Fatal Error

  Szeto’s face darkened. “And killed good men, some my friends.”

  Ernst shook his head. Once they learned her maiden name yesterday they’d been able to fill in the gaps in her history, but could find nothing in her life that would imbue her with the skills necessary to kill Szeto’s men.

  “We’re sure now it wasn’t her, but rather that mystery man she hired as a bodyguard.”

  Szeto ground a fist into his palm. “She will know where to find him.”

  “Obviously. But you will not be asking her. The instructions are clear: Find her, mark her location, and do nothing. Is that clear? Nothing.”

  “Yes. Clear.”

  “Good. You are following Brother Connell?”

  “Of course.”

  Ernst rubbed his eyes. He did not like the way this had circled back on him. The woman he had hunted unsuccessfully last year turned out to have crossed his path as an adolescent. Her brother turned out to be a member of the Order—invited in. Paths kept circling back to that nothing town on the edge of the Jersey Pine Barrens, which just so happened to play home to the Order’s oldest existing Lodge on this continent.

  Circles . . . Ernst didn’t trust circles unless he created them. Was something else at work here?

  And what of the woman’s childhood friend, Jack? Ernst had never met anyone so ripe with the taint. And yet now he was . . . what? Connell had said he was a repairman of sorts. A waste of potential.

  He turned to Szeto. “Send someone to the Johnson Lodge and see if there are any records on a groundskeeper named Jack. I forget his last name. It would be late in 1983. Track him down. Find out where he is.”

  “He is involved?”

  “I have no idea. But he’s a cipher now, and I don’t like ciphers. He shares a past with the woman and her brother and I want to make sure he’s not circling through the present with them.”

  “And what about finding woman?”

  “We’ll find her. Last time we had only members of the Order looking for her. We’ve expanded the search exponentially. By now every brother in the Order, every Kicker, and every Dormentalist has seen her picture. Someone will recognize her or spot her. Not to worry. We’ll find her.”

  8

  Munir sipped orange juice and wished he drank alcohol. He could pour it into the juice and not taste it. The oblivion it offered would blot out this constant, aching fear, quell the frustration at being so helpless.

  In a sudden fit of rage he hurled his glass across the kitchen. It smashed against the wall, sending glass shards flying.

  Now why had he done that? He’d have to clean up the mess before Barbara . . .

  . . . came home.

  He sobbed.

  Oh, God.

  Barbara . . . he’d always known she was strong, but never realized till now how much strength he drew from her on a daily basis. It had taken courage to marry an Arab after 9/11. Maybe she’d latched on to him at first as an in-your-face gesture to the world, but they’d developed deep feelings for each other. She was funny and self-aware and very much her own person. So unlike the Islamic women his family shoved at him. They were all about dowries and pleasing the man, and Barbara was more like How about you pleasing me as much as I please you . . . or maybe more?

  He’d had to have her. No one else would do. They bonded. No, they fused. And when it came time to make their fusion official, neither family was enthralled.

  His family was dismayed but accepting as long as she converted to Islam and the children were raised in the faith. Munir did not tell them that clerics would be shaving their beards and singing “Hava Nagila” before that happened.

  Her family—from outside Atlanta—had been aghast at her choice, but not terribly surprised. Apparently she’d been a rebel all her life. A devout atheist, she adamantly refused a church service and only reluctantly agreed to a reception. What a surreal scene that had been . . . with his imported family occupying one table and hers eight, his people not dancing and not drinking, hers carousing like New Year’s Eve.

  He and Barbara would probably have had little or no further contact with her family if not for her pregnancy. The birth of a grandson caused a dramatic thaw in her folks. They didn’t see Robby often, but when they did, they doted on him.

  Looking back, maybe it hadn’t taken courage on Barbara’s part. Maybe all it took was being Barbara. She was her own person and didn’t care what people thought. She didn’t let the opinions of others—family, friends, whoever—sway her. Maybe that was why they’d become such a self-contained unit.

  Robby had inherited her strength. He needed it with a name like Habib in a New York public school—he was a constant target for bullies wanting to know if he was an Islamic terrorist. But Robby had learned to stand up to them, admitting only to being an American and giving as good as he got.

  He thought back to their last exchange before he’d left the house Thursday morning. Barbara had bought a new outfit the day before and had modeled it for him. She had her own style—a tailored look she wore year in and year out, despite the vagaries of fashion. If he really truly disliked something, he supposed she would take it back, but that had yet to happen. He doubted it ever would—she’d look beautiful in a burqa.

  The modelings had become a ritual with its own litany. She knew she had a good figure, but the litany demanded she ask . . .

  Does it make me look fat?

  Hmmm . . . what did it cost?

  Nine hundred dollars.

  Honestly, honey, I think it adds about ten pounds, especially to your butt.

  Oh, wait—it was on sale for ninety.

  Skinny Minny!

  And they’d laughed as they always did . . .

  And he hadn’t seen her since. Except in photos from that monster.

  To see her tied down, spread-eagle, naked . . . a proud, proud woman humiliated like that . . . it made him—

  The sound of the intercom startled him. Someone buzzing from downstairs. Could it be—?

  He leaped to the speaker and pressed the button.

  “Yes?”

  A gruff voice said, “Package for ya.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Leavin’ it here.”

  “Who—?” But the speaker was dead.

  A package? His heartbeat stumbled, missed a beat, then began racing.

  The “proof” the monster had promised?

  Munir plunged into the hallway and dashed for the stairwell. The elevator was too slow. He could be down in the vestibule by the time it reached his floor. He almost tripped on the stairs in his haste, and forced himself to slow his pace. If he wound up in the hospital, who knew what the monster would do to Barbara and Robby?

  He reached the vestibule and found a yellow padded envelope leaning against the wall under the bank of buzzer buttons. Grabbing it, he checked the address box. Three words were hand-printed with thick black pen: the raghead bastard. In the return address box, two more words: Trade Towers.

  The envelope nearly slipped from his fingers. The monster! Had he been here? Had he delivered it himself? Munir stepped outside and looked around. No one in sight. In nicer weather, mothers would be walking their young children or pushing strollers. But now, in the dead of winter, no one.

  As he stepped back inside he saw the elevator standing open and waiting. He hopped in, pressed his floor number, and was fumbling with the tab of the opening strip before the doors closed. Finally he got a grip on it and ripped it across the top. He looked inside. Empty except for shadows. No. It couldn’t be. He felt a bulge, a thickness within. He upended it.

  A photograph slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

  Munir dropped to a squat and snatched it up. He groaned as he saw Barbara—naked, gagged, bound spread-eagle on the bed as before, but alone this time. Something white was draped across her midsection. Munir looked closer.

  A newspaper. A tabloid. The Post. The headline was the same he’d seen on the newsstand this morning. And Barbara was staring
at the camera. No tears this time. Alert. Angry. Alive.

  Munir wanted to cry. He pressed the photo against his chest and sobbed once, then looked at it again to make sure there was no trickery. No, if this had been Photoshopped, it was expert work.

  At the bottom was another one of the monster’s hateful inscriptions: She watched.

  Barbara watched? Watched what? What did that mean?

  The elevator stopped on his floor then. As the doors slid open, he heard a phone ringing. His phone. He’d left his door open. He tore down the hall, leaped inside, and grabbed the receiver before the answering machine picked up. He pressed the RECORD button as soon as he recognized the distorted voice.

  “Finished barfing yet, Mooo-neeer?”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean. But I thank you for this photo. I’m terribly relieved to know my wife is still alive. Thank you.”

  He wanted to scream that he ached for the day when he could meet him face-to-face and flay him alive, but said nothing. Barbara and Robby could only be hurt by his angering this madman.

  “ ‘Thank you’?” The voice on the phone sounded baffled. “Whatta you mean, ‘thank you’? Didn’t you see the rest?”

  Munir went cold all over. He tried to speak but words would not come. It felt as if something were stuck in his throat. Finally, he found his voice.

  “Rest? What rest?”

  “I think you’d better take another look in that envelope, Mooo-neeer. Take a real good look before you think about thankin’ me. I’ll call you back later.”

  “No—!”

  The line went dead.

  Panic exploded within as he hung up and looked around for the envelope. Where was it? Had he dropped it in the elevator?

  He ran back into the hall and spotted it on the floor.

  Didn’t you see the rest?

  What rest? Please, Allah, what did he mean? What was he saying?

  He snatched up the stiff envelope and felt it as he hurried back to the apartment. Yes, something still in it. A bulge at the bottom, wedged into the corner. He closed the apartment door behind him and smacked the open end of the envelope against the top of the slim hallway table.

  Once. Twice.

  Something tumbled out. Something in a small Ziploc bag.

  Short. Cylindrical. A pale, dusky pink. Bloody red at the ragged end.

  Munir jammed the back of his wrist against his mouth. To hold back the screams. To hold back the vomit.

  And the inscription on Barbara’s photograph came back to him.

  She watched.

  The phone began to ring.

  9

  “I wish you weren’t going,” Jack said, meaning it more than ever now that they were at the airport.

  They’d just checked her bag at the American Airlines counter and were ambling toward the security check area. Gia was swathed in a down coat and had her short blond hair hidden under a Life Is Good knit cap. Vicky scouted ahead, looking for a Cinnabon stand.

  Gia gave him a wan smile. “I wish I weren’t either.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I’ve got to. Vicky needs to see her grandparents every so often, otherwise they’re just voices on the telephone.”

  “Then have them come here. I’ll pay for the tickets.”

  “That’s kind, but my dad’s back makes travel a real problem.” She tilted her head and pierced him with her blue gaze. “We go for visits regularly. This is the first time you’ve made such a fuss. What’s up?”

  Jack hesitated, not sure of what to say, or if he should say anything. No, he had to say something. He’d had vague forebodings for a while, but this morning’s news had crystallized things.

  “Something’s in the air. I don’t know what it is, but something’s going to happen and I want you nearby when it does.”

  Unease twisted her features. “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know.” He felt his gut knotting. “Those Kicker kooks using EMPs last night . . . it scares me. If they do damage the Internet, it’ll disrupt travel and communications. You could be trapped in the Midwest.”

  “At least I’d have a safe place to stay.”

  Yeah, Jack thought, but will it stay safe? Never know what some people will do if they think no one is watching.

  “So . . . can’t you put the trip off?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Tears rimmed along her lids. “For the same reason. Something bad’s going to happen.”

  Jack threw up his hands. “That’s a reason not to go!”

  “But don’t you see? I have this feeling that if I don’t go now I’ll never see them again.”

  Jack felt his shoulders slump. “The coma vision?”

  She nodded.

  When Gia was in a coma a year ago she’d seen the future and it didn’t go beyond this spring. Nothing but featureless blackness after that. Jack wouldn’t have given it much credence, but Gia wasn’t the only one. A dead guy Jack knew, and spoke to now and again, had told him the same thing. According to these visions the world ended in a few months.

  “Then I guess you’ve got to go.”

  She nodded, biting her upper lip. “I do. I’ve just got to see them. But I’ll be back Sunday. I promise.”

  What could he say? All he could do was let her go and hope for the best.

  “Okay, but you call me from O’Hare, and again when you land in Des Moines, and then again when you reach your folks’ place. Got it?”

  Jeez, I sound like a nervous mother.

  Well, he was nervous. Couldn’t help it. That feeling of growing menace in the air . . . and these were the two most important people left in his life.

  She smiled and wiped away a tear. “Got it.”

  He walked her to the security check line, kissed her and Vicky good-bye, then watched until they were passed through and headed for their gate.

  He avoided the baggage claim area on his way out, but memories rose like ghosts . . . red memories . . . blood . . . his father in a pool of it . . .

  He’d have to face it when Gia and Vicky returned, but for now—

  His phone rang. Eddie? He’d called but got no answer so he’d left a voice mail to call him back.

  But this wasn’t Eddie.

  “My boy!” cried a male voice. “H-h-he cut off—” He broke into sobs.

  “Munir?”

  “Please . . . I have no one else to call. He’s hurt Robby! He’s hurt my boy! Please help me, I beg you!”

  “But what—?”

  “PLEASE!”

  “Okay. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  What the hell?

  10

  The woman coming her way along Columbus Avenue looked familiar.

  Aveline Lesueur had been trundling along, wishing she were about fifty pounds lighter and that it weren’t so cold. Her down coat hid her RT uniform. She was proud of the yellow tunic and what it represented—it gave her instant respect in the Dormentalist temple—but it was sleeveless and this wasn’t sleeveless weather. Not by a very long shot.

  She enjoyed her job as a Reveille Tech. It paid some of her expenses at the temple, but didn’t put food on the table. So she was on her way to her second job as a restaurant hostess when she caught sight of this dark-haired woman in her midthirties coming the other way. She was sure she didn’t know her but her face—

  The BOLO!

  She’d found a Be-on-the-Lookout flier on her desk this morning and was sure this was the same woman. Her hair was longer, her face a bit thinner, but the resemblance was remarkable.

  She stepped to the side and stopped, fishing the flier from her coat pocket. She unfolded it and checked the drawing as the woman passed.

  Yes. No question. The same woman: Louise Myers.

  Aveline did an about-face and followed her. She felt like some sort of secret agent. Well, in a way she was—an agent for the Dormentalist Church. She had no idea why the Church was interested in this
woman, but her place was not to question, simply to obey on her road to Fusion.

  After a few blocks on Columbus Louise Myers turned onto a side street. She carried a North Face backpack over one shoulder with something bulky and heavy looking within. As she approached a high-rise apartment building she slipped a plastic card from her pocket. Aveline came up close as the card swiped through the slot—just like in the temple—and slipped into the vestibule right behind her. She followed her to the elevator and joined her in the cab.

  Her heart thumped in her chest. This was so exciting.

  She noticed the Myers woman had pressed the seventh floor, so she pressed a button at random—the eighth.

  What to do now? She hadn’t thought this out. Couldn’t follow her to her apartment—too obvious. Besides, she’d already pressed another floor. How to prove this was the woman when she returned to the temple? If only she had some sort of mini spy camera, she could—

  Her phone!

  She pulled out her cell and flipped it open.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” the woman said.

  Aveline froze. She looked up, half expecting to see a gun pointed at her. But instead the woman’s finger was pointed at her phone.

  “What?”

  “No signal in the elevator,” the woman said.

  Right. Aveline’s screen showed no bars.

  “My—my phone’s pretty good.”

  She thumbed the camera, framed Louise Myers in the screen, then pressed OK. No click like a regular camera and yes! A bit blurry due to her shaking hand, but it would do. She saved it and snapped the phone closed.

  “You’re right. ‘No carrier.’ ”

  The doors slid open and Louise Myers stepped out. “See ya.”

  “Yeah.”

  The doors closed and Aveline sagged against the rear wall of the cab.

  I did it. I really did it.

  She couldn’t wait to get back to the temple and show her photo to one of the paladins.

  11

  “Take it easy, guy,” Jack said to the sobbing man slumped before him. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Jack didn’t believe that, and he doubted Munir did either, but he didn’t know what else to say. Hard enough to deal with a sobbing woman. What do you say to a blubbering man?