Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (37 page)

She slumped again.  “This is terrible.”

“Not really.  Granted you’ve got a better chance of goof-ups if you’re on the string to an amateur than a pro, but I’ve already dealt with this particular pro.  I know where he lives and where he works.  I’ll get your photos back.”

She brightened.  “You will?”

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t guarantee anything, but we’ve gone from Stage One to Stage Two in a matter of minutes.  That’s a record.  We still have to send him that money though.”

“Why?  I thought that was to trace him.  If you already know who he is–"

“There’s a reason we’re shorting him.  I want to rattle his cage, make him get in touch with you.  When he calls, you’ve got to cry poverty–"

She barked a bitter little laugh.  “It won’t be an act, I can tell you that.”

“Be convincing.  What that does is set the stage for your sending him no more money when and if I retrieve your photos.  You simply haven’t got it.  Remember, he’s got a lot invested in his blackmail assets.  We don’t want him connecting you to losing them.  No telling what he’ll do.”

Instead of looking concerned, Maggie smiled as if a terrible burden had been lifted.

“This is going to work, isn’t it,” she said. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“No, it is.  I can feel it.  God turned away from me for a while – not without good reason – but now I see His hand again in my life.  He led me to you, to someone who has already dealt with my tormentor.  That can’t be just a coincidence.”

Coincidence…

Jack felt his shoulders tighten.  He hated coincidences. 

Read the rest here…
Crisscross

December

INFERNAL

(one of Harry Morris’s studies for the

limited
edition wraparound cover)

In
Hosts
we met Jack’s sister; his father in
Gateways
.  And now his brother, Tom, Jr. – the anti-Jack.  Jack saw one of the Seven Infernals as a teen.  Now he gets up close and personal with another – the creepy Lilitongue of Gefreda.  

Infernal
is the least favorite of a number of Jack fans.  I think because they didn’t like his brother.  (Let’s face it, Jack isn’t a fan of Tom either.)  He’s everything Jack isn’t.  He has no code.

But I think the most off-putting thing about the book is the scene at LaGuardia Airport where his father, Tom, Sr., is gunned down. 

Yep.  And that’s not a spoiler because it’s the opening scene.  I received a ton of emails at the website and comments in the forum which can be summed up with “WTF?  I can’t believe you did that!”

I didn’t do it for the shock value.  There is a reason, which I make clear in the next book,
Harbingers
, and have been hinting at since
Hosts
. 

Ready?  Here goes…

INFERNAL

(sample)

1

As Tom watched Jack thread the crowd toward the stairs, trailing his carry-on, someone opened an exit door.  A gust of cold December air sneaked through and wrapped around him.  He shivered.  Now he knew why he’d moved to
Florida.

He returned his attention to the still and empty baggage carousel.  A moment or two later a klaxon sounded as an orange light began blinking; the carousel shuddered into motion. 

As luggage started to slide down a chute to the revolving surface Tom edged forward with everyone else, looking for his bag.  It was black, like ninety percent of the rest, but he’d wrapped the handle in day-glo orange tape to make it easier to spot.

One of the Hasidic women stood in front of him, carrying a one-year old.  A little girl, bundled head to toe against winter.  Her large brown eyes fixed on Tom and he gave her a little wave.  She smiled and covered her face.  A shy one.

From the corner of his eye he saw a door swing open on the far side of the carousel.  Two figures emerged but he paid them no mind until he heard the unmistakable ratchet of a breech bolt.  He froze, then spun toward the doorway in time to see two figures in gray coveralls, ski-masked under black-and-white kufiyas, raising assault pistols.

Instinct and training took over as Tom dove for the floor, carrying the mother and her little girl with him.  The woman cried out, and as the three of them fell, her fat, bearded husband in his long black coat and sealskin hat whirled toward them, his face a mask of shock and outrage.

Then the shooting began and the man dove floorward along with everybody else.

Tom heard shattering glass and a scream of pain behind him.  He turned in time to see the two security guards go down, caught in a spray of bullets that shattered the glass doors behind them.  The woman’s legs folded under her and she hit the floor not six feet from him.  A pulsating crimson fountain arced from her throat.  He saw more shock than pain in her eyes.  She’d never had a chance to draw her pistol.

The shooters seemed to have made a point of taking down the guards first.  More would be coming, but for the moment the killers were unopposed.  They mowed down anyone trying to run, and then began a systematic slaughter of the rest. 

Tom watched in horror as the two faceless gunmen split, each taking a side of the carousel, tearing up the helpless, cowering passengers with a succession of short bursts from their stubby, odd-looking assault pistols.  They worked quickly and methodically, pausing only to change magazines or cut down those who tried to flee. 

Tom’s gut writhed and his bladder clenched with the realization that he was going to die here.  He’d been shot in Korea, he’d survived the firefight of his life and Hurricane Elvis just a few months ago, only to be exterminated here like a roach trapped on the floor.  If only he had a gun – even a .22 pistol – he could stop these arrogant murderous shits.  They knew no one could fight back.   

Tom turned.  The dead guard’s pistol beckoned to him from its holster.

Just then a man leaped up and tried to dive into the baggage chute, but an extended burst cut him nearly in half, leaving his body wedged in the opening.

That long burst emptied the killer’s magazine.  As he switched to a fresh one, a brawny Hasid leaped to his feet and charged, roaring like the bear he resembled.  The killer, caught off guard, backpedaled and slipped on the bloody floor.  The Hasid was almost upon him when the other killer turned and ripped him up with a burst to the chest and abdomen that sent him spinning to the floor.

Now!
Tom thought, not giving himself time to think as he pushed himself up to a crouch and started a high-assed scramble. 
Now!

He heard shooting behind him, saw pieces chip out of the floor as bullets hit it, felt something tear into his thigh.  It knocked him flat, but pushed him forward as it did, putting the gun within reach.  He heard the hollow
clink!
of an empty chamber and knew with a sudden burst of hope that the shooter’s magazine had run dry.  Bolts of agony shot through his leg when he tried to move it, but he’d been hurt worse than this.  All that mattered was the pistol.  He had a tiny window of opportunity here and had to make the most of it.

His fingers were closing around the grip when he began to shake.  Not just his hand and arms, his whole body.  He tried again for the pistol but his arm seized up.  He couldn’t breathe.  He felt his body begin to flop around like a beached fish.  His pulse pounded in his ears, slowing. 

What was happening?  He’d only been hit in the leg.  Had he taken another slug somewhere else?  What…?

Tom’s light, his air, his questions, his time… faded to nothingness.

2

Jack had to take a circular route to reach the pickup area, a reluctant mini-tour of the airport.  LaGuardia was small as major airports went, and appeared to be the victim of some weird temporal dislocation.  The dingy, Quonset-hut style hangers looked to be of 1930s vintage, while a green-glassed terminal itself was strictly fifties in design.  The massive, six-story bare concrete parking garage could have been built yesterday. 

As he nosed his Crown Vic along the pickup lane outside the Central Terminal, he saw people running – not toward the doors, like late travelers, but from them.  Screaming people, faces masks of terror, fleeing for their lives.

Jack’s heart double clutched.  They were pouring from the baggage area… fleeing the far section… the section where he’d left Dad.

No… it can’t…

He gunned the engine and sped toward the far section, narrowly missing a panicked man and a screaming woman.  He jerked to a halt when he saw the shattered doors and broken glass glittering on the sidewalk, the bullet holes in the still-intact panes. 

Oh, Christ… oh no-no-no!

He jumped out and dashed across the sidewalk, almost slipping on the shards of glass, and skidded to a halt inside the baggage area.

Blood… blood everywhere… lakes of red on the floor… even the carousel was red… a man’s feet and legs hung out of the baggage chute… the bloody rag-doll body of a baby girl sprawled among the endlessly circling luggage.

No other movement, no crying, no screams or wails of the wounded.  Just silence.  Not one of the victims so much as stirred.

Jack stood frozen and stared, numb, paralyzed… 

Dad…?

Where was his father?  He’d left him standing right over there by the –

There!  Shit!  A body, a gray-haired man in a green-and-white coat. 

No-no-no-no!

As Jack forced himself forward a voice shouted from somewhere to his left.

“Freeze!”

Jack heard the word but it didn’t register.  Stiff and slow, he kept moving, a living zombie.

“Freeze, goddammit or I’ll drop you where you stand!”

Jack kept moving, forcing himself forward a few more steps until he reached the corpse.  He dropped to his knees in a pool of still-warm blood, grabbed one of the shoulders, and rolled him over.

The face – his lips were pulled back in a horrific, agonized grimace, but his glazed eyes left no doubt about it. 

Dad.

Dead.

Jack felt as if his chest might explode.  He let out a sound that was equal parts moan and sob.

He shook his father.  It couldn’t be.  They’d been talking just a few minutes ago.  He couldn’t be dead!

“Dad!  Dad, it’s me, Jack!  Can you hear me?”

The voice said, “Are you fuckin’ deaf?  I told you to freeze!”

Jack looked up into the muzzle of a pistol held by a mustached security guard.

“This… this is my father.”

“I don’t give a fuck, I told you to–"

“That will be enough!”

An older man had come up behind the guard.  He looked to be about fifty and wore a blue NYPD uniform with sergeant stripes.  His nameplate read
Driscoll
.

The guard backed off a step.  “I found this guy wandering around.  He could be–"

Sergeant Driscoll’s voice dripped scorn.  “He wasn’t wandering around.  I saw him come in.  He was looking for someone.”  His eyes dropped to Jack father’s inert form.  “And he found him.” 

“But–"

“But nothing.”  He shoved the guard away.  “Get over by the door in case anyone else tries to wander in.” 

The guard moved off.

Driscoll muttered, “Asshole,” then squatted beside Jack.  “Look, I’m sorry about your dad, but you’ve got to go outside.”

“What happened?”  His own voice sounded far away.  “I left him here just a few minutes ago… we were talking about going to the Empire State Build–"

“I’m really sorry, but you’re going to have to wait outside.  This whole area is a crime scene and you’re contaminating it, so you’ve got to leave.”