The St. Lawrence River
December 19, 6:17 P.M. EST
Sebastian Gault sat on the edge of the sofa, bent forward with his elbows on his thighs, watching as Eris worked her magic on the computer. The boat rocked gently with the cross-waves of the choppy St. Lawrence River as the captain steered it away from Crown Island.
All day she had been seeding the Net with vague comments about the wrath of the Goddess striking down the firstborn of the wicked. That sort of thing. She crafted original posts and sent them to her team, who kept the social media engines revving hour after hour. Online speculation as to who these firstborn were was spreading like wildfire. In the wake of the London bombing and what was now being called a terrorist attack in Southampton, Pennsylvania, these posts were having a measurable effect on the world market. The President had ordered Wall Street shut down for another day, but other markets around the world were staggering.
Gault got up and strolled over to the wet bar to make drinks. “I wish there was a way you could aim your virtual hate arrows at the real world.”
“At Joe Ledger,” she said with a laugh.
“Yes. I want his balls nailed to my trophy wall.”
“You’re even talking like a King now. How delightful, lovely boy.”
Gault laughed and sat down to watch her magic turn to dark sorcery.
Chapter Fifty-eight
The Crime Scene
Southampton, Pennsylvania
December 19, 6:09 P.M. EST
I stepped outside the TacV and called Church.
“Santoro?” He tasted the name. “Could be our Spaniard. I’ll have Bug run that. You get anything else from him?”
“Not as much as I will get.”
“He needs to have a pulse when he gets to the Hangar, Captain.”
“Don’t sweat that, Boss. He’ll be alive and kicking. Can’t say he’ll be enjoying life, but that’s the breaks.”
“Tragic. What else do you need?”
“We have to roll, which means I’m going to lose control of this scene. If the shooters met with Santoro, then there is a chance, however small, that we can pick up some DNA or hair and fibers from their gear and vehicles. I need you to talk to someone who will in turn call Southampton PD and impress upon them the importance of not touching a goddamn thing.”
“Not a problem. Jerry Spencer touched down at Philly International eight minutes ago. I had Fran Kirsch drive up from the Warehouse with a full team and all the gear Jerry will need.”
Fran was a forensic photographer and Jerry’s right hand. She had all of the warmth and personality he lacked. She also had a degree in psychology, which helped with profiling while collecting and analyzing the evidence.
“Good. You get anything more out of the two survivors from Jenkintown?”
“No. They’re both Chosen—too low-level to be of any use.”
“Damn.”
“I want you and Dr. Sanchez up here at the Hangar ASAP. Bring Dr. O’Tree as well.” He paused. “How is she handling this?”
I was surprised he cared enough to ask. “She’s pretty rattled. First time she’s dropped someone. It leaves a mark.”
“Yes,” he said, and I could hear the whisper of ghosts in his voice.
THE PARK WAS a few miles away. We loaded Rudy and the shooter into the waiting Chinook. I detailed DeeDee and John Smith to drive Black Bess to Brooklyn. The rest of us piled into the bird. Once we were airborne I told Ghost to lie down and stay; then I checked on Rudy. Since he’d been shot, Circe seemed to have claimed the role of mother hen. She got him situated in as much comfort as the transport helicopter would allow and heaped blankets on him to prevent shock. She hooked an IV bag to a clip on the wall.
I saw that his eyes were open and he was looking around trying to make sense of where he was.
“Hey, Rude,” I said, squatting in front of him, “how you doing, buddy? Are you comfortable? Anything I can—”
“Vete a la verga, pendejo,” he snarled with as much venom as morphine would allow.
“All righty then, I can see you need your rest.” I turned to Circe. “Say, Doc, can you give him another dose of morphine?”
“He’s already had enough.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
Circe gave me a withering look and tucked the blankets in under Rudy’s chin.
I MADE MY way aft to where Khalid was watching over the prisoner.
“Joe …”
I turned to see Circe hurrying after me. She looked fierce and angry.
“Doc, are you going to tell me to go fuck myself, too?”
“Is that what he said?”
“Pretty much.”
“He’s never been shot before.”
“I know, and I’m sorry that he’s joined the club.”
“Look,” she said. “I know you’re going to interrogate the prisoner and—”
“Doc, if you’re winding up to give me a speech about human rights and civil liberties, then save—”
“No,” she said, cutting me off. “I just spent the last forty minutes doing patch jobs on men, women, and children. Children, Joe. Every person in that place was wounded. Eight are dead. Four will lose limbs and at least one fifteen-year-old girl is going to be a quadriplegic and—”
“I was there, Doc. What’s your point?”
She stepped close and looked up at me with eyes that were as black and merciless as the twin holes of a double-barreled shotgun. She jabbed the hard nail of a stiffened index finger into my chest and in a fierce voice she said, “If that son of a bitch in there knows something that might stop this from happening, then you go and fucking get it.”
I’ve seldom heard anyone put as much venom in a single sentence. I stepped back, reassessing everything about this woman. For just a second her tone of voice and ferocity of personality reminded me of Mr. Church. No wonder he respected her. I smiled.
“This isn’t something to smile about, Captain. I didn’t say to enjoy it. Just get it done.”
“Hooah, Doc.”
She held her ground for a moment, her eyes full of challenge and aggression; then she whirled and stomped back through the cabin and sat down next to Rudy. I saw her take his hand. She did not look at me again.
After a moment I turned and went aft. Jersey Boy watched me come, and he glared a “do your worst” look at me.
“He’s a jumped-up street punk,” murmured Khalid. “He may not know much.”
“We’ll see.”
As it turns out, he knew a lot. Not as much as I wanted to know, but more than we already knew. And more than he wanted to give.
Interlude Forty-one
New York City
December 19, 7:26 P.M. EST
Toys sat in the American’s office, the bottle of tequila nearly empty and resting against his crotch. He was in the big man’s chair, watching the iron gray clouds scrape their way across the winter sky and thinking some of the darkest thoughts he owned. The first time his cell phone rang he ignored it. And the second. Finally, when it began ringing for the third time in five minutes he snatched it up, expecting it to be Gault, expecting this to be the call that would end with his oldest friend telling him to sod off … but it was not Gault.
Toys punched the button. “Hello?”
“How’s the mouth?” asked the American.
“Less dreadful.”
“Any tequila left?”
“Not much.”
“Finish the bottle if you want. Good for whatever ails you.”
“This is why you’ve been calling?”