Half-Past Dawn (9 page)

“What do you mean?”

“The case was empty.”

“Empty?”

“I never had much faith in you, anyway.”

“You listen to me, I could end your life with—”

Cristos tuned out the angry voice. It always made him laugh when his employers would threaten him with death when it was that precise expertise he was hired for. The egos of the rich and powerful blinded them to reality, which always made them so surprised when they found the tables turned, when they didn’t get their way, when death turned its eye on them.

“Good-bye.” With the man still screaming on the other end, Cristos folded up his cell phone.

He walked to the door and opened it, nodding his head.

Three men entered.

“Where’s Tobin?”

“Dead,” the blond man said. “Jumped off a bridge, hit a by a tractor-trailer.”

“I take it, then, we have no files on Keeler, no toys from the girls’ room?”

The blond man shook his head no.

Cristos nodded, thinking before continuing. “The intel we received on the box in the rear of the Keelers’ car was faulty. It could be a decoy or just plain wrong.”

The three stood there

“Which one of you shot Jack Keeler?”

“I did,” the blond man said quietly.

“Your name?”

“Gallagher.”

Cristos nodded, his dark eyes staring off into space, although truth be told, they were looking inward. “You knew what was to be in the case, correct?”

Gallagher gave a subtle nod, like a child in school.

Cristos lifted the lid of the box, displaying its inside to Gallagher. “So you killed him without verifying its contents.”

And with a sudden whip of his arm, Cristos’s hand snapped out, wrapping around Gallagher’s neck, pulling him close, staring into his eyes as he slowly began to squeeze. Gallagher’s face grew crimson, the veins at his temples growing with each pulse, throbbing with agony.

Gallagher grabbed Cristos’s hands around his throat, trying in vain to pull them away. He desperately swung his fists, flailing his arms like a child in his first fight, attacking his assailant with clenched hands, but Cristos’s powerful left arm extended, his grip continuing to tighten as he blocked every blow with his right arm. And with a swipe of his leg, Cristos knocked Gallagher’s feet from beneath him, leaving him dangling.

Gallagher’s face was impossibly red, his eyes bulging in stress and fear, for he knew there was no escape.

The other two stared in shock as the life was literally squeezed out of their associate, but neither made a move, as a single step would be like raising a hand to die next.

Gallagher’s body began to twitch and vibrate as if each muscle was doing its part to escape. Robbed of his last breath, as if at the bottom of the sea, his eyes began to lose focus, his body stiffened … and he was finally released, crumpling to the ground gasping, his hands rubbing his throat.

“I wanted you to taste death, something you rendered so quickly to Jack Keeler before accomplishing your task.” Cristos looked at the three men before him. “I want you to know fear. I want you to know that no one was allowed to kill him except me.”

Cristos methodically closed the box. It was a moment. The only sound was Gallagher’s labored breathing as he climbed to his feet.

“You have six hours to find me that box.”

And the three left.

Cristos reached into his pocket and withdrew the envelope. He stared at it a moment, knowing the words written within. He didn’t know how its author possessed the forethought to write it; only a select few knew he was in the country. While the expression on his face was placid, calm, it was entirely contrary to his emotions.

For the letter in the box he had stolen was addressed to him.

F
RIDAY
, 8:45
A.M
.

F
RANK HUSTLED DOWN THE
long embankment that led to the river’s edge. The churning waters were still near flood stage after the previous night’s rains, inhibiting the recovery effort that was already well under way. He had parked his Jeep a quarter-mile up the road behind a string of emergency vehicles, flashing his old police badge to gain access to the site. Frank looked up at the crowd that stood on Rider’s Bridge in silent, rapt attention. They were not the usual rubberneckers, the morbid curious hoping to see a body. They were a mix of law enforcement, friends of Jack and Mia from the FBI, the DA’s office, and both local and city police. Even from his fifty-yard distance, he could see the grief in their faces, in their body language.

And as Frank continued to look, he felt an uneasy shame, a horrible feeling of deception for allowing so many to think the couple dead. He knew the pain he had felt at hearing of his friends’ deaths and knew it was a communal feeling shared by all of their colleagues. Although he wanted to shout out about Jack’s survival, he knew it would only further endanger Mia, wherever she might be.

Frank turned his attention to the enormous crane that sat mid-span, its cable line disappearing into the churning river below, where a small pocket of bubbles turned into a froth. An enormous man, six-four, at least 220 pounds, emerged from the water, climbing up the bank. He removed the regulator from his mouth and pushed his dive mask up onto his head.

The two men nodded to each other.

“I hate this,” the man said in a deep voice, pushing his wet blond hair from his face.

“I know. Anytime a rescue turns into a recovery, it’s heartbreaking to all.” Frank avoided the man’s eyes, hoping his deception would not be evident in his face. “Look,” Frank said slowly, pausing as he formed his words. “I need a favor, and I need your discretion.”

Frank had known Matt Daly for twenty years. He was local, part of the fabric of the community. He had retired from the Byram Hills police force at the ripe old age of thirty-nine and owned a local bar called GG’s North. He still responded as part of the dive team whenever the need arose.

“Discretion …” Matt nodded. “There’s a word with implications.”

“The people in this river are family.”

“I think it’s safe to say they’re everyone’s family.” Daly looked up at the horde of people on the bridge.

“I know, everyone feels that way, but to me and my wife, they really are family. Do you know how long it will be before you recover the bodies?” Frank asked, knowing that the recovery effort would never yield a soul.

Daly inhaled. “I’ve got six guys working the river. The current’s rough, the bottom’s rocky. They could be anywhere between here and a half-mile downriver in the spillway. There’s no way to know.”

“If you had to make a guess …”

Daly knew something was up but didn’t ask. “It could take an hour, it could be twenty-four. There’s no way of knowing. It’s one of those things I wish I could get over with but dread the final goal. Do you want to tell me where you’re going with this?”

“I need you to call me when you find their bodies. Jack’s parents found out by seeing the morning paper. I don’t want them seeing it as another breaking news story. They deserve a modicum of respect.”

Daly nodded. “You still have the same cell number?”

“You think maybe you could keep me updated on your progress?”

“Of course,” Daly said as he looked at Frank. “We both know there’s far more to this than a car accident and what you’re telling me.”

Frank inhaled, his face speaking the truth that his words couldn’t say.

“Good luck, then,” Daly said in all sincerity.

Daly turned to see his team of divers climbing out of the water. He slowly counted heads twice before looking up at a man in a hard hat who stood by the crane. Daly gave him a thumbs-up, and within seconds the low rumble of its engine grew. The winch engaged and slowly began to spool up. All eyes were glued to the heavy wire, watching in anticipation, fearful of what they would see but unable to avert their eyes. And then the water started to churn, and in near slow motion, the trunk section of the white Tahoe emerged from the water, rising like a rebirth. As more of the vehicle emerged, the extreme damage began to sink in. The right side of the SUV was crushed in as if someone had taken a giant sledge hammer to the door panels. The driver’s side was demolished. The car continued to rise out of the water until the last bit of its front end was revealed and it began its fifty-foot climb into the sky. Frank could almost hear the gasps as the front accordioned section was seen; the windshield was missing, as was the driver’s-side door. Water cascaded out of the doors, out of the crumbled front end, like a waterfall, as the car ascended toward the bridge.

As Frank headed back up the embankment, he knew they would never find a body; he knew they would be working through the day and well into the night before they concluded what he already knew. Jack’s and Mia’s bodies weren’t in the water.

• • •

J
ACK SAT IN
the passenger seat of Frank’s Jeep. With the car sitting far back from the activity and with Frank’s license plate still possessing the police tag IDs, no one paid the vehicle any mind. Jack had tucked his black hair under a dark blue Yankees cap. He chose to avoid sunglasses, the preferred “disguise” for those who wanted to remain anonymous, but as he knew, the effect was the antithesis; it called attention to the individual, made him appear either suspicious or famous or, at the very least, someone who deserved a second glance.

Jack’s confusion was even greater since he’d left his parents’ home. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more, seeing his tearful mother or his father sitting watch over his daughters. He had remained silent for fifteen minutes after rushing from the house. Jack almost mentioned seeing his father, as Frank knew their relationship, the harsh words his father always threw his way, the distance between them. But he thought better of it. He’d deal with his father later.

Despite the fact that his kids were at his parents’ house, despite the fact that his father was watching over them, he had Frank call his friend Ben. The ex-military man who didn’t suffer fools had taken up position at the beginning of the single access road that led to his parents’ house. His car parked on the side, he would remain there until Frank gave him the all clear, ensuring that no one got near Jack’s girls.

A surreal feeling filled Jack as he watched the distant crowd standing in collective grief for his and Mia’s purported deaths. He had never imagined his own wake or funeral, who would attend, what people would say with his passing. He was never one of those who fantasized about being eulogized, having his friends or some priest stand at the pulpit extolling his virtues, his accomplishments and example in life. He always wondered why people never expressed their true feelings for one another while they were alive, instead of waiting to say the kindest things when they were no longer able to hear it, when they had left this earth for their final reward.

Truth be told, Jack’s faith had wavered; he no longer clung to the notion of an afterlife. His life and career, all of the death and cruelty
he had seen, made him question the existence of God. On the other hand, while she was not outwardly spiritual, Mia’s unspoken convictions had been strong since she was a child. She knew of Jack’s diminished beliefs, which is why she bought him the crucifix that had hung around his neck for the last twelve hours in the hopes that it would bring him protection, instill him with faith, ensure God’s beneficence upon him. As he thumbed the talisman around his neck, he refused to attribute to it the fact that he had survived being shot and nearly drowned, but if it had somehow played a role, then he hoped the blue necklace he had given her was equally, if not more, imbued with spiritual protection.

In this moment, Jack swore he would believe in anything if it would save Mia. He’d believe in the power of the cross, he’d believe in God, in the afterlife, in Elvis … whatever would ensure her survival.

The thrumping engine of the crane pulled Jack’s attention back to the recovery effort. He watched his white Tahoe rise over the bridge guardrail, the crane slowly swinging about, the SUV dangling, swaying back and forth as the construction vehicle guided the wrecked truck over the flatbed that lay in wait. He could hear the metal twisting, screaming in protest, as it was lowered onto the tow truck. The crumpled front end was a reminder of how lucky he truly was. He didn’t just survive the bullet wound, he survived a vertical car crash, he survived drowning, being trapped within an SUV coffin. While he had recaptured most of the memories of the night before, he had no recollection of what had happened after hitting the surface of the water. His mind was truly blank.

He watched as the crowd followed the Tahoe’s journey, watched as it was secured to the truck. There were no murmurs, no gasps, the only sound being the grinding of the crane’s gears and the gentle sobs of the people who had individually and collectively concluded that Jack and Mia Keeler were dead.

And as he continued to watch, he could see their individual faces. Joe Gasparri, the newest member of the DA’s office; Margo Libreros,
his tough-as-nails lead prosecutor; Stanley Boil, the rumpled veteran who refused to retire. There were cops, local officials, and people in mourning he didn’t even know.

But the sight that struck him the hardest, the one person he felt ashamed for deceiving, stood there alone, off to the side, silently weeping, tears running down her face. She made no effort to wipe them away, allowing them to pour down as if they would somehow wash away her agony.

Joy had been his assistant for twelve years and had come upstairs with him to his current position as DA. She was everything that made him successful; she kept him timely, organized; she knew his faults and weaknesses and always countered them, never allowing the outside world to know of her boss’s shortcomings. She was like the sister who always kept him in line, kept his ego in check if it ever got out of control after winning some big case or being featured in the newspaper.

And as he looked at her, at her forever-young face, at the black purse he had given her for her birthday slung over her shoulder, his head began to pound, his heart suddenly racing as his emotions built up inside him. Last night’s rage and anger and fury filled him once again.