Driven (2 page)

Gavin instinctively grabbed the seat to his left to keep from sliding. The collision must have somehow dislodged the main
support posts for the arena seating. The entire upper section was moving in short, quick drops as it found temporary but inadequate
support. The whole world was on a descending bumper jack.

Terrorism? The New York Aquarium?

“Gavin!” Grampa yelled as he began to fall away, his old fingers scrabbling and digging at his seat, but unable to anchor.

Gavin, one arm clasped around the back of the blue plastic seat next to him, grabbed a handful of Grampa’s white shirt collar,
his heart racing.

“I’ve got you,” he cried. “I’ve got you.”

The seats in the row in front of them bent inexorably downward. If only Grampa could find support.

“Bring your feet up, Grampa. Pull your feet up,” he yelled.

Grampa’s extra weight put a tremendous strain on Gavin’s left arm and kept him from getting a better hold. The seat he was
holding
on to ripped out of the floor as Grampa tried unsuccessfully to step onto the seat in front of him. Gavin needed to pull him
up a little further, maybe just inches. Cutting pain from the seat top digging into his forearm was making him dizzy, but
no matter what, he wasn’t going to let go of Grampa. If he did, the old man would certainly fall either into or just outside
the holding tank three stories below.

Others in the upper section were screaming and holding tightly to their own seats or whatever else they could find. Gavin
couldn’t even look at them; his entire focus was on Grampa. His heart sank further as he heard metal grating and bending.
With a loud snap, their section fell again and clanged to a jarring halt, jerking people free from their grasps and leaving
the structure at an even steeper angle. Bodies emptied out of seats into the holding tank like cereal falling from a box into
a bowl.

Gavin couldn’t tighten his grip. Grampa’s face was redder than he had ever seen it. The old man was gagging, choking on his
own shirt collar, trying in vain to reach Gavin’s arm. Gavin, who had been trained to deal with emergency situations with
a cool head, felt panic seize his pounding heart as he realized that in trying to keep Grampa from falling, he was actually
strangling him. The old man weighed about 170, but maybe, if Gavin pulled him closer, he could grab him under his armpit.
At least then Grampa could breathe and maybe step onto the front seat.

Gavin pulled with all his strength. It seemed to be working. Grampa was getting closer. Or… was his shirt stretching? Gavin
cursed, held his breath, and pulled, fingers digging. “That’s it! We got it!” he yelled.

The collar Gavin was holding ripped. “Grampa!” Gavin screamed as crumpled linen came away in his hand. For an instant everything
seemed to stand still as the old man reached frantically
for something, anything to hold on to. Then he disappeared over the edge.

“Grampa! No!”A wave of numbing fear went through Gavin. He refused to think the unthinkable. He had to get down there. He
had to find Grampa. He must have fallen into the holding tanks below. Frantic, Gavin began to pull himself up the chairs,
one after another, trying to get to the aisle, where there appeared to be some stability. Hand over hand he fought with the
smooth and slippery plastic seats. His breathing came fast and shallow and by the time he reached the walkway he was soaked
with sweat. He raced down the sharply tilted aisle toward the pool, taking three steps at a time, grabbing seat backs for
balance. The further down he went the straighter the stairs became, until they were level.

As Gavin leaped the final six steps down to the main level, he was amazed by the scene below him in the pool. The water was
gone. Dolphins were lying helpless on the concrete, flailing and writhing desperately, screaming in high-pitched frenzy. What
had happened to the water? The car must somehow have penetrated the holding tanks. But how could a car—even a big car—do that?
The tank was reinforced with a thick concrete wall.

Gavin couldn’t think about the dolphins. He couldn’t think about terrorists. He couldn’t think about the other people who
ran screaming in every direction. He could think only of Grampa—of getting down into the tanks and finding him. He ran out
through the aquatheater entrance and around to the holding area, cutting and darting through the obstacle course of confused
people. A six-inch wave of water rolled over the pavement, engulfing the feet of and tripping baffled sightseers as they tried
in vain to avoid it. Undaunted, Gavin continued to sprint through the water until he turned the last corner and came to where
he and Grampa had watched the smiling dolphin such a short time ago.

There Gavin stopped. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The viewing
glass was gone. In its place was a black-and-chrome pickup truck with waist-high mud tires. The front of the vehicle, all
the way to the windshield, had crashed through the viewing glass and its surrounding concrete. The driver’s door was halfway
open and the airbag was still semi-inflated, but there was no driver. Beer cans were strewn about the interior and the ground
outside the door. Gavin’s fears of terrorists were slightly mollified—the scene looked more like a drunk driver accident than
terrorism.

The driver of the mangled truck had apparently been saved by the airbag. The passenger had not been as lucky. One of the supporting
posts for the bleachers had been ripped from its moorings atop the holding tank and was now lodged through the windshield
and… through the passenger. The man, without the benefit of an airbag or, apparently, the sense to use the seat belt, had
obviously hit the windshield just as the steel post smashed through the glass and into the middle of his upper back.

As a cop Gavin had witnessed some gruesome scenes, but this one froze him where he stood. But only for an instant, as he took
everything in. Then he was running again, past a dozen or so people on the ground—some still, most of them moaning. He heard
sirens in the distance and hoped they were for here; at the moment his trained impulse to rush over and begin emergency measures
was completely supplanted by powerful devotion to the man he dearly loved.

“Grampa! Grampa!” he called, his eyes darting around in panic. Where was he? He jumped up and grabbed the top of the pickup’s
tailgate, stepped onto the rear trailer hitch with his right foot, and hurdled himself into the extra-high truck bed. Then,
using the cab roof as a springboard, he dove for the cracked top rim of the holding tank like a basketball player going for
the slam dunk. His fingers dug into jagged concrete as he pushed his feet against the tank’s wall and pulled himself up.

He was stunned by what he saw. The fallen bleachers shadowed the tank, but the gloomy light was enough for him to see inside.
Twenty feet below, a twelve-foot Beluga whale was laying in less than six inches of blood-reddened water, rocking back and
forth in its death throes. Just to its right, close to the wall, were several people, some piled on top of others. One had
struggled to his hands and knees in a daze, blood dripping down his forehead to feed the pink-tinged water. Others lay face
down in the water, motionless.

Gavin peered past the arching whale. There! He could see black suspenders on a soiled white shirt. It had to be Grampa. His
precious grandfather was face up and dangerously close to the confused whale’s powerful tail.

Gavin straightened his arms, lifting himself slightly higher. “Grampa,” he yelled, his voice echoing in the deep tank. He
had to get down there. Pivoting on his waist to the inside of the wall, he pushed off. He hit the bottom hard, collapsing
to the concrete on impact, sending a splash of cold, salty water into the side of the whale. He felt a sharp pain in his right
knee as something gave, but ignored it, quickly rising. Cursing the pain that came with movement, he hobbled through the water
and past the length of the whale. When he got to Grampa he immediately positioned himself between the old man and the thick
tail of the dying animal.

Grampa looked bad, his face bloodied from a head gash, his shirt ripped open to reveal lacerations that had probably occurred
from hitting the top of the wall as he fell. Gavin cried freely at the sight. The old man was still—too still. His breathing
was undetectable. Gavin quickly felt for a pulse. Nothing. Wait… There it was— slow and faltering, but still a pulse. Grampa
was alive. But for how long?

The reflection of flashing lights appeared on the water’s red surface as the sirens crescendoed and ceased.

“Help! In the tank! We need help in the tank!”

K
arl Dengler had decided almost three years ago to take on a new name: Krogan. No official papers had ever been filled out
or signed, but as far as he was concerned his name was Krogan. The name had come to him one night in an exceptionally vivid
dream where he saw himself as a warrior dressed in ancient armor with a pewter helmet in the shape of a dragon’s head. In
the dream, his gray eyes were fierce and strangely hungry, more like the eyes of a wild animal than a man’s. He rode a horse
and carried a spiked mace. In the dream he took what he wanted whenever he wanted and from whomever he wanted. Wineskins and
women were abundant. The languages spoken in the dream were foreign to Karl-now-Krogan, but he understood the actions and
indeed had an insatiable appetite for them.

The day after the first dream, another dream had filled his mind. Only then it wasn’t so much a dream as a trance that caught
him by surprise in broad daylight while working. Again he saw himself as a warrior, riding his horse through a fog in a foreign
land of another time. Other warriors rode with him, but he was superior to them. They called him Krogan, and each time they
attacked, they raised their weapons and wineskins and shouted, “
Shadahd!
”

In the following weeks these visions continued daily. Krogan looked forward to them. Each was different; in each he was dressed
differently, speaking fluently in languages he had never heard and could not understand. But in all the languages his name
had remained the same, as did the celebratory shout: “
Shadahd!
”

Soon he could barely remember anything from before the time of the first dream. His own past had become distant and obscure.
Maybe it was the drugs and alcohol. Maybe it was because he spent little time thinking about anything other than the present
moment. Whatever the reason, he didn’t care. Memories were for the past. Live for today or die. Do what you want—period. Besides,
the visions were satisfying. With them came the smell of blood, the fulfillment of violence. Maybe he was going insane. So
what.

One night, after much drinking alone in his home, another vision came to Krogan. This time he was dressed in modern clothing—a
T-shirt and jeans such as he currently wore. He saw himself leave his home and pick up a man whom he had never met, yet seemed
to know. The man spoke the word—
shadahd
—that confirmed their relationship. They celebrated in the same raucous way as in previous visions. Krogan had no horse or
spiked mace, though, so he took the keys to his new friend’s car and drove it until he found a suitable victim to surprise—a
night watchman in a guard booth.

At this point the vision must have ended, because Krogan didn’t remember anything more. But the next morning he awakened in
his bed bloody and sore. His clothes were dirty and torn. He immediately thought of the vision; had it been real? He soon
found his answer in the morning paper—a watchman had been killed in a crash, along with the vehicle’s passenger, who was the
car’s owner. The driver was missing.

Upon reading the news, an uncontrollable roar of laughter rose out of Krogan’s belly and filled his house. He had actually
done this thing. He felt invincible. Powerful. He felt like a god and looked forward to his next vision.

He had his new name tattooed between his shoulder blades as though his skin was a living football jersey. His telephone and
electric bill might be addressed to Karl Dengler, the same name that appeared
on his New York driver’s license, boat registration, and house deed. But as far as he was concerned, his real name was Krogan.

G
avin sat, head in hands, in the waiting room of the intensive-care unit at the Coney Island Hospital, awaiting the news on
Grampa. The circus atmosphere the Brooklyn medical center usually entertained was all the more intensified from the crash.
Gavin’s right knee was bandaged and propped up on a magazine table. The X rays had come back negative but the doctor had told
him he’d probably strained a tendon and should have an MRI done to determine treatment.

“Detective Pierce.”

Gavin quickly looked up from counting the multishaded green speckles in the white vinyl floor. Doctor Cohn, who had been working
with the crash victims, was back. The doctor had been updating the packed room of family members all night. Over the last
fourteen hours Gavin’s gut had been wrenched in every direction as loved ones were delivered the good, the bad, and the still
to be determined.

Gavin tried to see if the doctor was wearing his “I’m terribly sorry” face. “How is he?” he said, struggling up from his seat.

“Easy now,” Doctor Cohn said warmly, putting a hand on
Gavin’s shoulder and taking a seat next to him. “Your grandfather’s in critical but stable condition, although at his age
that status could turn on a dime. X rays have shown a broken ankle and three broken ribs. He also has compression fractures
of several of his lower vertebrae. Substantial inflammation, but as far as we can tell at this stage, there’s no paralysis.”

As hard as it was for Gavin to hear the list of Grampa’s injuries, he was grateful not to be reading an autopsy report.

The doctor continued. “There was blood in his urine, probably the result of an injured kidney, judging by the deep bruise
on his back. And he has a concussion, the severity of which we won’t know without more test results. I don’t think I have
to tell you that he’s lucky to be alive. After he hit the top wall he probably fell into a few feet of water before it all
drained out. I don’t think he could have survived that kind of fall otherwise. As you know, some didn’t. Meanwhile he remains
unconscious.”

Gavin was momentarily distracted by a middle-aged man in a conservative tweed jacket. He was holding a notebook and apparently
interviewing a woman on the other side of the room. He’d stopped while the doctor addressed Gavin. Gavin made him for a cop.

“If your grandfather was twenty-five I might be able to tell you we’re almost out of the woods, but at his age…” The doctor
finished his sentence with a shake of his head.

Gavin nodded slowly, then looked straight at the doctor. “Doc, I know he’s an old man who probably doesn’t have a whole lot
of time left anyway. But he means a lot to me. Please call me when he comes to.” He handed the doctor a white business card.
“His wife’s gone and most of his other close relatives have either died or moved away. I don’t want him to be alone when he
starts to hurt.”

Dr. Cohn took the business card. “Sure… Detective,” he said, reading the card. I’ll make sure you’re notified immediately.”

As the doctor shook Gavin’s hand and left, the man in the tweed jacket stood up and walked over.

“May I have a turn? I’d like to talk to you about what happened,” he said, holding out a detective’s shield. “I’m Detective
Steve Rogers. I couldn’t help hearing the doctor call you Detective. What job are—”

Gavin nodded before Rogers could finish his question. “Gavin Pierce, Nassau County.”

“Which squad?”

“Homicide.”

“Really… Look, I, uh, understand this isn’t an easy time for you, but as you know, we have to ask dumb questions at bad times.
If it’s okay, I’d like to—”

“No problem,” Gavin said impatiently. If he weren’t so utterly consumed with Grampa’s condition he would have been amused
at the role reversal.

“I’ve got one question: did you see him?”

“Who?”

“The driver.”

Gavin’s eyes widened. “You don’t have the driver yet?” How was that possible? He remembered the driver hadn’t been in the
truck, but he’d assumed the person was simply wandering aimlessly in a shocked stupor.

“No,” Rogers said, then looked away, his disappointment overshadowed by anger.

Gavin’s focus intensified. “Weren’t you able to ID the driver through the truck?”

“It wasn’t his,” Rogers said, clearly frustrated.

“Stolen?”

Rogers shook his head. “Belonged to the passenger.”

“The passenger?” Gavin said, surprised anyone would abuse a
vehicle that badly with the owner sitting right next to him. “Did you check with the passenger’s next of kin?”

Rogers looked at him blankly. “Of course.”

“And?” Gavin said, not caring if he sounded like he was challenging the man’s competency.

“I spoke to his widow this morning. It wasn’t a pretty scene. But aside from that, she said her husband left in the morning
to go fishing off the beach like he does every Sunday. Surf casting. All she could tell me was she was shocked he had been
drinking. She claimed he was a recovering alcoholic and hadn’t had a drink in two years.”

“Nothing on the driver?”

Rogers shook his head. “The owner went alone and never mentioned anything about meeting up with anyone before he left. In
fact, the wife said he preferred being alone. Said he would go to clear his head out. He was an auto mechanic—was putting
in some long hours in his own garage and had one day off. He didn’t care if he caught a fish or not. And we’ve got no priors
on him whatsoever.”

“Still, the driver’s got to be somewhere,” Gavin said, his voice rising. “He’s got to be hurt. Did you check the local vendors,
the park, under the boardwalk, other hospitals… the freakin’ garbage cans?”

“We’re doing the best we can. Believe me, we want this guy, too.”

Gavin exhaled, limped to the waiting-room window, and stared intently into the lightening sky. “He’ll turn up.”

“He didn’t last time or the time before that,” Rogers said.

Gavin spun around. “
What?
”

“About a month ago we had a similar accident, although I’m using the term loosely. It wasn’t quite as spectacular and didn’t
receive the press this one’s gonna, but it was the same guy.”

“What happened?”

“A movie theater. A multiplex down on Utica got rammed, killing two ticket girls. That one was a five-year-old Mercedes, and
it had to have been flying. The passenger, a thirty-five-year-old professional woman from Manhattan, was DOA. No seat belt.
Driver missing. Still missing. Passenger owned the car.”

Gavin frowned and glanced around the room. “I’m surprised the Feds aren’t here, too.”

Rogers nodded. “They spoke to me earlier. There’s too much wrong with the picture for them. Too much alcohol at the scene
to consider religious fanatics. At best we might have some sort of copycat, but I don’t think this guy has much of a cause.
Personally, I think he just likes to wreck things.”

“How do you know it was the same driver?”

“Prints, for one. Which is how we know for certain the driver’s a male. They’re big—really big. Prints on the door, on the
wheel, on the beer cans and bottles thrown all over. And this,” Rogers said, reaching into the side pocket of his jacket.
He pulled out a plastic evidence bag and dangled it in front of Gavin.

“A crab claw?” Gavin said. It looked like something that had been taken from someone’s Red Lobster dinner.

“Lobster claw, to be exact. It was used as a roach clip. I found one just like it in the ashtray of the Mercedes. This one
was in the truck. Have you ever seen a lobster claw used as a roach clip before?”

Gavin’s mind was spinning, rage building at the thought that this disaster had been intentional. The pain on the faces around
him and the memory of the dead and injured on the ground at the aquarium, some of them children, took on new meaning. The
anguish was no longer a result of an irresponsible accident. And the one who had caused it was still on the loose. Free.

“No,” he finally said in reply to Roger’s question. “I haven’t.”

“Neither have I. Now I have three of them. The first one was from a Jeep that crashed into some people sleeping under the
boardwalk. It didn’t make the news, but with two dead homeless, one dead passenger, and a missing driver I got called in.
The passenger, who owned the vehicle, was near pickled in vodka. The lobster claw was in the ashtray and wound up having the
same fingerprints as the one found in the Mercedes. I don’t have to tell you we just found the same prints on this one.”

“A serial killer? You’re telling me the driver’s a serial killer who uses cars and trucks instead of a gun?”

“Instead of a howitzer would be more like it.”

“That’s insane.”

“Quite possibly.”

“I mean, he can’t care about his own life, either.”

“Not if he’s placing all his trust in airbags and seat belts.”

“And you have no idea how to find him because he never drives his own car and the passenger’s always dead.”

“You’re starting to get the picture.”

“Why would anyone give him the keys? If they know him they’ve got to know he’s nuts, and if they don’t know him, they’d be
giving their car to a stranger. It doesn’t make sense.”

“All the passengers were drunk. Very drunk. The Jeep passenger had .31 percent alcohol in the blood. The Mercedes woman was
.29 and the truck guy .34.”

“Point three-four? He must have been dead
before
the crash.”

Rogers shook his head. “Unbelievably, no. Way too much blood at the scene to have come from someone already dead. At least
he never felt that post go through him.” He handed Gavin a business card that read “Detective Steven Rogers, Accident Investigation
Squad.”

Gavin took the card and looked in the direction of the ICU. “Yeah, wouldn’t have wanted him to suffer any,” he said bitterly.

Rogers paused, then looked with Gavin toward the ICU. “Hey, I’m real sorry about your grandfather, Pierce. We’ll get this
guy. He likes what he does. Sooner or later he’ll turn up—probably dead as a passenger in his own car. If he has one.”

“Right now, I’d rather have him alive,” Gavin said, clenching his fist. “I’d rather have him alive.”