“The one who—?”
“Yeah. Mister Non-Hollander. He’s reluctant to explain why he did all this to you and your family. I thought you might want to persuade him.”
A brief pause, then, “I’ll be right over. Where are you?”
“Hang on a minute.” Jack slipped out of the van and pointed to the mystery man. “Stay put.”
He walked outside to the street, well out of earshot of the garage, and gave Munir the address. Then he returned to the van.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with a guy who’s got a bit of a chip on his shoulder where you’re concerned.”
The guy smirked again. “Who? Mooneeer?”
“Yeah. He’s on his way over to get sharia on your ass.”
“Not likely. The guy’s a wimp. Probably faint if he saw blood.”
Jack eyed the bolt cutter . . . looking pretty good right now.
No . . . not ready to go there yet.
“You seem to know a lot about him. Almost like you did some real in-depth research.”
“I heard him whining and blubbering on the phone. That was all the research I need. Typical Arab wimp.”
The cutter . . . looking better and better.
“And what’s that make you? If he’s such a wimp, why didn’t you have the cojones to go mano-a-mano with him?”
He looked away. “I’m through talking to you.”
“In that case, keep quiet till Munir gets here, or the tape goes back on.”
“Moooneeer . . . what a joke.”
Jack slammed the doors and found a crate to sit on while he waited for Munir.
2
Finally! Jack thought as a buzzer echoed through the garage. Where’s he been?
He stepped over to the door and used the peephole. Not Munir . . . a woman.
What the hell?
And then he recognized her.
“Mrs. Habib?” he said as he pulled open the door.
She stepped inside, rubbing her hands against the cold wind that followed her. She wore a parka and a large shoulder bag.
“Call me Barbara, please.”
“All right . . . Barbara.” He stuck his head out the door and checked the street. No sign of Munir. “I was expecting your husband.”
He closed the door against the cold and turned to her. Her face was pale in the dim light of the single bulb. Her eyelids were dusky from lack of sleep, but a hard, fierce light glinted in the eyes behind them.
“I came in his place.”
Jack cleared his throat. “Well, what I had in mind was some rather intense interrogation and—”
“Munir is a decent man with a gentle soul. He would not be good for this. He’s better off staying with Robby.”
Was she saying the mystery man’s “wimp” remark hadn’t been so far off the mark?
Jack watched her closely. “Am I to infer that your soul is not so gentle?”
“Robby’s finger cannot be saved. He will go through life maimed, mutilated. He will be fine, physically—a missing pinky is mildly disfiguring but will not be a handicap. But psychologically . . . I don’t see him ever getting over the trauma of being strapped down, fully awake and alert, while a stranger cut off his finger. The memory of the pain will fade, but his helplessness, and the cold-blooded cruelty of what was done to him . . . those will remain with him forever. He will need therapy . . . years and years of it.”
“Do you think you feel worse about this than Munir?”
She nodded. “Because he was not there.”
Jack remembered the photo of her that had accompanied the severed finger, and its inscription.
“You watched?”
She shook her head. “He wanted me to. He tied Robby down with his hand just inches from my face, but he had no way to keep my eyes open. He demanded that I watch but I couldn’t.”
“Of course not.”
“But I heard the crunch of his little bone, and I heard his screams through his gag. Munir heard none of that. And he was not tied down and prevented from comforting her poor terrified baby when he needed her after it was done.” She looked at Jack with tear-filled eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to need years of therapy too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“But it will help me to know why this . . . creature did this to us.”
“He said it’s because Munir is an Arab.”
She shook her head. “He hates Arabs. The way he raged about the attack on the Towers . . . that was real. But I cannot help feel there was some other reason.”
The Septimus Order’s seven-pointed sigil flashed in Jack’s brain.
“I’m with you.” He glanced at the van. “But you don’t have to dirty your hands with him. I’ll—”
“No. He mutilated my son. I need to find out why.”
“I’ll find out why and tell you.”
She set her jaw. “I must do this myself. I need to do this. It will be the start of my therapy.”
Jack thought about it . . . setting a mother loose on the man who’d maimed her child . . .
He sort of liked that. Something almost poetic there.
“All right, but first . . . wait here.”
He opened one of the van’s rear doors and hopped inside. The mystery man gave him a puzzled look as Jack checked to make sure none of the tape or bungees was loose.
“I guess he finally got the nerve to show up, huh? Making sure I don’t get loose and hurt him?”
“He couldn’t make it.”
“Bullshit. I heard you talking. He’s afraid of me. Even all trussed up like this, I scare the hell out of him.”
“He stayed with his son. Someone else came in his place.”
Jack pushed open the other rear door to reveal Barbara.
The guy’s eyes did the closest Jack had ever seen to a real-life Bob Clampett bug-out.
“No! Wait!” His voice kept rising. “Not her! You can’t!”
Jack found the mouth tape and slapped it back across his face.
“Keep it down.”
He began twisting and writhing, but the bungees held him in place. As Jack slid out and helped Barbara in, the guy’s struggles became even more frantic. High-pitched, panicky squeals leaked through the tape. It looked like a fresh wet stain was spreading across his crotch.
The guy knew he was about to be repaid in kind and Jack savored his terror. What had gone around was about to come around.
Sweet.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now please close the door.”
Jack hesitated. “I don’t know. He might—”
“He’s secure. And I need privacy for this.”
“All right. But I’ll be right outside. Yell if you need me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
As Jack pushed the doors closed he saw Barbara remove a paper sack from her shoulder bag. It read “Ace Hardware.”
Hoo boy.
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned popped into his head, and he thought how a scorned woman’s fury couldn’t hold a candle to that of the mother of a brutalized child.
3
Dawn was dressed and waiting when Gilda opened the door. Her belly still bulged some, and she could have worn one of her maternity tops, but she totally refused. She was so done with maternity clothes. She’d opted for a loose sweat suit. The opposite of stylish, but until she lost these pregnancy pounds, she’d opt for comfort over style.
She’d expected a knock first, but apparently the old bat didn’t think Dawn deserved the courtesy. Because she was staying and Dawn was going.
Well, not if Dawn had anything to say about it. Not yet.
“The Master wants to see you in his office.”
Without so much as a glance at her, Dawn stood and walked into the hall. She stopped before Mr. Osala’s door at the far end. For a second she considered popping in like Gilda had done to her, then reconsidered. Why get down on her level? And why piss off a guy she wanted on her side.
So she knocked
.
“Come,” said a voice on the other side.
Come? Was he kidding?
She entered and found him sitting behind his desk. She still wasn’t used to his appearance. When he’d taken her in last spring he’d looked taller, paler, broader. More WASPish. As the months went by he’d seemed to become darker and more delicate. And he’d grown a thin little mustache. She hadn’t seen him much at all since the summer. Working on some “demolition project” down South.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair on the far side of his desk.
Nothing had changed here since she’d sneaked a peek last summer. Same glaring overhead fluorescents and bare white walls. No paintings, photos, degrees, or knickknacks. Just the big mahogany desk, its computer monitor, and a filing cabinet. Totally devoid of personality. Just like its occupant.
She closed the door—didn’t want Gilda the bitch eavesdropping—and eased onto the chair. She was still sore from the delivery, but definitely better than yesterday.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. We need to discuss your future.”
Dawn couldn’t help blurting, “Gilda says you’re kicking me out.”
He looked troubled. “Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way. You should look at it as being freed to live your life.”
Then it was true. She was history here.
“Comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it? I’m being put out on the street.”
He smiled. “I’d hardly call being moved into a two-bedroom Upper West Side apartment ‘on the street.’ ”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you moving on. This episode of your life is past. It’s time to start a new chapter. And moving on requires moving out.”
She couldn’t believe how totally devastated she felt. She’d so not wanted to stay and now she didn’t want to leave. She’d grown used to the place. Out there was . . . uncertainty.
And Jerry Bethlehem . . . the baby’s father . . . her—
Couldn’t think about that.
Jerry was the reason Mr. Osala had hidden her away here, making her a virtual prisoner.
“What about Jerry?”
“Not a problem.”
“You’ve been telling me all along I was safe from him as long as I was pregnant with the baby, and if I aborted it, he’d kill me. Well, guess what? The baby’s dead—”
“And so is Jerry.”
The words struck her like a blow, catapulting her to her feet.
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only recently found out.”
“I don’t believe you!”
He spread his hands. “Believe what you wish. I double and triple checked. Jerry died under a different, assumed name, so the news never reached me until a few days ago.”
She eased herself back into the chair.
Jerry . . . dead. It seemed almost impossible.
“How did he die?”
“In a most mundane way: a motor vehicle accident. But no matter the manner, it’s the result that counts. He’s dead, and that means the threat to you has been eliminated. I promised your mother I would protect you from Jerry Bethlehem, and I have. I am free of my obligation and you are free to go.”
Free . . . she’d thought she’d never be free. But where—?
“What did you say about an apartment?”
“I’ve found you a nice one and paid the rent in advance for six months. The lease will be up then, and you can decide to renew or find another place.”
He might have given her a little warning. And he might have given her a little say in where she lived, but still . . .
“That’s awfully generous.”
“Money is not a problem. Your status with the law, however, is. You cannot move into your old home—”
She shook her head so violently it hurt. “No way. I couldn’t.”
Mom had been murdered there.
“Just as well. You remain a fugitive. Not that the police are actively pursuing you now, but you are, as they say, ‘a person of interest’ in your mother’s death.”
“Oh, God.”
How could that be? How could they even think . . . ?
“Your temporary accommodations will serve as a base from which you may begin to extricate yourself from your legal predicament.”
“But what about—?”
“Money? When I found you, you had a quarter of a million dollars in cash in your car. I deposited that in a small, secure bank with conservative investment policies that insulated it from the vagaries of the financial markets. Your money is safe. In fact you have more now than when you arrived.”
Dawn could only shake her head. “You . . . why have you done all this?”
He shrugged. “Why not?” He pulled a large manila envelope from the top drawer and slid it toward her across the desktop. “Here’s a copy of the lease, the keys to the apartment, and a debit card linked to your account in the bank.”
She stared at it, afraid to take it.
“I’ve . . . never been on my own.”
He smiled. “You’ve got wings, but you’ll never learn how to fly until you use them.”
Oh, spare me, shot through her mind. The last thing she needed now were tired clichés. She was scared. But she kept her expression neutral.
“I guess so.”
He rose. “Georges is waiting to take you to your new quarters. Your belongings have been moved in.”
“Already?”
It was like he could so not wait to get her out of here. She knew she’d been something of a pain, but had she been that bad?
“Yes.” He extended his hand across the desk. “Your life awaits. Good luck with it.”
She pushed herself up from the seat. He was trying to make it sound inviting, yet she was totally scared out of her wits.
She shook his cool, dry hand. “Thank you.”
She took the envelope, turned toward the door, then turned back. One more thing before she left . . .
“About the baby—”
“Yes, unfortunate.”
“I don’t believe he’s dead.”
He looked surprised. “What makes you think that?”
“They’re not telling me the truth.”
“Why should anyone lie about this?”
“Because he’s abnormal.”
She shuddered. Considering the identity of his father, maybe she should have been surprised if the baby had had no birth defects.
“Then all the more reason for its failure to survive.”
“But why wouldn’t they let me see him? Maybe they’re keeping him to experiment on or something.”
“Are you listening to yourself?”
Yeah, she knew it sounded totally crazy, but she couldn’t get it out of her head that Dr. Landsman had been lying.
“I know.”
“This is the baby you could not wait to be rid of. Well, now you have your wish. No one is lying to you. No one is experimenting on your baby. It died and you are unencumbered.” He made a shooing motion. “Go. Georges is waiting for you.”
Unencumbered . . . that was good, she guessed. She was so not ready for motherhood. But still . . . that baby had grown and kicked and turned and lived inside her . . . she’d gone through a lot of pain giving birth to him . . . perfectly natural to feel connected.
She stepped out into the hall and saw Georges waiting by the elevator. A large suitcase sat at his feet.
She gestured back down the hall toward her room. “I have a few things left—”
“All here,” he said, pointing to the bag.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, he is sure,” said Gilda’s voice from behind her.
Dawn turned and saw her standing outside the room, grinning.
She must have swept through the room as soon as Dawn stepped into Mr. Osala’s office.
She started toward Georges and the elevator. Scary as hell to be on her own, but better than spendi
ng another minute under the same roof with that old bitch.
4
Jack jumped at the sound of the buzzer.
He’d been listening to the thumping sounds from the van. A couple of times it rocked on its springs and he thought of the old bumper sticker, When the van is a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’, but figured that was the last thing that might be happening. A couple times he’d approached and asked if everything was all right, and Barbara had told him it was.
The buzzer couldn’t be Abe. He had a key. A quick peek through the peephole revealed Munir. Jack let him in.
“Is Barbara here?”
“Yeah, she—”
“Oh, no,” he said, squeezing his eyes closed.
Uh-oh.
“You mean you didn’t know?”
“Where is she?” he said, starting forward.
Jack pushed him back. “Wait-wait-wait. What’s going on?”
“I told her about your call. She said she needed to stop at the apartment first, that I should wait with Robby until she got back. But she didn’t come back and when I called her, her phone was turned off. And then I noticed the paper I’d written this address on was missing.”
Oh, hell. Barbara had given the impression Munir had sent her.
“So you had no idea?”
“None. When I found the address missing, I knew where she was. I can’t let her—”
One of the van’s rear doors swung open and Barbara eased herself out. She looked pale, shaken. She wore latex gloves—bloody ones.
Munir ran to her and threw his arms around her. “Barbara! What—?”
“Where’s Robby?” she said.
“Sound asleep at the hospital. You know how the painkillers knock him out. Why did you—?”
“I had to, Munir. I had to know. I had to make him tell me—myself.”
Jack peeked in the back and saw the mystery man where he’d left him. No surprise there. He wasn’t moving but he was breathing. A bloody mass of gauze swathed his right hand.
“He tell you who he is?”
“He said his name is James Valez.”
Jack closed the door. “Why’d he do all this?”
She looked at her husband. “For a piece of computer code.”
Munir looked stunned. “Code? What code? He never once mentioned anything about—” He stopped and frowned.