8
Jack sat at the MV monitoring console in the warehouse and went over his list. He'd given all three floors a close inspection in a hunt for ways to deal with the yenigeri who'd be sent after him. He'd found a number of possibilities, but wanted a couple more as backup.
He rose and wandered back to the bunk/lounge area at the right rear. He'd already given it the twice over but it might yield something. The old TV offered possibilities. And the lockers, though they'd been swept clean, might trigger inspiration. He started there.
A couple of dozen or so stood against the wall, all their doors agape. He closed one and stepped back. Its incongruity might trigger curiosity, which wouldn't be a bad thing—for Jack, at least.
He dropped to his hands and knees and checked out the two-inch gap between the locker bottom and the floor for a place to hide a surprise. Nothing but dust bunnies and—
Something metallic gleamed a dull yellow behind one of the bunnies. He snaked his hand under and grasped it between his fingertips. He identified it on contact: ammo.
He pulled it out and dropped it into his palm. A hollow point with a long, slim cartridge. The hollow was filled and sealed. And the caliber… it looked like a .223 Remington, but a closer look told him it was a 5.56mm NATO round.
Jack leaned against the lockers as his heart went into overdrive.
The killers in the LaGuardia Massacre had used cyanide-tipped 5.56 NATOs.
His mind raced to a barely justified conclusion: The killers hadn't been Arab terrorists. Joey Castles's last words had hinted that LaGuardia was bigger than the Arabs he and Jack had shot up, that something else was going on.
Not Arabs… yenigeri. Had the Ally showed them what to do, and they'd done it? Killed more than fifty people in order to kill one: his father?
Dad had been a branch… and a spear has no branches.
The Lady's words came back to him.
That's the way the Ally views us: as natural resources, as raw materials. There's no evil there, just pragmatism.
No evil unless you were on the receiving end.
He drew up his knees and rested his forehead against them.
Okay, we're natural resources to the Ally. It can't show compassion because it has none. It can't be held to human moral standards because it makes its own rules and answers only to itself.
But none of that exonerated the yeniceri from following through with the "Alarms" it sent—not when it involved the slaughter of innocent lives, especially lives close to him.
"I was just following orders"… or… "I was doing it for the greater good of humanity"… that bullshit carried no weight here.
Sick and disgusted, Jack pushed himself to his feet and pocketed the round. He had work to do.
Time to adjust the calendar.
Judgment Day would be arriving early for the yeniceri.
9
Midafternoon, after leaving the warehouse, Jack stopped by Russ Tuit's place and showed him the hard drives. Russ told him they were ruined way beyond repair. Maybe some NSA code-head geek could coax something out of them, but he doubted even that. The drives were useless.
Disappointed, he'd returned to the unit to check in on Gia and Vicky—no change. Normally that might be good news, but not in this case.
Then Jack set about tracking down someone who knew about the baby. He found that someone in the Records department. Wilma Dryden appeared about fifty and wore a blue skirt and blazer. She looked efficient and officious.
"Oh, Mister Westphalen," she said, looking up from her desk. "I'm so glad you stopped by. You're a hard man to find."
"I've been pulled in a lot of directions. Where's my baby?"
"I'm so sorry for your loss. She's in our morgue."
Jack closed his eyes as his throat constricted.
She… that meant the baby's name was Emma.
Emma… his… their Emma was in the morgue.
Jack knew lots about morgues—more than he wanted to. The thought of Emma in a bag in a cooler somewhere in the cellar sickened him.
"I suppose you've come to make arrangements for burial," Ms. Dryden said.
Burial? It had never crossed his mind.
"No… not really."
"Well, by law any miscarriage past the twentieth week must be buried or cremated."
Cremated… Emma? He wanted to scream.
"I can't think about that now. My… my wife's in a coma. I'd like to see our baby."
Wilma Dryden frowned. "Do you think that's a good idea? I mean, before the mortician has had a chance—"
"I don't know when that will be and I don't want to wait that long. I need to see her."
"Well, I don't—"
Jack spoke through his teeth. "I want to see her. Now."
"Really, Mister Westphalen, there's no need for—"
He slammed his hand on her desk.
"Now!"
She flinched and rolled her chair back.
He lowered his voice. "Please."
10
The morgue attendant was a kind-looking old gent. He checked the pass that Ms. Dry den had arranged for Jack, then led the way toward a row of drawers. Jack felt his feet dragging of their own accord. He didn't want to do this, but he had to. He owed it to Emma… to Gia… to himself.
"Terrible thing for a baby to die before it gets a chance to take even a single breath," he said. "My condolences, mister."
Jack said nothing.
They stopped before a drawer. The gent slid it out to reveal a black, zip-pered body bag. A little lump pushed up the center of the plastic.
Emma.
Jack stared but could not move.
The gent said, "Do… do you want me to open it?"
Jack could only nod.
The zipper was pulled down, the edges were parted, and there she was, lying on her side.
Emma was a tiny thing, maybe the size of a kitten, and pale, almost blue white. About a foot of the umbilical cord was still attached. Her eyes were closed but her mouth was open; her knees were drawn up and her tiny fists were clenched under her chin… as if she'd died in pain.
Jack leaned over and touched her. He ran a fingertip across the eyelids, down past her lips and along one of her arms. Her skin felt nothing like a baby's—cold, thick, almost hard. He wanted to say something, something as simple as Hi, Emma, but he was incapable of speech.
He saw a drop of water on her shoulder. He touched it. It felt warm. Then another appeared. And another.
He realized they were tears.
11
Jack sat in the family lounge. His body craved sleep, his brain screamed for a time-out, but it wasn't in the cards. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Emma lying cold and white in that body bag.
He shook himself and checked his watch. A little after eleven. Time to go see another corpse.
He exited the hospital and headed uptown. John Jay Park and its environs were fast becoming a familiar haunt. More familiar than he wished. He hoped this would be his last visit.
He trotted across the overpass and down to the promenade. A swift recon-noiter showed a couple of hardy old souls strolling the riverside, gloved hand in gloved hand. He waited until they passed, then he ducked into the alcove under the steps.
Zeklos's body was where he'd left it, but stiff as a four-by-four. As he'd hoped, none of the sparse passersby had ventured into the alcove today.
Now came the touchy part—the really touchy part. He wriggled into a pair of latex gloves, then pulled out the Yarborough knife he'd brought along. He used it to slice away Zeklos's shirts. The black blade slipped easily through the fabric, exposing the pale, sparsely haired chest. Jack took a deep breath, hesitated a second, then crunched the blade through the right upper ribs. Using both hands he sawed down, angling toward the midline. No blood spurted—it had long since congealed and frozen. He repeated the process on the left, then grabbed the lower tip of the breastbone with both hands and yanked it up with a sickening crack. The exposed heart seemed to contract within its fat pad as the icy wind found it.