Takedown (2 page)

J
ackhammer Hoban cried out, and this time he wasn’t acting. The Tyrant’s heel had hit his face, splitting his lower lip.

“Tyrant… Tyrant… Tyrant…”

The crowds, who had once been loyal Jackhammer fans, were now chanting for their new hero’s dominance in this megahyped World
Wrestling Xchange title fight. Hoban wanted to spring to his feet and ram his fist down Tyrant’s throat for the blatant contact
on such a routine move. Later the moron would likely apologize for the “slip.” But keeping with the script, Hoban lay there,
in the middle of the ring, faking helplessness as Tyrant climbed to the top ropes of the corner post for his trademark layout,
back-flipping body slam, or, as he called it, “The A-Bomb.” Hoban spit blood as the audience roared with anticipation.

Tyrant paused to shake his cavemanlike dreadlocks and flex his rippling muscles. He then dove high and backward into the air,
back arched, rotating slowly toward the center of the ring. As many times as they’d practiced this maneuver together for the
show, Hoban knew the chance of Tyrant landing precisely on target to ensure no injury was at best fifty-fifty. But the dramatic
move was always a huge crowd pleaser and deemed worth the gamble by the
WWX, especially when the only one who would get hurt was Jack-hammer.

To Hoban, it seemed just yesterday that chants of “
Jackhammer… Jackhammer… Jackhammer…
” had echoed throughout the angry coliseum. At nearly seven feet and three hundred thirty pounds of weight-room muscle, Jackhammer
Hoban, with his long, brushed-back black hair, had been the idol of most every wrestling fan in America. But now, after years
of alcohol and drug abuse, cursing out fans—some of whom were kids sitting with parents— arrests, and lawsuits for reckless
endangerment both on and off the road, coupled with a declining physical ability to execute the demanding stunts required
to excite the fans, he’d fallen into the worst of all categories: boring. Faxes, e-mails, and laundry bags of fan mail for
other wrestlers all pointed out that Hoban was neither loved nor hated. The bottom line demanded a wrestler be one or the
other. And if he was both, the fans’ crushing rush to the gate could stop the earth on its axis. But such was not the case
with Jackhammer Hoban. He needed to be phased out of the spotlight and given the short ride down the dark road of WWX retirement
… and Tyrant was just the one they wanted to send him off.

The six-five, two-hundred-ninety-pound, granite-hard Tyrant came down exactly where he should have, but without distributing
his lethal weight at the last second into the impact-absorbing mat. Underneath the mat, microphones were strategically placed
to magnify Tyrant’s aeroslam to thunderclap decibels.

“Agghhh!” Hoban exhaled, unable to breathe in.

“Oops,” Tyrant said so only Hoban could hear.

Hoban could not reply but swore to himself he would someday be the one to say “oops” to Tyrant.

The referee slid into position on his hands and knees. “One… two…”

Keeping with the script, fighting through the pain and probably
a cracked rib, Hoban bridged up and rolled Tyrant off. The referee stopped the count and retreated to a safe location in the
corner. Holding his ribs, Hoban did not have to act to reveal the pain he was in. The script called for him to slingshot off
the ropes into Tyrant, but he could not. Ever the showman, Tyrant slid out of the ring and moments later returned with a composite
folding table. Hoban knew this would be murder on his ribs. Tyrant propped the table against a corner post, then picked the
helpless Jackhammer up onto his shoulders and paraded him around the mat.

“Tyrant… Tyrant… Tyrant…”

When Tyrant had finished his circle of dominance, he fell backward toward the table, crashing through it with Jackhammer as
the battering ram.

Hoban did not move… could not move. Tyrant pulled up on his legs and the referee returned.

“One… two… three.”

Tyrant jumped to his feet as the referee pronounced the victory to the deafening sound of crowd chants and pounding heavy-metal
music.

Fake paramedics rushed to Jackhammer’s assistance before allowing him to walk away, head down, up the ramp to the dressing
room. The pain was sharp with every breath, but nothing compared to the pain of his humiliation. The media hype would start
immediately, demanding a rematch to draw the fans, but it didn’t take a genius to know that script would be his last.

D
etective Gavin Pierce, sawdust sticking to the sweat on his forehead and arms, looked skeptically at his partner, Chris Grella,
who had just traced out a prototype for the roof rafters.

“Now what?” Chris asked, a circular saw in his right hand, ready to make a cut.

“Before you cut, I’d like you to explain your measurements—or should I say artwork? This wood isn’t cheap.”

“No, but
you
are. Why don’t you just buy the old Johnson place next door? The guy loved you and his kids would negotiate a great deal
for you. You’d get to stay in this great neighborhood you love so much, plus your wife wants a built-in swimming pool, which
they already have. But now, with this thing, you won’t have room for one.”

“Can we get back to this? I just don’t understand how you came up with all that scribble,” Gavin said, pointing at a two-by-ten
with pencil lines slicing and angling in every direction.

“Math… simple math, that’s how.”

“Math?” Gavin scoffed. “What kind of math? You nailed this board to the side of my house with one nail, tilted and angled
it in six different directions, each time eyeing it from thirty feet away. And now half of the cut lines you made are scribbled
out and shaded in. I mean, what is this, carpentry or golf?”

Chris, power saw in hand, a large droplet of sweat dangling
from the tip of his nose, looked up from his calculations. “It’s pure common-sense-netry.”

“Common-sense-netry?” Gavin eyed him doubtfully.

“Yeah. Look, I got us this far, didn’t I?” Chris said, motioning toward the work they had already accomplished.

The answer was yes. Chris, Gavin’s faithful partner in the homicide division at the Nassau County Police Department, had also
been a faithful friend in helping Gavin expand his home for his new and growing family. When Gavin received estimates beyond
his budget for adding a new master bedroom suite onto the side of his modest North Shore home, Chris had insisted they throw
the quotes in the garbage and do it themselves. That was math Gavin had no trouble understanding. Chris had worked with his
father in the carpentry business before becoming a cop and had built a similar extension on his own house several years ago.

“Just do it!” Gavin hollered, using his weight to brace the long plank.

“Trust me, Gav,” Chris said with a smile. “When we’re done, you and Amy are not going to believe your eyes.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Now… was it this line or—”

“Just cut.”

Gavin squinted and jerked his chin away as more sawdust came in his direction. On purpose, he thought. Chris first cut out
a small wedge, which he had been calling the “bird’s mouth,” then repositioned himself and made the level soffit and plumb
facia cuts. He then moved to the other end of the rafter and made the ridge cut. He marked the rafter with a big red
T
.

“Why a
T
?” Gavin asked.

“The
T
is for template,” Chris explained. “But if there’s a different letter you prefer, I can do that too.”

“Okay, how about
C
for Chris, so we know which pile of wood you’ll be paying for when they don’t fit right?”

“Bring the other saw to this end so we can both cut, wise guy. All you have to do is cut this straight line thirty-four times.
Think you can handle that?”

The hours passed, and soon, to Gavin’s tired and sweaty amazement, the rafters were in place. Chris’s common-sense-netry had
apparently worked.

“Break time!” sang a sweet female voice. “Getcha cold drinks here!”

“Perfect timing,” Chris said.

Gavin allowed a smile. Something only Amy, his wife of one year, could produce. He and Chris made their way down their ladders
to the new plywood floor.

“Wow!” Amy said, carrying a blue cooler with both hands. “A house!”

“Not quite. Let me take that from you,” Chris offered.

“Oh, sure! I parade all over town filling this thing, and when I’ve got two feet left to go, a
man
needs to rescue me.”

“Chris is just trying to save himself,” Gavin said.

“You guys are rough,” Chris complained good-naturedly, taking the cooler. “And that’s quite a profile you’ve got there, lady.
Whoa, what did you bring us to drink, rocks? Are you crazy… to be carrying something this heavy in your condition?”

Amy was very pregnant. Eight months, fourteen days, according to the doctor’s calculations. Except for what looked like a
basketball under her light summer dress, she was showing very little weight gain. Throughout her pregnancy she had remained
active, and the doctor had given her a perfect bill of health.

“‘There’s no life as tiring as one always retiring,’” she told Chris as she scanned the new rafters.

“Another old saying from her Japanese grandmother?” Chris asked Gavin, who was wiping his face clean with a sweaty bandana.

Gavin shrugged. “I suppose. They’re too
weird
to make up.”

“Maybe she could get a job writing fortune cookies,” Chris suggested, fishing through the cooler for a drink. “What would
you like, Gav? Ice water or… ice water?”

“Ice water sounds good right now,” Gavin said as he kissed Amy’s bronze lips hello, then bent down and kissed her round belly.

“I can’t believe how much you’ve gotten done,” Amy said to Gavin. “It looks great.
Watashi wa shiawase.
”

“What?” Chris asked.

“It’s Japanese,” Gavin explained. “It means, ‘I’m happy.’”

“So why not just say, ‘I’m happy’?” Chris wondered.

“She did.”

“Forget it. I don’t know why I ever bother talking to you.”

“Because you two work very well together,” Amy declared with a wink.

Chris handed Gavin a clear, cold bottle of Fiji water. “Yeah, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Amy said, looking at Gavin. “Did you get a chance to stop in at Motor Vehicle and register my minivan?”
She turned to Chris. “His car is getting too tight for us,” she explained, rubbing her belly.

“Amy, there’s no such thing as ‘stopping in’ at the DMV. I would have gotten nothing done on the house. The last time I registered
a car there, I had to wait three hours. Maybe tomorrow, but soon, I promise.”

Just then a portable phone resting on a windowsill rang.

“I’ll get it,” Amy said. “Relax and drink.”

“Yeah, relax and drink,” Chris said sarcastically to Gavin. “You’ve really been working much too hard.”

Gavin did not respond, concerned as he watched Amy navigate
an obstacle course of loose, jagged wood blocks, slippery nails, and tangled extension cords. He should have taken care to
clean up while he was working. If she got hurt, he would never forgive himself. Her natural tendency to do everything for
herself was driving him crazy now that she was pregnant.

“Hello,” Amy said cheerfully into the phone. “Oh, hi! Yes, yes, of course I remember you. How’s your grandfather?” After a
moment of silence, she turned around and looked at Gavin, her face troubled, the phone still at her ear. “Oh no.… Yes.…
Is he… Yes.… Of course.…We certainly will.…Thank you for calling.” She put the phone down.

“What’s the matter?” Gavin asked, already on his feet.

“That was Samantha.”

Gavin thought for a moment. “Samantha Buchanan?” he wondered, the air tightening around him.

Amy nodded. “Buck’s had a heart attack.”

Her words instantly took Gavin out of the here-and-now to a time and place he wanted to believe had never existed. A time
earmarked by an act so violent it had changed his life in a moment. A life he had managed to reestablish. “Is he dead?” he
asked.

“No, thanks to emergency bypass surgery. Triple. He’s at Delhi Hospital. When he came to he asked for us to pray.”

“Pray?” Gavin heard himself say.

Amy stared at him. Her cheery glow was gone, replaced with an expression he had not seen in a while. He was familiar with
all of Amy’s expressions. The first time he had seen her beautiful face was in her comatose twin sister’s hospital room, where
she’d been all-business, intense, demanding to know who he was and what he was doing there. He also knew her excited face,
when her green Asian feline eyes would open wide and her bright smile would wrinkle her gentle nose—like when he’d asked her
to marry him or every time he came home with cookie-dough ice cream. But this expression
wasn’t excitement or anger or even sorrow for sudden illness. It was dread. She stood as frozen and unblinking as a mannequin,
the blood drained from her complexion. He felt her fear—the kind that comes from experience, not just knowledge. He’d been
there.

But those were fears from a different time. Now, after two of the best years of his life, Gavin had developed his own theories
of the past events. Theories he’d worked out after much research. Well, not research… but he had seen that HBO documentary
and read enough related material to rationally explain what had probably happened and dispel the kind of fear boring through
Amy’s less informed, less open mind. Maybe now was the time to—

“Who’s Buck?” Gavin heard Chris say. He’d all but forgotten his friend was there.

“Reverend Buchanan,” Amy replied, her eyes on Gavin’s.

Chris frowned thoughtfully. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He’s that old black preacher from upstate who helped us with the Krogan case,” Gavin explained, turning to Chris. “I don’t
think you ever actually met him; you were resting comfortably in the hospital and all, watching football, while we were getting
our—”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” Chris interrupted, ignoring the digs. “The Reverend Buchanan, one of your leads. You call him Buck?
I didn’t realize you were so close.”

“He insisted. I would have called him ‘Your Majesty’ to get him to help us find that psycho.”

Gavin had never spoken to Chris or anyone about the role the Reverend Jesse J. Buchanan had supposedly played in the final
capture of Krogan, and he hoped he’d never have to. Buck was just another lead who’d happened to provide a piece to the puzzle.
A small piece in retrospect, but at the time Gavin had desperately searched under any rock he could turn and read more into
strange coincidences than he should have. As a result, Buck had appeared huge. And the story that surrounded him was kept
secret.

Other than Gavin, Amy, and Buck, only one other person knew what purportedly had happened to the serial killer who shocked
the New York area with his terroristlike crashes. Only one other person knew of the alleged exorcism that, according to Buck,
had sent a raging demon—a spirit being that had terrorized humanity for over ten thousand years—into a young Galapagos Island
tortoise named Jeremy. That person was a zookeeper at the Bronx Zoo. A man named Lester Davis, whom Buck had entrusted with
the oversight and well-being of the tortoise that would serve as a living prison for the evil entity… as long as the animal
remained alive. Gavin remembered how important it was to those who knew about the demon that the tortoise be kept alive for
a long, long time. A concern he had since scratched off his list.

“I forget… how exactly did he help us?”

Gavin could feel Amy’s silence. “He didn’t, actually. He came with us to see if Krogan was the same man who had killed his
family. He wasn’t.”

Chris and the rest of the world were allowed to believe only what their eyes could see: that Karl Dengler, alias Krogan, was
no more than a monstrous psychokiller with an appetite for spontaneous destruction—crashing cars, trucks, boats, or anything
else that moved, into anything he felt like at any given moment. Sometimes the crashes were premeditated, other times not.
The media had dubbed him the “Ghost Driver” for his uncanny ability to disappear by the time authorities arrived on the scene.
A crash without a driver and a dead passenger who owned the vehicle, harboring staggeringly high levels of blood-alcohol content,
would likely mean Krogan’s fingerprints were on the steering wheel and a small lobster-claw roach clip was in the ashtray.

“Things are never as bad as they seem at first,” Gavin said to Amy calmly.

Amy smiled weakly. “I know you don’t believe that. Not when it comes to this.”

Not true. But Gavin took the moment to do the math on his priorities. Whether or not Amy’s fears were real or imagined, she
needed for him to go see Buck. Life had been so good for the last two years, she probably felt that a heavy weight of tragedy
was about to balance the scales. And the last thing he wanted was for his beautiful, pregnant wife to be under any unnecessary
stress with her due date so—

“Gavin? What are you thinking?”

“Huh? Nothing.”

“Well, we should visit him,” Amy said, her voice not betraying her fear.

“No, I’ll go. You said Delhi Hospital?” Gavin asked, taking off his tool belt.

“Yes… about six or seven miles north of Samantha’s.”

“You’re leaving?” Chris said incredulously.

“Sorry. Amy’s right. At least one of us should see him.”

“I’ll go,” Amy offered. “You stay with Chris.”

“No. It’s too far.”
And you’ll believe everything Buck tells you and be a basket case when the baby’s born,
he thought. “Besides, you’ve been busy all day. Too busy.” He gently touched her belly.

Amy looked at Chris. “You know, I never used to get this kind of pampering before I was pregnant. Sometimes I think he cares
more about the baby than me.”

“Nice try, Amy, but you’re staying here,” Gavin insisted calmly, although inwardly shaken by her comment.

“What’s Samantha’s?” Chris asked.

“Samantha’s Dairy Farm,” Amy replied. “That’s where Buck lives. In Hamden.”

Chris frowned. “That’s… four hours from here.”

“I’ll do it in three with the Tiger,” Gavin said, speaking more to himself than to Chris.

“I don’t get it. What’s the hurry? He’s in a hospital. I mean, I’ve never heard you even talk about him before,” Chris said.
He hammered a single nail into a stud, took off his tool belt, and hung it up. An obvious sunburn line striped his shoulders
where his suspenders had been.