The October List (2 page)

The actor …

She felt the rippling sensation, low in her belly. Had a memory of his lips on hers, his body close. His smells, his tastes. The moisture on his brow and on hers. ‘I like him too.’

‘Here’s the thing,’ Sam said, sitting forward on the leather hassock. ‘No surprise: Daniel’s good looking and he’s rich and he’s a nice guy. A lot of women see that and they think, Jackpot. But they don’t care who he is, not inside. They don’t connect. Daniel said you and he hit it off
before
you knew he had the boat and the fancy cars and the money.’

‘Yeah, our meeting was
not
the most romantic experience in the history of relationships.’ She gave Sam a careful gaze. ‘Okay, he likes me. But he’s also doing this because of what happened in New Hampshire. Right?’

‘He told you?’ Sam seemed surprised.

‘He did, yes. Sounded pretty bad.’

A nod. ‘Oh, yeah. Changed his whole outlook on life. And, true, probably that
is
one of the reasons he’s helping you. Kind of giving back for what happened. That was tough. You know, with his kids involved and all.’

‘Yes.’

‘Daniel doesn’t tell everybody about New Hampshire. In fact, hardly anyone.’

She stared at her knitting, the tangles of color. ‘God, it’s so risky, what he and Andrew’re doing. They downplayed it, but …’ She pulled her phone from the sweatshirt pouch, glanced at the screen, slipped it back.

‘Anything?’

‘Nothing.’ A sigh. She rose, walked to the bar and poured some red wine. Lifted her eyebrow. Sam nodded. She filled a glass for him and returned to the couch, handed it off. They sipped. No tap of glasses or toast, of course. Not now.

Gabriela sat and started to sip, but eased the wine away from her lips. She exhaled audibly.

‘Are you all right?’ Sam asked.

Frowning broadly, she was staring at a newspaper on the
Alien
coffee table. Scooting forward.

‘My God,’ she said.

‘What?’

She looked up, eyes wide as coins. ‘I know what it is.’

He regarded her quizzically.

‘The October List, Sam.’ She slid the
New York Times
his way. He walked forward and picked it up. She continued, ‘I know what it means! The clues were there all along. I just didn’t put them together.’ In a low voice, ‘It’s bad, Sam. What’s going to happen is really bad.’

But before she could say anything there came a noise from the front hallway: a click, followed by the distinctive musical notes of the front door hinge,
O-oh
, high–low. Stale air moved.

Gabriela rose fast. Sam Easton, holding his wine in one hand and the newspaper in the other, turned to the hallway.

‘Is my daughter all right?’ she cried. ‘Please tell me! Is my daughter all right?’

A man entered the room quickly. But it wasn’t Daniel Reardon or Andrew Faraday, returning from their mission to save her daughter.

Joseph wore a black jacket and gloves and yellow-tinted aviator glasses. His glistening golden curly hair dangled to mid-ear.

In his gloved hand he held a pistol whose muzzle ended in a squat, brushed-metal silencer.

‘No!’ Gabriela gasped, looking toward Sam.

After scanning the room quickly, Joseph turned toward them, lifting the gun in a way that seemed almost playful.

CHAPTER
35

5:50 p.m., Sunday
40 minutes earlier

The warehouse was just as he’d left it on Friday, when he’d been here making preparations.

Damp, brick walls covered with scabby light green paint, redolent of cleanser fumes and oil and pesticide and rust, lit by unkind fluorescents. One began flickering and Joseph rose from the table where he’d been sitting, took a mop from the corner, the strands molded into a mass, sideways, like windswept hair, and with the tip of the handle shattered the offending tubular bulb. There was nothing sturdy enough to stand on to remove it. Shards fell, dust too. The crackle was satisfying.

This building was similar to the one where he’d done his little surgery last night, the warehouse west of Times Square. Here, in SoHo, there was a demand for industrial spaces to turn into private residences – at astronomical sums, of course. This particular building would probably never be converted. There were no windows. Bad for resale to chic-minded lawyers and brokers. Good for Joseph’s purposes, though. In fact, he could just make out a faint spatter of dark brown dots on the floor. Several months ago those discolorations had been bright red. The man had finally told Joseph what he wanted to know.

Solid brick walls. They absorbed the screams well.

Before returning to the chair, he walked to the heater panel, turned the unit up. Mold-scented air slipped out of the vents. Warmish. Still, he kept on his gloves – thin, flesh-colored cloth. Not for the comfort, though. Force of professional habit. Joseph recalled many times in the heat of summer when he’d worn gloves like these.

He sat once more, in the chair on whose back his leather jacket was draped. Pulling off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick golden ringlets, Joseph reached into the bag he’d brought with him and extracted the distinctive green box of Dom Pérignon champagne. He then removed from his pocket two mobile phones – his own iPhone, and the one lifted from the same apartment where he’d taken the boxed wine. His phone he set on the table. The other he scrolled through – clumsily because of the gloves – and noted the phone numbers and texts.

He set the Samsung down then stretched out his legs, checking the time. He wouldn’t have long to wait. That was good. He was tense. You always were on edge at times like this. You had to be. He’d known plenty of men who’d relaxed when they shouldn’t have. They were dead or changed for the worse, much worse.

But adrenaline got you only so far.

He glanced toward a door at the back of the warehouse, secured with a thick dead bolt. It led to a small storeroom. From beneath the door warm yellow light flowed. You could hear the
Dora the Explorer
DVD.

‘
Hey, Boots! Let’s go over there!
’

Joseph looked once more at the box containing the champagne. It was marred with a bloodstain on the side. Six dots in a row, like part of the Morse code for S-O-S. He knew the prestige of Dom Pérignon, though he’d never had any. This reminded him that he had a thirst. He rose and, walking stiffly from the chill, went to a cupboard in the corner of the warehouse, where he’d stashed a bottle of his Special Brew. He twisted off the cap and thirstily drank down nearly half of the contents. Felt the rush, felt the comfort.

Slow down, he told himself.

But then slugged the rest.

He wiped his lips on his sleeve. He set the bottle on the table. He’d take it with him when he left, of course, after slicking the glass with his telltale DNA.

Then settling his heavy form back in the chair, Joseph winced at a sharp pain in his hip. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed the Glock 9mm pistol, dropped the mag and reloaded, replacing the two bullets he’d fired not long ago. He recalled the eyes of the victim staring at him in shock – too numb even to be afraid. Always curious, those moments just before the gun fired. People behaved in all sorts of mad ways. Heroic, pathetic, even blasé. He could write a book.

Joseph set the gun on the table and fished out the Gemtech silencer, checked to see that it was clear and then screwed it into the muzzle. Slipped the weapon into his waistband.

He glanced at his watch. The deadline was two minutes away. He wondered if—

A firm knocking resonated from the medieval door.

A glance through the peephole he’d installed yesterday. Daniel Reardon and a distinguished-looking businessman. Joseph tapped the grip of the pistol, to remind himself exactly where it hugged his body. Then undid the latch.

CHAPTER
34

4:00 p.m., Sunday
1 hour, 50 minutes earlier

In the living room of the apartment Daniel Reardon made introductions. ‘This is Gabriela McKenzie.’

‘Andrew Faraday,’ said the older of the two who’d just entered. The other man offered, ‘Sam Easton.’

Hands were shaken. Sam was tanned, balding and had a craggy face, quick eyes. Andrew, pocketing the keys to the apartment, was in his mid-sixties. He had thick white hair, streaked with black strands, swept back and razor-parted on the side. Businessman’s hair. Politician’s hair. Andrew was leaner than Sam and Daniel and not particularly muscular. No more than five-nine. But Gabriela’s impression, an immediate one, was that he was more imposing than the others. And not because of the age.

A natural-born boss …

Daniel said, ‘These are the people I was telling you about. I’m a client of theirs. Have been for years.’

Gabriela and Daniel sat down on the decades-old couch, which released a more intense version of the musty odor she’d tried to eradicate from the apartment with the kitchen trick not long before.

Funerals, she thought. Funerals …

Daniel poured some more of the red wine. He lifted the bottle to her again. She declined. Andrew and Sam both took glasses. They sipped.

‘Daniel was telling us about the situation,’ Andrew said. His voice was comforting, baritone.

She said with a frantic slope to her voice, ‘I don’t know what to do! It’s a nightmare. The deadline’s in two hours! Joseph said I have until six and no extensions this time. After that …’ She inhaled, exhaled hard.

The men seemed troubled by these stirrings of hysteria, as if not sure how to reassure her. Finally Andrew Faraday said, ‘Well, we have some thoughts.’

Sam deferred with his eyes to Andrew. He was secondary or tertiary in hierarchy, she saw at once. She assessed he was dependable and loyal.

Daniel eased against Gabriela on the couch and she felt the warmth of his thigh against hers. He gripped her arm briefly with his long fingers. And she felt the strength she’d noted earlier.

‘May I call you Gabriela?’ The question was from Andrew. He seemed the sort who would ask permission. Proper, old-school.

‘Sure, yes.’ She smoothed frazzled hair. Then stopped her busy hands.

Andrew continued, ‘First, so I can understand, Gabriella: Just to get the facts. This man who’s kidnapped your daughter – Joseph, you were saying. That’s his name, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘He wants the document Daniel was telling me about. The October List?’

She nodded.

Andrew took in her hollow eyes. ‘And Daniel said you don’t know what it means.’

She shrugged. ‘Names and addresses. Maybe criminals. All we really know is that people are willing to kill for it.’

Andrew said, ‘And no idea what the word refers to, “October”?’

Gabriela glanced to Daniel, who offered, ‘It could be something that happened in October, in the past: a meeting, an event. Or,’ he added darkly, ‘it’s something that’s
going
to happen – next month. Given what we’ve heard, it might be something pretty bad. But, on the other hand, it could be nothing more than a name. A company, even a person. Or maybe a code. Number ten – the tenth month.’

‘Or,’ Gabriela said, ‘Daniel was considering anagrams.’

‘You can find some interesting words in “October.” “Reboot,” “boot,” “core,” “rob.” But out of context, we just don’t know.’

‘And there’s this man named Gunther, who may want the list too. But we don’t have a clue how he figures in.’

Andrew nodded, considering this. He leaned back and ran a single index finger through his hair. Gabriela now examined the newcomers’ clothing: The men were in suits – coiffed Andrew’s was dark blue, balding Sam’s black, both conservative and expensive as hell. Dress shirts, blue and white respectively. No ties. Bruno Magli or Ferragamo shoes. The clothing and accessories were, as Gabriela’s boss would say, ‘primo.’

She said to them evenly, ‘I know I should turn it in.’