Deadfall (13 page)

NINETY-EIGHT VESTRY STREET
is a steel building with two men out front, clad in deep burgundy suits with gold trim. One stands beside the curb, the other beside the double doors. You’re in an outfit you plucked from a Goodwill five minutes before closing—a black sweater and jeans. Rafe looks worse, with a rip at the shoulder of his sweatshirt. You know the doormen will stop you if you just try to walk in.

“We could go back, get the dress,” you say.

That makes Rafe smile. “That dress . . . your ticket to anywhere.”

“It’s past nine now. Everything’s closed.”

“The building isn’t that high.” Rafe stares up at it from across the street. “It’s the penthouse, right?”

“It seemed like it, from what I found online.” Earlier, you ducked into an Internet café and searched for Theodore
Cross. An article about his wife, Helene, popped up, praising her interior-decorating skills and giving the address of a brand-new eco-friendly high-rise along the Hudson. Theo was mentioned briefly, as financier and adoring husband who gave in to all his wife’s requests. From the skylights in the photos, it looked like the apartment was on the top floor.

You look at the neighboring buildings. They’re both shorter than 98—the Marquee, it’s called—which is six stories tall. The apartment to the right looks about four stories, the one on the left only three.

“Let’s go around back.” Rafe sticks his hands in his front pockets, pushing them down against the fabric. You follow him, registering the subtle outline of the gun under his shirt.

When you returned to the base in the early hours of the morning, you caught everyone up on the hunters’ ceremony. Theodore Cross has to be one of the higher-ups in AAE—perhaps
the
highest up—at least in the New York chapter. Ben didn’t want you to go looking for him, saying it would be better to just give the name to Celia. But Rafe wanted to find his apartment right away, to get Cross before he had the chance to escape.

You felt guilty choosing between them, but you decided to come here with Rafe. As much as you want to let Celia do her job, to help you, there was truth in Rafe’s words—the longer you wait, the higher the chance that Cross runs.

You circle the block, passing a gourmet delicatessen with
baskets of jams and cheeses displayed in the window. Rafe grabs your hand as you cross the street, staring at the fire escape two buildings over.

You follow his gaze, tracing the path from the bottom fire escape to the tall steel frame of the Marquee, two buildings over. There’s a three-foot gap between the buildings, but it’s close enough to jump. “You want to go fire escape to fire escape?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

You glance down the alley, where a man in a burgundy jacket is smoking a cigarette. His back is toward you. He has the door propped open with a Sprite can. “That would be easier.” You point to him. “If we can keep that door open we’ve got a way in. Do you have anything I can use?”

Rafe feels around his pockets, and pulls out a tab of chewing gum. He smushes it into a ball and hands it to you. “You want me to go with you?”

You shake your head and point to the corner, where Rafe can stand without drawing attention. “It’ll just be a minute or two.”

The man still has his back to you when you come down the alley. You glance over your shoulder, making sure Rafe is out of sight. “You’d think you’re the only person who smokes in New York,” you say.

When the guy spins around you realize he’s older. He’s balding at the crown of his head, his eyes peering out behind
drooping lids. He releases the smoke from his nose and chuckles. “Is this your way of asking me for a cigarette?”

“Sorry”—you turn back to the street—“I smelled it as I walked past.”

“The sweet smell of relief.” He pulls the pack from his pocket. You take a step closer to the door. You have the gum in your left hand, by your hip. As he lifts out a cigarette, you press it into the lock. Your hand is on your hip by the time he looks up.

“If I ever get to . . .”

“The Marquee,” he says. “It’s an apartment building.”

“Well, if I ever get to the Marquee, I’ll owe you one.”

You lean in; he lights it. When you take the drag you know you’ve done it a hundred times before. It’s effortless, the way it sits between your fingers. You hold the smoke in your lungs. Release.

You thank him again before heading to the street. Rafe is there, leaning against the wall. He’s studying a guy halfway up the block. The man is sitting on the stoop, a cell phone to his ear.

“All good?”

“Should be.” The doorman has finished his break and gone back inside. “Let’s go.”

The doorman took the Sprite can with him, but the gum has jammed the lock, preventing it from closing by a hair. The door slips open easily. Inside is a long concrete hallway
that leads to a trash room. To the right is another corridor with a maintenance elevator at the end. When you push the button you move to the wall, making sure you’re invisible to anyone who comes out.

The elevator opens. Empty.

You slip inside, noticing the quilted fabric lining the walls. The elevator is for deliveries, twice as wide as a normal one. There’s no security camera, at least not that you can see. Rafe presses the button for the penthouse. There’s only one.

As you pass the first floor, then the second, you feel the panic rising in your chest. “If we get there and a hunter is waiting . . .”

“They don’t know we’re coming. There’s no way.”

The fifth-floor button lights up. There’s only one more level to go and you reach for Rafe’s hand. When the doors slide back you’re in a hallway that ends with a double door. There’s a massive painting on the wall, abstract with giant blocks of color. Blue, black, white.

Through the doors the muffled sounds of a television set can be heard. Rafe pulls the gun from the back of his belt, leading with it. He gestures for you to break the lock on the door. You pull the knife from your belt, wedging the blade in the space between the two doorknobs, finding the precise spot. With one good push the mechanism pops free.

Beyond it is an enormous loft, the first floor open to a kitchen, living room, and dining room. There’s a couch in
the middle of the polished cement floor. A staircase leads to another level. There’s a long hallway to one side with three doors.

It takes you a second to process the girl, about thirteen, sitting on the sleek modern couch in the middle of the room. The TV is roaring with music and shows a woman with huge, blown-out hair and high cheekbones, another in a sequined halter dress. The opening credits announce a show called
The Real Housewives of Orange County
.

The girl doesn’t notice you at first.

“Who else is here?” you say, the knife still in your hand.

The girl turns, startled. “Who are you? What do you want?” Her long brown hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, her terry-cloth sweatpants sitting low on her waist, exposing her hip bones. She reaches down and grabs her iPhone.

You close the gap between you, hopping over the back of the couch. You grab the phone from her hand. “Who else is here?” you repeat.

“It’s just me, I swear.” She looks like a child, her gray eyes huge and glassy. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“Stay here.”

You turn the phone off, tucking it in your back pocket as Rafe comes out of a room down the corridor. The gun is at his side. “Nothing. Just bedrooms, bathrooms, an office.”

“Watch her,” you say. “I’ll be right back.”

The second floor is dark. A sitting room, four bedrooms, two bathrooms. The master suite has a wall of glass, the river visible beyond it. You go to the desk, searching the drawers, most of which are empty. The top one has stationery in it. A pad of thick cream paper is embossed with the name Helene. There’s a notebook, some pens, a stack of old birthday cards. They’re all signed,
You’re my everything. Love, Theo.

You go to the closet, feeling the upper shelves for a compartment like the one you discovered in Goss’s house. But there’s nothing there. You pull aside the clothes hangers and press on every cabinet, looking for a place someone would hide valuables. Nothing.

There’s only one framed photo—a woman with a young girl, lifting her in the air. Nothing of Cross.

You comb through each of the other rooms, looking at bookshelves, in drawers. When you get back downstairs the girl is still sitting on the couch. She’s watching Rafe as he works through each of the kitchen cabinets.

“Your name,” you say. “What are your parents’ names?”

“Alana Cross. My mom is Helene Cross and my dad is Theodore Cross.”

“Does your dad own guns?” Rafe asks.

“What?”

“Guns.” He holds his up.

“No . . . of course not.” The girl folds her hands in her
lap. “If you guys want money you can just call them. They’ll give you whatever you want.”

“We don’t want money,” you say. “We’re looking for someone.”

“What does your dad do?” Rafe asks.

The girl says something about a hedge fund and Rafe acts like you both know what the hell she’s talking about. You go to the bookshelves along the living room wall. You press the spine of each book, hoping to trigger something. They’re all real—novels, finance guides, fat photography books with black-and-white pictures on the front. You’re moving so fast you don’t even notice the glass case sitting on the shelf beside you.

“Don’t touch that,” the girl calls out.

A baseball sits inside a little five-by-five enclosure, perched on a gold pedestal. There’s a name scribbled on the front in black marker. “What is it?”

“It’s my dad’s,” she says. “It’s signed by his favorite baseball player. Please . . . it’s, like, his favorite thing on earth.”

You lean forward, studying the writing on the side. “Who’s his favorite baseball player?”

“Some guy named Cal Ripken. I dunno. . . .”

Rafe meets your gaze and smiles. “Cal?”

“Yeah,” the girl says. “Why?”

You lift the glass covering. When you push the baseball, it doesn’t move from the pedestal. In fact, it doesn’t move at
all. You try pulling it and pushing down. As the girl watches she makes a horrible whining sound.

Then you turn it.

Just once, slightly to the right.

Behind you, the dining room wall slides back, exposing a hidden doorway.

“GUESS NOW WE
know why he didn’t want you to touch it.” Rafe opens the door, holding the gun in front of him. He feels around inside, flipping on a light. There’s a case of rifles on the wall ahead.

You bring the girl with you, standing inside the narrow doorway. The room isn’t more than ten feet by seven. The wall on the left is covered with mounted animal heads: a lion; an elk with long, twisted horns; and two taxidermy birds, their feathers iridescent in the low light. A leather armchair sits in the corner. Beside it, a table with what looks like an elephant tusk. Your eyes move to the wall on the right.

There are over thirty gold medallions. They’re the same ones from the ceremony last night. Each one has a silhouette of a different animal. Looking more closely, you can see there are eight numbers and letters beneath each. The same
length and combination as your tattoo. Two images look like deer, a couple of them are exotic birds, several types of snakes, and what looks like an alligator.

“What are those?” the girl asks.

“Each one is a person,” you say, showing her your tattoo. “A person your father killed.”

Rafe examines the wall, stopping at an image of another bird, one that looks like a hawk. He lets out a deep, labored breath. “This was one of the kids from the island—a boy called E. Maybe it was stupid, but I thought he might’ve made it.”

The girl doesn’t say anything at the mention of the island. She’s studying the guns behind the glass case. She picks up the long tusk. “I didn’t even know he had a gun. . . . I didn’t even know he hunted.”

You open the first drawer of the desk. There’s a thick leather book inside. You pick it up, thumbing through the first pages. “It’s a ledger,” you say, showing the lined paper to Rafe. There are Roman numerals listed down one side of it. Next to each one are full names and addresses. Then, below that, the names of different animals. “At that ceremony, at that house—he referred to each one using a number. No one was named.”

“But now they are,” Rafe says. He flips back through the book, seeing the dates beside each one. “This is when they joined. It goes back to 1998.” He points to the very first
number in the ledger, Roman numeral I. Next to it is the name Theodore Cross.

You tuck the book under your arm. The drawer below it has folded gold jackets, the same ones that were given out at the ceremony last night. “When will they be back?”

The girl stares at the book in your hand. “I don’t know. They left an hour and a half ago.”

Rafe looks at you. “Then we wait here for him.”

“And then what? We confront him? How’s that going to go?”

Rafe still has the gun in his hand. He nods to the wall with the other rifles. “We surprise him.”

You know what he’s trying to say. That you could end all of this tonight. You turn to the girl. She looks much smaller beside Rafe, her thin arms crossed over her chest. Her low, shaky breaths fill the tiny room. Her eyes are glazed with tears. What will happen to her if you stay, if you wait for him to come home? What is Rafe suggesting you do, kill him in front of her?

“We can’t,” you say. “No.”

“We’re here, in his house. You know how lucky we are? We might not have this chance again.” Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his belt.

“I’ll call Celia. She can be here by morning.”

“And you think he’ll still be here then? He comes home, his sweet young daughter tells him about our little home
invasion—he’ll
run
. He’s not going to wait around for them to take him in.”

“Then we bring her with us. Just for now, just until he’s in custody.”

“Please,” the girl says, her voice breaking. “Let me stay here. You don’t need me.”

But it’s the only way to guarantee Cross won’t run. Rafe seems to realize this, taking her arm and ushering her out of the small room. You follow behind, turning off the light and making sure that, other than the ledger, everything is exactly in its place. When the baseball is turned left the door glides shut. The apartment is as immaculate as when you first entered. How long will it be before he realizes someone has been here? That his daughter didn’t just go out, that instead, she was taken?

“We’re not going to hurt you.” When Rafe says it there’s a softness in his voice. Even when the girl pulls away he doesn’t fight her, just adjusts his hold as he ushers her toward the door. You stay on her other side.

You want to believe what he said on the island.

We’re not like them. We’re not murderers.

“It’ll just be for a little while,” you say. “By tomorrow the whole world will know who your father is.”