The Cyclops Conspiracy (8 page)

Jason scanned the room and then looked at Christine. “You haven’t packed this room up yet?”

“I didn’t have the nerve.” She moved to the walk-in closet. “There’s no one here,” she said, turning toward him.

Her words were cut short. A figure sprang from the shadows of the closet like a cornered panther.

The huge, masculine figure rammed into Christine’s back, driving her into the dresser. Two small framed photos of a younger Christine dropped from the dresser top. Even as he was pile-driving her, the hooded man’s large, desperate eyes, visible through two wide holes, were focused on Jason.

Christine shook off the blow and watched as the intruder stepped over her and hit Jason from the side, wrapping him in tight bear hug, pinning his arms, and lifting him into the air. Jason, too surprised to react, hit the far wall between two windows, caving in plaster.

Jason’s nose and cheek hit first, his arms welded to his side by the bear hug. Hooded Man rammed him into the carpet, pressing his full weight onto Jason. A gloved hand moved to Jason’s neck and squeezed, choking him. Jason struggled, his face reddening. His breaths came faster and weaker. As he struggled, spittle flew from his mouth.

The attacker made no sound. The in-and-out pulsation of his mask quickened, but otherwise revealed no stress. Jason tried in vain to pry the hand from around his neck. But against the man’s godlike
strength, his attempts were anemic. Jason rammed a fist into the midsection, hoping to release the choke hold. He failed.

A loud shriek filled Christine’s ears. She realized it was emanating from her own throat as she hurtled through the air. She slammed her shoulder into the side of the cloth-covered head. The man bounced into the wall beside the bed. Christine’s baseball cap dropped over her eyes as she gouged skin beneath the mask. She felt Jason scramble free beneath her.

The intruder’s arm whipped violently, shedding Christine like a rag doll. She landed in a heap a few feet away. Jason rose up and delivered a trio of punches with alternating fists to the mask Christine had dislodged. The eyeholes were filled with tan skin. The figure, temporarily blinded, was stunned by Jason’s blows. Loud cracks penetrated the air. The intruder rolled away. His hands moved to his face, readjusting the mask.

“Chrissie! Police!” Jason shouted, launching a side kick. It was blocked by an unyielding forearm, stopping Jason’s foot dead as if it had struck granite.

The man sprinted toward the door, past Christine and toward freedom. She flinched, thinking he might strike again. Jason jumped over Christine, trying to get at the attacker again.

Hooded Man grabbed Jason in midleap and flung him through the bedroom door. Jason’s head slammed into the doorframe, bouncing on the floor upon landing. The intruder raced to Jason and stood over him ominously, waiting for him to move. He turned toward Christine, who was retrieving the lamp from the nightstand. She took two steps in his direction.

The man sprinted down the hall and disappeared down the stairs. Seconds later, Christine heard the front door open. She ran downstairs and looked out. The figure was racing away through Mrs. Liggieri’s yard.

* * *

“I’m fine,” Jason persisted.

The paramedics had tried several times to convince him to get in the ambulance and go to the hospital. “You might have a concussion,” one said. Jason, steadfast, declined. They packed up their gear and helped him downstairs, planting him on the sofa. They told Christine he should not be alone for the next twenty-four hours, and gave her instructions to get him to a doctor as soon as possible. Jason signed a release refusing treatment, scratching his name without looking at the form.

A police officer waited at the bottom of the stairs, watching silently until the paramedics were gone. He asked Jason a few questions, who answered with his head in his hands.

“He had a tattoo on his arm,” said Jason.

“Where on his arm?”

Jason exposed the inside of his right forearm and pointed to the spot on his own arm without looking up.

“What did it look like?”

“Like a squiggly line.”

“Can you draw it for me?” The man handed the pad to Jason. He took it without looking up and drew the small tattoo.

The officer left, promising that a detective would follow up in a few days. He said that dusting for fingerprints would not help, since the attacker had worn gloves. “We have several units cruising the neighborhood,” he said.

* * *

“Kneel,” Lily commanded. Oliver obeyed and knelt on the thick carpet of her expansive bedroom. “Tell me what happened.”

He described the events of the altercation with Jason Rodgers, speaking in hushed tones. His Adam’s apple bobbed quickly several times during his monologue. Zanns listened patiently until he was finished.

“Did they see your face?”

“I wore a hood,” he replied, eyes downcast.

Zanns frowned. “That box must be found, Oliver. Go back to Pettigrew’s and search again. Then search the daughter’s house. Obviously, if he was looking for it, Jason Rodgers does not have it.”

“But the daughter doesn’t know where the box is,” Oliver offered, hoping this insight might help him win a reprieve.

“Nonetheless, Pettigrew may have hidden it in her house. Search it. You must find that box.”

Oliver slumped.

Lily patted Oliver’s shoulder. “You have failed me, Oliver. You are a true and loyal servant. If you were not so valuable, your punishment would be much more severe. Consider yourself lucky.” Lily could not afford to part with his services. His skill as a pilot and a bodyguard had served her well many times, and would do so again in the near future.

“Yes, Ms. Lily.”

Oliver remained, kneeling on the carpet while Lily left the bedroom. She returned with a blanket, bandages, gauze, and a jet lighter. She spread the blanket out and laid the supplies on it. Oliver lay on his back, his right hand and arm across the blanket, wincing in anticipation of the pain.

“Oliver, your incompetence could have crippled our mission had you been caught, stealing from Allah his chance for vengeance. Vengeance we have worked so long and so hard for. He has no patience for such clumsiness. Your deeds cannot go unpunished. It is no different than a thief who is caught stealing a loaf of bread.”

Lily recited a verse from the Quran. “As for the man who steals and the woman who steals, cut off their hands as punishment for what they have earned, an exemplary punishment from Allah.”

“I will not cut off your hand, Oliver. Only a fraction of it, to remind you that the mission is paramount.” The blades of the boning scissors gleamed in the dim light of Zanns’s desk lamp. “You will be cleansed of your sin. Do not repeat it!”

She slipped his right pinky between the blades as Oliver sucked in a deep breath. With a forceful, loud snap, the severed finger dropped to the blanket, followed quickly by large droplets of blood.

Oliver’s wail shook the walls.

Michael wound up and fired. His fastball zipped at Jason and popped like a rifle shot into Jason’s ancient mitt. A plume of dust exploded from the glove.
Not bad
, Jason thought. For the last two months, Michael had worked hard, throwing against the fence and with his father, to strengthen his arm for next year’s Little League season. This past summer he’d realized he needed to work on developing a curveball and his arm strength if he was going to compete against the year-round ballplayers.

Jason’s head still throbbed and spun like a carnival ride. He steadied himself by placing a hand on the driveway.

“Nice pitch, Son,” he said weakly.

Michael had begged him for a round of catch before starting his homework—a report about the code breakers of Bletchley Park during World War Two and their use of the Colossus, the world’s first electronic, programmable computing machines.

Michael fired another one straight down the middle.

“If you keep throwing them like that next season, they won’t be able to touch you.”

Jason always loved playing catch with Michael. He’d dreamed about it since before Michael was born. Today, it took his mind off his headache, eased the pain, and made him wonder about roads not taken.

Jason had always placed Chrissie’s face in the picture frame of his mind that was saved for his wife. When he’d dreamed about playing ball with his as-yet-unborn son, Chrissie was Michael’s mother, even in the years that followed their breakup. Then he met Jenny, married her, and those visions melted away.

Michael threw ten more pitches, mixing in a few change-ups and fastballs.

“That’s all for me.” Jason sucked in several deep breaths. His temples pounded.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Just fine.”

The ibuprofen dulled the pounding, and the nausea had resolved. But balance was still an issue. As a pharmacist, Jason knew he should have gone to the hospital. If one of his patients described the way he’d struck his head, Jason would have strongly suggested visiting an emergency room. X-rays or even a CT scan were called for. But Jason feared if they found something serious, there was no telling how long he would be confined to a hospital bed, and Lily Zanns would find someone else to become her new VP. That was a chance he was not willing to take.

Michael tossed his glove into a plastic bin in the garage. The boy was the spitting image of Jenny. His black, wavy hair spilled over his ears, making putting a ball cap on it an adventure. The gap-toothed smile lit up Jason’s world.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Son.”

“Are all criminals in prison guilty?”

“Most of them are. Why do you ask?”

“You know my friend Trevor?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, his older brother was arrested last week for breaking into someone’s house. Trevor said he did it on a dare.”

“That wasn’t very smart.”

“I guess not. Wouldn’t it suck if you were accused of a crime and had to go to prison?”

“Watch your language.”

“Sorry. But wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, it would be pretty bad. Why do you ask?”

“If you committed a crime, would you admit it?”

“I hope I wouldn’t commit a crime.”

“Yeah, but just say you did. Would you?”

Jason smiled. “Yes, I would admit it.”

“What if you didn’t do it, and no one believed you?”

“With evidence nowadays, it should be easy to prove your innocence.”

“If you told me you didn’t commit a crime, I’d believe you.”

“I’m glad, Son. Now go do your homework while I work on my Hwa-Rang.”

Oliver slipped in the back door like an apparition. It was his second attempt in the last forty-eight hours to finish the task that had cost him his last remaining pinky finger. He methodically searched each room of Thomas Pettigrew’s house using only a three-inch flashlight. Thirty minutes later, empty handed, he exited and moved to the next objective.

He watched from a hundred yards away as the Chrysler 300 backed out of the driveway, the Pettigrew woman at the wheel. She sped away in the opposite direction. The taillights brightened. She paused at the intersection and slowly made the turn. He waited a full minute to be sure she didn’t double back.

He rubbed the gauze over the missing finger, grimacing deeply. It hurt incredibly. As usual, he had forgone any painkillers. The agony served as a constant reminder about the consequences of failure. He had successfully completed many missions for Ms. Lily, hundreds in fact. Success was expected and not celebrated. Failures were dealt with
harshly. But to her credit, Lily did not dwell on his few failures after punishment had been meted out.

Oliver flexed the remaining eight fingers that were still attached, glad his career was coming to an end. He could ill afford any more mistakes if he expected to be able to feed himself. This mission would be their last and would allow him to live comfortably in self-imposed exile serving Ms. Lily.

Satisfied it was safe, he quietly exited the BMW and walked calmly through the shadows of the sycamores to the back. Ninety seconds later, he was inside. He searched every room with gloved hands. Stymied again, he exited, locking the door behind him. He would not rest until the box of files was in his possession.

“What’s the bet?” asked Jason.

“The usual,” Peter Rodgers, Jason’s brother, replied. “Loser buys lunch and drives Mom to her doctor’s appointments for the next two weeks. I’m particularly hungry today. I see a large steak smothered in sautéed onions and mushrooms in my future while I listen to you tell me about that bitch of an ex-girlfriend of yours, the intruder, and this cushy new job.” Peter ripped a few pieces of grass in the air and tossed them. They floated away in the wind. “The wind’s strong today. It must be at least eight miles per crossing. Not an easy shot.”

They were lying prone on a hill, somewhere in rural Smithfield. They had been coming here weekly for four years. Peter had infected Jason with his enthusiasm for handguns, rifles, and martial arts. Peter, a former Force Recon marine sniper and third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do to Jason’s fourth-degree brown, had taught Jason how to handle and fire an assortment of weapons, proper breathing techniques, and long-range shooting tactics. Peter had at least ten confirmed kills in the first Gulf War, and probably a dozen more unconfirmed.

Jason was a stellar student and had absorbed every fact and detail. He owned a handgun and enjoyed handling it, but was not as fanatical about them as his older sibling. For Jason, it was more about enjoying Peter’s company and war stories. Dressed in camouflage fatigues, they looked like two hunters about to drop a twelve point.

Jason eyed the distant target through a large, tactical sighting scope propped on a small tripod. A piece of plywood with the figure of a man outlined in red paint was propped against a stump three-quarters of a mile away. A heart had been painted on the chest. Next to it, a tall stake had been driven into the ground, and an orange rag fluttered in the breeze just above the knee-high, rippling grass.