Holy Terror (54 page)

‘You're the Messiah, Dennis. The world belongs to you. You can do whatever you want. In fact, I'll prove it to you.'

Dennis stared at him with his pink eyes bulging. Conor had never seen such a look on any man's face. Rage, defiance, self-sacrifice, yet blazing pride. He really believed that he was the new Messiah. He really thought that he could bring his twin sister back to life; and that once he had done so he could cure Evelyn's deformities and make her walk. He wanted to think that he could heal people by touching their hands. He wanted to walk on water. He wanted to fly.

More than anything else, he wanted everybody on earth to believe in him, too, and to trust in his ministry, and follow him to glory. He wanted to save their souls. Conor realized then, on that windy rooftop, that Dennis was neither false nor devious. He genuinely believed that he could redeem the sins of the world.

‘Tomorrow, we're going to repeat our ultimatum,' he said. ‘We're going to warn them again. And if they still turn their backs on us, we're going to release the virus all over the world. In Teheran, in Beijing, in Delhi, in Rome. Everywhere. “
Cursed is the man who trusts mankind, and makes flesh his strength. Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord
.”'

He was standing now with his toes over the edge of the roof, his head thrown back, his arms extended like wings. Conor was so close that he could have reached out and put his arms around him.

‘They will die in their millions,' said Dennis.

The helicopter was only a few hundred feet away now, and curving in toward the roof of the Secretariat Building. ‘Show me that you can fly,' said Conor.

Dennis closed his eyes and stepped off the roof and expected to fly. The wind was so strong that for a few seconds he was lifted, like a kite. But then the wind abruptly dropped, and he plummeted out of sight. He didn't even scream. He fell twenty-five stories to FDR Drive and when he hit the road one of his arms flew off, and was run over by a passing taxi.

The helicopter circled, and hesitated, and then it quickly banked away. Conor stood on the roof as the sound of its engine gradually faded across the river. A tugboat let out a long, mournful hoot. Conor looked around one last time, and then he went back downstairs.

By the time he reached the main lobby, United Nations Plaza was crowded with ambulances. Most of the public areas had been cleared and police barricades had been set up. Paramedics in respirators were carrying out dead and dying delegates on stretchers. Conor passed a TV reporter who was excitedly telling his cameraman that over eighty General Assembly delegates had been affected by the virus and that nineteen of them had already died, with more fatalities expected within the next few hours.

He tried to find somebody who could tell him anything about Eleanor, but the situation was too chaotic.

He started to walk back to the Village. He didn't want to take a taxi in case he was infected with the Spanish flu. He took care to keep well away from people he passed in the street, but after he had been walking for over half an hour he began to feel confident that he was clear.

A police squad car slowed down and crawled along beside him as he was walking south on Fifth
Avenue, and the two cops inside gave him a long, suspicious look from behind their amber-tinted Ray-Bans, and he remembered that he was still a fugitive, no matter what he had done to save the world from Dennis Evelyn Branch. He crossed over quickly and walked westward on 20th Street.

He returned to the empty apartment on Bleecker Street. The icebox was crammed with bottles of Dom Pérignon and he opened one up and poured himself a mugful. Who cared about being beholden? Then he sat back in an armchair and pried off his loafers and rested his head back and looked at the ceiling.

A spider was spinning an elaborate web on the Italian light-fixture. Conor watched it spin, and tried to forget the way that Dennis Branch had stepped into thin air.

The virus outbreak in the General Assembly chamber was the lead story on the lunchtime news; and so was the death of Dennis Branch. Police were working on the theory that he had suffered a fit of remorse and had taken his own life.

There was some good news: many of the UN delegates had recovered. A specialist from the New York Epidemiology Clinic said that there were signs that the virus, while it was very fast-acting, was also very quick to lose its virulence. ‘I'm seeing indications that this virus may have been altered in some way, which could account for its fast-bum characteristic.'

Conor switched off the news and wondered if he was hungry. He could just do with meatloaf
and stringbeans, like they always used to serve in the Kaufman Pharmacy. And when he thought of the Kaufman Pharmacy, he suddenly thought of Magda, and her prescription.

He called Morrie. ‘Morrie, this is Conor O'Neil. Fine, I'm fine. Listen, Morrie, that woman with the antidepressant prescription. Has she been in again recently?'

‘No, but she called me this morning and asked me to send some more pills around to her hotel. She said she was taking a trip and she needed a couple of months' supply. Waldorf-Astoria, room 815.'

‘Morrie, you're a star. I'll come round to thank you in person.'

He hailed a taxi and went straight to the Waldorf-Astoria. He took the elevator up to room 815 and knocked on the door.

‘Who is it?' It was Mrs Labrea's voice.

‘Florist.'

‘Florist? I didn't order flowers.'

‘Somebody sent you some anyhow. Blossom Time Inc.'

‘Blossom Time Inc.?' There was a pause. Then the chain slid back and the door opened. Mrs Labrea peered out into the corridor, wearing a purple Chanel suit. Conor pushed her roughly back into the room.

‘What are you doing?' she screamed, flapping at him with her hands. Conor said, ‘Shut up,' and slammed the door behind him.

Magda was there, too. She was wearing a long black coat with a fur-trimmed collar, and lace-up boots.

In the middle of the room stood seven expensive suitcases, all packed and ready to go.

‘Well, what's this?' said Conor. ‘Vacation time?'

‘Dennis is dead, if you hadn't heard,' Magda replied. ‘Without Dennis, there is no Global Message Movement. Not for us, anyway. We were just employees, not believers.'

‘So where are you off to?'

‘Someplace warm. Someplace where I can forget about all of this. You. Dennis. And Ramon, too.'

‘Takes money, that kind of lifestyle.'

‘We have money. Just remember that Victor was always in charge of GMM's finances.'

‘How is Victor?'

‘Terrible, thanks to you,' spat Mrs Labrea. ‘He's going to need years of physio. Years!'

‘I thought he was facing charges of abduction.'

‘Oh, don't be ridiculous. There was absolutely no evidence.'

‘It's strange how persuasive money can be,' said Conor. ‘Even more persuasive than hypnotism. How much money have you got?'

‘You think I'm going to tell you that?' said Mrs Labrea. ‘You must be stupider than I thought.'

Conor reached into his coat pocket and took out his gun. He cocked it and pointed it at Mrs Labrea's face.

‘Tell him,' said Magda. ‘What harm can it do?'

‘All right. A little less than forty-seven million, if you must know. Quite a lot of it went on transport, vehicles, research facilities, excavating equipment, pay-offs, that kind of thing.'

‘I've come here with a suggestion,' Conor told her.

‘My suggestion is that you pay all of that money back to the people you extorted it from.'

‘Are you serious? They're as good as criminals, those people. Perverts. Swindlers. They must be, otherwise they never would have paid up.'

‘The money goes back,' Conor repeated.

‘I have a better suggestion,' said Magda, coming forward and taking hold of Conor's free hand. ‘I suggest that we take the money, and that in return I send you a notarized affidavit to prove that you had no involvement in any of this. That way, you will be free again. No longer a fugitive. You can go back to your Lacey and live your normal life.'

Conor wasn't sure that he liked the hint of disdain in her voice when she said ‘
normal
'. But he liked the sound of being taken off the wanted list. And maybe, in a way, Mrs Labrea had a point. If the owners of those safety deposit boxes hadn't had something to hide, why had they paid up so readily?

Maybe he was starting to think the way that Drew Slyman used to think, but he wasn't a cop any more. He had already paid a high enough price for absolute integrity, and so had Sebastian and Ric and Sidney and Eleanor.

‘OK then, I'll make you a deal. You take your money. You disappear. But you make sure that you both supply me with an affidavit explaining what happened. You do something more: you find out which of those UN delegates died today and you send at least fifty thousand dollars to each of their families. And you give Davina Gambit her money back, all of it. And there's one other thing.'

Mrs Labrea listened, and her eyes widened. ‘That much? You think you deserve it?' But when she saw the look on Conor's face she said, ‘All right, fine. If that's what it's going to take.'

‘By the way,' Conor added, ‘if you fail to do any of these things, I shall find you. That's a cast-iron promise. I shall find you and I shall make sure that you are punished the way you deserve to be punished.'

Magda leaned forward and kissed him; but he flinched away and wiped his cheek with his fingers. ‘The same goes for you,' he told her.

Magda smiled. ‘I love it when you're corrupt. It excites me.'

Conor looked at her but didn't reply. Then he turned and walked out of the room and along the corridor. In the elevator he had an overwhelming urge to wash his hands.

When he returned to Bleecker Street, there was a message on the answerphone from Sidney.

‘Conor? We haven't heard from you so we hope you're OK. Eleanor's in Roosevelt-St Luke's in the cardiac unit. She had a seizure and she's very weak but the specialist says she's got a pretty good chance of recovery. As soon as she's well enough I'm going to take her down to my friend's house in Miami. Give me a call as soon as you can, won't you?

‘I'll tell you a coincidence. You remember that Darrell Bussman you were telling me about? He's here, too, in the same hospital. I know that because some of the nurses were talking about him. It seems like he came out of his coma. His sister played him
Buddy Greco records for two weeks solid and in the end he woke up and begged her to stop. You should visit him … see if he can remember what happened that day with Hypnos and Hetti.'

There was a moment's silence, and then Sidney said, ‘By the way, Eleanor sends you her love. She said sorry about James, whatever that means.'

At the end of the message, Conor sat still for a while. Then he reached forward and pressed the button to clear it.

At 6 p.m. he called home, and Lacey answered almost immediately. He couldn't believe how nervous he was. ‘Lacey? It's me, Conor. I'm back in New York.'

‘Oh, Conor, are you OK? I was so worried about you. I missed you so much. I tried to get in touch with you but nobody knew where you were.'

‘How long have you been back in town? I called your folks but I didn't get any reply.'

‘I've been back for nearly a week. Mom and Dad had to go to Florida for a dental convention.'

‘Is it OK if I come around? I think we need to talk.'

‘Of course it's OK. It's your apartment, too. Oh God, I'm so glad to hear from you. You don't have any idea.'

He rang his apartment doorbell a little after 8 p.m. Lacey opened the door almost at once. She was wearing a white embroidered blouse and a long skirt that reminded him of Norway. Her hair was freshly washed and shining.

‘Here,' he said, holding out a spray of lilies.

She stared at him and didn't say anything. She made no attempt to take the flowers; nor to embrace him.

‘What's wrong?' he asked her. ‘Is something wrong? Did I come over too soon? Did I interrupt something?'

‘You sure did,' said a muffled voice; and out from behind the door stepped a grotesque figure, like the Invisible Man. His head was helmeted with a white surgical pressure-bandage, with holes cut for his reddened eyes. He wore a fawn raincoat and his hands were bandaged, too.

‘Hello, O'Neil. Don't you recognize me?'

Conor stared at him in horror. ‘
Drew
? Drew, is that you?'

‘It's what's left of me, O'Neil. I suggest you come inside. I have one or two bones I want to pick with you.'

‘Jesus, Drew. I thought you were dead.'

‘I thought I was dead, too. You'd better come inside.'

‘Drew, listen – this whole business is over. I'm going to be able to prove that I didn't have anything to do with it.'

‘Well, I'm sure you can, O'Neil. I'm sure you can. I guess I always knew that you weren't really involved. It just gave me an excuse to get my revenge for the Forty-Ninth Street Golf Club.'

Conor stepped into the apartment and Drew Slyman closed the door behind him. He snatched the flowers from Conor's hand. ‘For me?' he said
bitterly. ‘How thoughtful.' He threw them onto the coffee table and said, ‘Sit down.'

‘Drew, it's true. I'll have sworn affidavits that I wasn't involved. And Darrell Bussman's come out of his coma. If he can remember being hypnotized—'

Drew Slyman leaned over him. The skin around his eyes was raw, like thin orange-peelings. ‘You listen to me, O'Neil. I was found in that hotel with third-degree bums all over my face and my chest and my hands. That was your fault. That's what you did to me. Even my goddamned dick was burned. Ever since I've been out of hospital I've had my friends wiretapping this number and all I ever hoped for was that one day you'd call it. And now you have, and here we are.'