Another pause. “A clever theory. I’d be very interested to discuss it. Up here.”
The elevator trembled. “Tell your men working on the cables to desist. Tell your men at my house to stand down. We can discuss your proposal in my home.”
“I think that would be an excellent way to de-escalate the situation,” Connelly said.
Diplomatic to the last.
A minute later, Connelly said, “I’ve stopped the men on the cables, can’t reach the men in the tunnels by your house. Are they all right?”
Joe pressed the mute button and looked at Vivian.
“They’ll be out for at least an hour,” she said. “I injected them with a sedative.”
He made a mental note to ask her why she’d been carrying two syringes of knockout juice around. Instead, he pressed the mute button again.
“They’re just napping,” he said. “See you soon!”
Joe packed up the case with the serum and the battered briefcase with its damning papers.
“What now?” Vivian asked.
“We go down.” Joe reached for the lever. “At the bottom, hold the doors open. I don’t want Connelly coming down here until I’m ready for him.”
He had one more thing that he needed to do.
Vivian helped to lift the backpack onto his back, threading it carefully over his wounded arm. It hurt with each heartbeat. He hurried to his front door, glancing at the two agents stretched out in the tunnel. Vivian had guided them down to lie on their backs, then rolled them onto their sides so that they wouldn’t choke. Thoughtful of her.
He entered his house, breathing in the familiar smells, and went into the parlor. He gritted his teeth against the pain and set up his laptop and phone, careful to make them both untraceable. Then he went to the iPhone database he’d used earlier and found phones in Times Square. He’d be sending more than a seagull this time. He turned his phone’s camera on his face. Vivian’s phone he set on the edge of his lap. He expected it to ring soon.
“I’m Joe Tesla,” he said. “And I have something to tell you.”
Chapter 48
Dr. Dubois struggled out of the cab into the crush of humanity and honking horns that was Times Square. Billboards shouted for his attention, ads for musicals he’d never want to see, and junk food he shouldn’t consume. He stuck the crutches under his armpits and hobbled toward the hotel.
He was scheduled to meet Agent Marks at the Marriott Marquis hotel at 10 o’clock. He could still fix this. Tesla had the serum, and he had some information about it, but he was contained underground. Saddiq might already have killed him. If not, there was a good chance that he’d been caught by the police. The doctor had heard the gunshots as the train had started to move again. They were after Tesla. They would get him.
If not, he needed to get to his meeting right away. He intended to record it and use the recording as insurance should the CIA try to cut ties with him. Since the 500 series debacle, they had distanced themselves from him, but they knew that they had enough on the line to fill the tunnels with agents looking for Tesla. They’d back him up, especially if he had a little insurance.
The noise level in the square dropped, and several people turned to look at the Jumbotron. It looked dark among all the glittering lights. He stopped to catch his breath, straightened his glasses, and looked up at the giant screen.
A familiar face looked down on him. His crutch slipped, and he almost fell. Pain rippled up from his leg. He caught his balance and looked back up at the screen.
Joe Tesla’s image stared down at him, large as a building. His lips moved as if he were speaking, but there was no audio, of course.
Subtitles appeared against his shirt.
The doctor read them. They told how Joe Tesla was trapped underground in New York City, how he had uncovered evidence of a terrible series of experiments. The image changed to show the doctor’s briefcase, one of the yellow biohazard stickers standing out brightly.
He staggered back, crutch dropping to the ground unheeded as he read his own name.
Around him people had stopped moving. They stared at the Jumbotron. A man with a red hat held up his phone to film it. They knew. Everyone knew.
Tesla was giving Dr. Dubois all the blame. But he hadn’t done it alone.
A hand cupped his elbow and steadied him. “Dr. Dubois?”
Agent Marks looked down on him.
“I… yes. Let’s get off the street,” said the doctor.
Marks’s phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pants pocket.
The doctor gripped his remaining crutch.
A flicker of surprise passed across the agent’s face.
“What?” The doctor fought to keep panic from his voice. “What?”
“Nothing at all.” Marks handed him his dropped crutch. “Let’s get inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
The doctor’s galloping heart slowed. They would be able to find a solution.
Marks draped an arm across his shoulders. Something stung the doctor on the side of his neck.
His heart convulsed inside him, and he fell to the dirty asphalt.
“This man is having a heart attack!” called Marks. “Someone call 911.”
He’d never survive the wait for the ambulance. Pain radiated out from his chest, down his arm, but it wasn’t from a heart attack. He tried to reach the spot where Marks must have injected him, but his arm wouldn’t move.
Darkness crowded around the edges of his vision.
The last thing he saw was Tesla’s earnest face, with the doctor’s name printed beneath it. His own damning name.
Chapter 49
Joe climbed up an old-fashioned stepladder to place an antique star ornament atop his Christmas tree. He’d discovered a box of Victorian decorations in the attic and brought them out. Hand-blown glass balls, cut-tin shapes, and heavy lead tinsel glittered from every branch. The homey smell of pine filled the room. He bet it looked very much as it had for the first Gallo Christmas. He placed the star atop the tree awkwardly with his left hand. His right arm was healing nicely, but he didn’t trust it to hold the fragile glass.
The fireplace crackled cheerily. He’d cleared off the mantel and covered it with pine boughs and holly. Two stockings hung there. A red one with Joe stitched on it and a larger, yellow one, emblazoned with Edison.
“Does this star look straight?” Joe asked Vivian. She was across the room, eying the tree.
“Mostly.”
Joe climbed down and scrutinized the angle himself. Crooked.
A warm nose nudged the back of his knee. Joe grabbed a doggie treat off the corner of the mantel. Edison cocked his head, looking festive in a Santa Claus hat. It had been given to him by the residents of the Carrie Wilbur Home for Adults with Special Needs. After taking over Erol Saddiq’s bills, Joe had set up an animal therapy program at the home. Andres would be taking Edison there weekly.
The hat slipped to the side when Edison tilted his head and brushed it against his inverted plastic collar. He was healing without complication and was already outrunning Joe during their morning tunnel jogs. Joe was healing more slowly. His ankle had become infected and took two courses of antibiotics to start healing.
“He loves it!” said a breathless voice from one of the wingback chairs. It was Celeste, on Skype, beaming at the dog. Even though she would deny it, her hair looked perfect.
“Of course he does,” said a deep voice with an Eastern European accent. “He is a dog.”