I miss that. He died along with your beloved Twins. A mutual tragedy."
The Twins? Dead?
The Oculus had been all but sure that their absence meant they were dead, but now to hear it from the Adversary himself…
If he'd had a voice he would have sobbed.
Rasalom heaved a sigh as heavy as it was artificial.
"But enough talk. Time to get down to business. Your demise must occur in a way that causes the most consternation, evokes the most revulsion in the survivors. I'm good at that. An artist, you might say. I've already done my masterpiece—hard to believe it's been four years already. I tailored it for a certain man—to drive him to his knees, to crush him into the dirt. I thought I'd succeeded, but I've learned he's still standing. I intend to remedy that. As for you, however… you shall be an acceptable lesser work."
And then the cold, silent, wrenching, tearing agony began…
22
Jack rushed down Second Avenue but slowed as he reached 58th Street and saw a flashing cop car blocking the entrance. He spotted other units farther east, clustered around a double-parked truck. But no ambulances, no EMS rigs.
He'd already stowed his Glock under the front seat, so he double-parked and ran to the nearest uniform.
"Was—?" He cleared his throat. It was almost too tight for speech. "Was there an accident here?"
The cop was waving away cars that wanted to turn onto 58th. He turned and gave Jack the patented NYPD who-the-fuck-are-you? stare.
"Move on, sir."
A vision of his hand shooting out and grabbing this lard-assed bastard's throat and slamming his head back against the roof of his unit flashed through Jack's brain, but he let it remain a fantasy.
"I got a call that my—my wife and little girl had been hit right here. Is that true?"
The cop's features softened. "Oh. Sorry. Yeah, we had a hit and run here. Woman and child hit at high speed. The driver took off."
Jack felt himself swaying—or was it the world? He looked around.
"But where…?"
"On their way to the hospital."
Hope jumped in his chest. His heart starting up again? For the first time since his call to Kosher Nosh, he sensed a trace of life inside.
"You mean they're alive?"
The cop's expression turned bleak as he became more interested in moving the traffic along.
"Can't say. Been up here since the git-go."
"Did you see anything?"
"I saw a couple of pretty banged-up people."
Aw no.
"Where'd they take them?"
"New York Hospital, up on—"
"I know where it is." Jack ran back to his car. Ten blocks uptown on York Avenue—he could be there in minutes.
23
The first indication Miller had that something was wrong was when no one answered the doorbell. He rang it three times and still no one buzzed them in.
Angry and puzzled, he said, "What the fuck?" and jabbed the button for a fourth try.
They'd dumped the stolen cars one at a time along the way. First the Camry. Miller and Cal then piled into Hursey's car, which followed Jolliff until he dumped his. Then all four drove to where they'd left the Suburban. No one had said much along the way.
Miller kept seeing that woman's face as he'd hit her. He kept telling himself it had been for the cause, for the greater good.
But the memory of that face made him want to puke again.
He looked up at the two overhead cameras. Both had their red indicator lights lit, which meant they were operating.
Creeping concern blanked out the soul-deep malaise that had gnawed at him all the way back.
"I don't like this," Cal said.
"Neither do I. I'm going to let us in."
He fished his keys from his pocket while Cal, Hursey, and Jolliff pulled their pistols and hid them under their coats. He heard hammers being cocked. Miller's own H-K would be out in a moment, but first he had to unlock the entrance.
Home was protected by an Electrolynx steel door, set in a steel frame—no way of breaking in—and secured by three bolts. Each yenigeri had a set of three keys but were supposed to use them only in dire emergency. Each key turned one bolt. Manually unlocking any of the three set off an alarm.
Miller inserted a key into the top lock and heard the warning bell begin to clang as he turned it. At least the alarm worked.
When no one responded, he quickly unlocked the next two, then pocketed the keys and replaced them with his pistol. He looked up and down the street. He felt so exposed out here on the sidewalk in daylight, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention.
"Okay," he said. "Stack."
They quickly divided into pairs on either side of the doorframe. On the left, Miller stood and Jolliff crouched; Cal and Hursey took the right.
"Ready?"
When he had three nods he grabbed the knob, twisted, and pushed the door in. Wilco's "Pot Kettle Black" was playing within, but he heard nothing else: no warning shout, no shots. Just… Wilco.
A strange, disturbing odor wafted out along with the music.
Miller chanced a look, tilting his head forward for a peek inside, then ducking back with closed eyes as his stomach did a roll.
Ybarra… mouth gaping, eyes wide and staring… draped over the monitoring console… his head twisted at an impossible angle… and blood… blood everywhere.
Miller didn't know whether to be angry or afraid. He liked anger—so much cleaner and sharp-edged than fear—so he pumped it up. Not hard to do. One of his brothers, probably more, had been slaughtered right here at Home.
Davis's voice: "What's going on?"
Miller looked at him. "We've been hit."
24
The hospital's official title was New York Presbyterian Hospital-Cornell campus, but no one called it anything but New York Hospital.
Jack pulled into the semicircular entrance drive at the eastern end of 68th Street. The complex had a classic medical-center look—twenty or so stories of vaguely art-deco design with a clean granite face and tall arched windows. He was ready to abandon his car in front of the canopied entrance. If they towed it, so be il. But if they checked the tags first and found Vinny the Donut's name, they might leave it alone.
Then he saw the valet parking sign and screeched to a halt in front of the Latino attendant.
"How long you gonna be?" he said as Jack hopped out of the car.
"Forever. Where's emergency?"
He pointed over Jack's shoulder. "Right over there where it says EMERGENCY."
Jack looked. How had he missed that?
He ran inside and came face-to-face with a uniformed security guard.
"Can I help you?"
"I need to check on two emergency patients."