Hard Fall (42 page)

“
Who?
What are you talking about?” Tears came to her frightened eyes and she placed down the cigarette and reached for his hand. Hers was cold.

He felt relief at having told her. He felt tired all of a sudden and he welcomed the feeling. Anything, but what he had been feeling.

He found himself drawn to tell her what it was that had been going through his mind for the better part of the last few hours. To confess. This was why he had come: to make his confession. “It's funny … You stand on high moral ground for most of your life, and then someone adjusts the scales like this and you find you're no different than the people you've spent your life pursuing. Given the right set of circumstances there's nothing we won't do.
Nothing
. And if we're no different, then we're all the same. And if we're all the same, then what does it matter who you lock up and who you let go free?”

“What are you talking about?”

“He thought he could blackmail me. Duncan's life for some itineraries.”

She appeared nervous then. Her voice warbled. “What are you saying?”

“I couldn't do it.”

“Cam?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Do
what
?”

“Was I wrong?”

“Wrong about
what?
”

“We'll have a man at every station. Two, on the southbound platform, but only just me on the northbound. Just as he asked.”

“Who?”

“I've told you. The man who kidnapped him.”

“You've double-crossed him?”

“I love that boy. I knew that you, more than anyone, would understand that. You
do
understand, don't you? I can't play by his rules. They kill the hostage. They
always
kill the hostage.”

She was weeping, for now she understood. Her shoulders began to shake and her nose began to run and she made a sound like a dying animal. Alone, and distant. His face convulsed and his tears ran along with hers. Tears of betrayal. He had betrayed his only son. His vision blurred and he lost sight of her. He hated himself for what he had done. There was no forgiveness to be found. Not from this woman. Not from God. Not from anyone. Not ever. It was his decision and now he lived with it, while others were bound to die because of it.

They went on crying for a long time, and it occurred to him that they were in a premature mourning, and this terrified him. Her cigarette burned down to a long tube of gray ash, and was broken as the filter fell from the ashtray. “Thank you,” he said softly. He squeezed her hand and it collapsed under his grip.

She looked at him through a face made ugly by grief. Her fear was palpable, her hate tangible. It was out in the open then: She thought he had done wrong.

He stood, tempted to kiss her on the cheek, but simultaneously repulsed by the idea. “I'll call you,” he said, but he doubted it.

He was halfway to the door when she called out in confusion, “But
how
did it happen?”

“I'm not sure.” He grabbed hold of the doorknob and its familiarity did something to him, sparked something inside him that tore at his heartstrings. He found himself staring at it, wondering if he'd ever be back here again. “No idea. No sign whatsoever of forced entry. Maybe Duncan let him in or something. I can't believe he would have. Not in the middle of the night. Somehow he got into the house. Who knows?”

She started to come out of her chair, but changed her mind and sat back down heavily. He was grateful for that; he wanted out of here. “I'll pray for you,” she said, her throat catching. “I'll pray for you both.”

Parked five blocks away from Dupont Circle, Daggett waited nervously in the front seat of his car for the go-ahead. The face of the man in the backseat of the car parked directly across the street was hard to see, but as Daggett answered his car phone, hearing Pullman's voice reminded him of the size and importance of this operation. In less than three hours, Pullman and Mumford had placed over sixty agents into the field. Each platform of every stop on the Red Line was now covered, as was the Metro Center, where it joined up with the Orange and Blue lines. Tech Services had equipped every one of these agents with communication so they formed an instant network across the city, and in some cases, into the suburbs. Fears persisted that the radio network might fail in certain areas, given the depth of the tunnels and the great distances involved. But as the minutes ticked down toward nine o'clock, communication vans with relay amplifiers were whisking across the streets of Washington to destination points established in four key areas. This city was WMFO's sole territory. The special agents, squad chiefs, and executive officers took great pride in their ability to throw a net across it in a matter of hours.

“We've got a green light,” Pullman said.

“We wait to see if he's going to produce the boy. We're agreed on that,” Daggett reminded. The FBI was world-renowned for its handling of kidnappings. For every one case the public heard about, there were twenty other successes that went unmentioned. Even so, Daggett suddenly wondered about putting his trust in the Bureau. He prayed to God it wasn't something he would regret the rest of his life.

“We're all of us—down to a man—with you on this, Michigan. It took great courage to do what you've done.”

“Or great stupidity,” Daggett said before hanging up the phone and starting the car. Pullman said the most idiotic things. He glanced one last time to his right, and this time he could see Pullman, face pressed near the glass, his right hand shaking a thumbs-up signal. Jesus, the guy was all John Wayne. The hand of fear reached inside Daggett, took hold of his guts, and twisted. He might have vomited if there had been anything left.

He travels down the gray intestine that is the elevator, the itineraries folded inside the pocket of his letter jacket. The smells tell him he is deeper; he has left the fresh air for the stench of machinery and man. He is repulsed by it. He turns his head and looks back up at what is now a tiny, ever-shrinking black hole at the top of the tunnel. The increasing heat makes him think of hell. This is punishment for all his failure. Failure: he wears it like a waterlogged coat three sizes too big.

Nine o'clock on the dot. He tries to focus on the faces in the crowd. What crowd? It's pretty thin down here now that the rush is over. People are out eating dinner, home watching television, gone for an evening swim at the club. Families in the safety and security of their homes. The very people that he and the others are sworn to protect. But they aren't doing a very good job of it. For all the secrets, all the meetings, all the hardware and software, the expense accounts, the ciphers and fibers and fingerprints and videos, they have failed. Cheysson is at large. Kort is at large.

Kort is standing at the far end of the platform not forty feet away, staring at him. Smiling.

At first, Daggett can't believe his eyes. He thinks like a cop. Can't help it. The composite sketch isn't exactly right: the chin isn't quite as pointed, the ears stick out a little farther. He clears his throat for the sake of the microphone he's wearing. The signal he's made contact. He can picture the flurry of the resulting activity above on the street. Efficient bastards, the Techies. He's glad for that.

He takes a few steps toward Kort, who raises his hand to stop him. It's a smart move. From here, a kill shot would be unlikely. On a moving target, next to impossible.

The string of round lights embedded in the concrete of the platform begin to blink in unison announcing the arrival of a train.

A train!

Kort's face twitches with recognition. He does the unexpected. With the simple motion of his index finger, he waves Daggett forward.

His eyes dart to the empty platform and Daggett can feel him calculating his timing.

They don't have agents on any of the trains; that was agreed upon by all. Too many innocent lives at stake, too much left to chance. That was why at this moment they were so carefully guarding the stations themselves.

Daggett prays Duncan will be on the train, his face purposely shown in a window.

They are within ten feet of each other now. Neither will survive a gunfight at this distance.

“The itineraries,” Kort says.

Daggett produces them but does not relinquish them.

“Duncan,” he says back to the man, holding on to his bait.

The train pulls in. Kort's eyes dance nervously between the itineraries and the train. The train slows.

“The itineraries,” he repeats.

Daggett shakes his head. “My boy.”

Only then do Kort's eyes alert Daggett to trouble. It's a middle-aged man in blue jeans and old, beat-up running shoes. His windbreaker is unzipped and his hand is going inside, and Daggett can see it coming. He's either a plainclothes or off-duty cop with a nose for trouble.

“We got a problem here, fellows?” He flashes his badge proudly.

Neither Daggett or Kort so much as flinch.

The train doors slide open.

“Hey! I'm talking to you!” The other hand goes deeper into the jacket.

“Nice try,” Kort says to Daggett.

“FBI!” Daggett shouts at the other man, reaching for his ID.

But the itchy cop mistakes the move and comes out with his gun. Daggett dives, reaching for his own weapon.

Kort kills the cop with two shots to the chest, the second of which lifts the man off his feet. The screams echo eerily in the cement tomb.

Daggett remembers later that as he comes to his feet all the train cars appear empty because every single passenger is now on the floor. For it's the train car where Daggett looks first. Only a split second later does he see Kort hopping off the platform into the darkness of the tunnel.

The tunnel? That's suicide. That wasn't in the plan! He shouts, “The tunnel!” Knows the microphone will pick it up.

He leaves the relative safety of the platform and follows into the encroaching darkness.

The footing is bad. It's hotter than hell in here. He can't see a thing. He has to slow down, it's so dark. The grayness of image is dying, sucked dry by the ever-increasing black. A few more yards and he stops to listen. He can hear the fast footfalls up ahead. He continues on, around a long, graceful curve of tunnel. When he is finally swallowed by near pitch-black, a match fires off at his knees. He screams and falls to the tracks, finger on the trigger.

It's a bum. A fucking half-naked street bum holding a match out as lighting.

The footfalls continue deeper into the darkness.

Daggett stuffs the gun away and hurries off. He had come within a split second of killing that bum. His nerves are raw. He picks up his speed. He's losing Kort.

He passes an area that smells of urine and excrement. He doesn't stop because he can still hear Kort running in the distance.

The next time he stops, the footfalls are gone.

It is not exactly silence. He can hear a train. Ahead of him? Behind? He's not sure. But no footfalls. He creeps forward cautiously, his gun back out and held in both hands. The grayness of image has returned: his eyes have adjusted. But it is no form of light. It is more a mosaic of hard shapes and vague edges. It is the crunching of dirt under his feet and the whine of that train, which is clearly growing closer.

The face shoots out from behind a black rectangle, and he is knocked entirely off his feet. His gun fires as he falls. He sees a bright yellow flash and realizes it was not his gun, but a gun being fired at him. He rolls inside the tracks, well aware of the existence of a third rail carrying enough electricity to turn him to dust. He rolls and he rolls. He hears two more rounds.

The earth begins to shake beneath him. The train is coming.
The train!
He explodes to his feet and charges off into the darkness, which, thanks to the approaching train, is growing ever more light. The tunnel continues its curve to the left. At a full run now, he catches up to the ever elusive image of Kort's back as he continues to fade around the huge curve. Like a sterile sunrise, a brightness fills the tunnel until Daggett is nearly blind with white light. He's lost him. One moment seen, the next, gone. He stops. Chest heaving. Hand held to block the approaching light, his face retained in shadow. He's terrified. The sound is overpowering. He wants to scream. The train barrels down on him.

At the last possible second, only yards in front of him, Kort breaks from the shadows and dives to clear the train. It is meant to be perfect timing. But he catches a foot … something wrong … he falls … An image—that is all. A black blur in silhouette met by the stark white light and charging roar of several tons of train.

Daggett screams, “No-o-o-o-o-o!” But it is too late. The impact is instant, and he's showered in a spray of blood and flesh that soaks him through.

When he awakens by the side of the tracks, he is overcome by the sticky goo and the stench. He pulls himself out of his blood-soaked clothes as quickly as they will come off. Stripped down to shorts and shoes, his eyes wiped clear, he staggers, feeble-legged, down the tracks, toward the ever-increasing sound of the army of approaching footfalls. Kort is dead; he feels victorious. But he has not won. Where is Duncan? How will they ever find Duncan without Kort alive?

His tears run red with another man's blood.

Carrie Stevenson slept poorly. Not only did she worry for Cam, but she hated him, hated herself, hated everything. She had been tempted by the apple and now found its juices poison. Her tryst with Carl, which had brought her so much immediate happiness, had delivered a devastating aftershock of sorrow and regret. She reverberated from that aftershock, her entire body trembling as she wept openly for hours on end, lying naked in a bedroom too hot to permit sleep. Her blood was tainted with remorse so tangible that her own body odor disgusted her: she smelled of
him
.

Worming around inside her was the humiliation of his silence. She had given herself fully to him—the things they had done!—and then she had paid with the heart-wrenching impatience of sitting by a phone that brought nothing but silence all day. He had vanished from her life, replaced by a despondent Cam whom she realized she loved with all her heart. She had ruined everything.