Wet Work: The Definitive Edition (18 page)

“
Hampton, Orr, Wrightson, Gaydos and Gentile.

“
All were fine men. Let us honor them.”

The captain bowed his head and most of the cops did likewise.

The minute passed slowly.

“
Thank you,” Sienkiewicz said, looking up to face his men.

He sighed, paused, searching for the right words.

“
As some of you—most of you—are aware, the situation we’re facing is,” he hesitated, “extremely unusual. And to be honest, I don’t really know what to say.” He paused again, looking down at his polished shoes.

“
There was an emergency meeting with the Mayor this morning. It appears Washington is the target of a gang of subversives.”

A ripple went through the crowd of cops.

“
No shit,” Tranksen muttered under his breath.

“
Based on the information we have, it appears this city has been infiltrated by a terrorist group who is provoking social unrest in the projects.”

Several cops whispered amongst themselves. Captain Sienkiewicz raised a hand to silence them.

“
I know. It sounds unbelievable, but the evidence suggests it is a truth we’re going to have to deal with. Only we don’t exactly know who, or what, we’re dealing with.”

Another ripple passed through the room.

“
As a result, the Mayor has requested all leave be canceled. Due to the gravity of the situation, not only do we need every available man and woman on the streets, but you’re also going to have to work double-shifts effective now.”

Every cop in the room’s face dropped.

“
I know, it’s not what any of you need, but it’s official. This city is fast approaching a state of emergency, and as the police force, it is our duty to protect and serve the citizens of the community.

“
Every officer is to be issued with a bulletproof vest and riot gear. We’re expecting major trouble.”

The room erupted into a throng of angry, confused voices, just as the captain expected.

Santos laid a paternal hand on Nick’s shoulder.

“
What the hell’s he talking about?” Packard asked.

Santos placed a finger to his lips.

“
Let’s have some order here!” Duty Sergeant Allred shouted from the side of the podium. “Come on, order!”

The captain raised a hand to quiet his audience.

“
Listen to me, men. I know this is an intimidating situation we’re facing—”

“
This is bullshit!” shouted a large, beefy cop near the door whom Nick hadn’t seen before. “Terrorists? Subversives? What the fuck is going on, captain?”

“
Order!” Allred bellowed. “You’re out of line, Eisner!”

“
No way!” Eisner shot back. “This is crap. What’s really going on? This has nothing to do with subversives—”

“
Order!” Allred bellowed again.

“—
this involves some crazy shit. What about the dead people?!”

A hush fell on the room like a dead weight. All eyes turned to Sienkiewicz, his expression uncomfortable like that of a man who’d just been caught taking a dump in public.

“
Dead people, Officer Eisner?”

“
Yeah. Dead people, Captain. Dead people who’re walking around—”

“
That’s enough, Eisner!” Allred shouted, moving towards him.

“
Please!” Sienkiewicz stressed. “Order. Sergeant, stay where you are.”

Allred halted.

“
Dead people, Officer Eisner? What are you talking about?”

Nick notice a nervous tick pull at the corner of the captain’s left eye.

“
People you shoot who’re already dead! People who don’t drop no matter how many times you shoot ‘em!”

The room exploded. Allred screamed for order. Sienkiewicz raised both hands.

“
Gentlemen, please!” He beseeched. “Let me finish.”

The captain waited patiently for the noise to die down.

“
The ‘dead people’ you refer to, Officer Eisner, are victims of a powerful, previously unknown drug. From what little we know, it’s a PCP-derivative that over-stimulates the adrenal system and sends people berserk. This drug’s on the streets and is the cause of the violence which has erupted in the last twenty-four hours.”

Every cop in the room started asking questions at once. Allred flushed red as he shouted at the top of his lungs for order.

“
You’re saying this shit’s about drugs!” Eisner screamed. “I just lost my partner! The guy who killed him was dead!”

The volume in the room rose another notch. The men shifted restlessly.

Allred blew three long, shrill whistle shrieks.

Silence slowly returned.

“
We know that perpetrators who are on this drug are extremely dangerous,” the captain continued, ignoring Eisner. “If you come into contact with anyone acting suspiciously, your orders are this. You warn them twice. If they do not respond, fire a warning shot. If they do not comply…” He hesitated.

“
Shoot to kill.”

GEORGETOWN.

4:47 P.M.

His right leg was stripped to the bone but muscles remained on the left. Large patches of the blue carpet were rust-colored, stiff with dried blood.

Gregory Retek’s eyes widened, his thoughts contracting as the room spun around him with the vertigo of consciousness. He tried to remember, to recall what happened, his mind crying out to comprehend what was going on.
It’s just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. There is no pain. Nothing was real strawberry fields forever…

Who sang that? The Beatles. Why was he
—

For an instant he was back at a summer party thrown nearly twenty years before, a barbecue thrown by Sam Monteleone, his partner in their General Practice, a small affair attended by Monteleone’s younger brother who insisted on playing rock music on the stereo. Diane had been drunk. He had smoked some pot—

What
—
?

Sondra.
Hot. Wet. Wanting him.

His erection pulsing with blood. Hard. Penetrating her softness.

Her kisses. Fervent. Moaning at approaching orgasm.

The image in the mirror distracting his attention. The image that couldn’t be real. A phantom projection of guilt, perhaps. But not real.

Diane.

A cold hand suddenly encircling his throat.

(just has his had done)

Stars. Pain. Incredible pain.

Sondra screaming.

Diane!

He looked around the room as if he had been there once before, not certain, nothing as it should be. A dream. No. Not a dream.
A nightmare.
Or something worse…
yes, something worse.

Blood.

On the walls. The bed. The floor.

Broken glass. The shattered remains of the Chivas bottle. All over the floor, the bed. The bed—

The bed, God, the bed. From behind which poked a leg encased in torn stockings, a foot.

But they weren’t connected.

One leg. Two feet.

He looked at his own legs. His feet were attached, but his right leg…his leg was…torn!

It was no illusion. Most of his thigh muscle was gone to the knee, the calf beneath ripped open, tendons hanging like strings. The bones were rusted with blood.

Why did he feel no pain?

Because it wasn’t real. He couldn’t smell. He couldn’t

feel
—

It’s not really happening
—
I’m dreaming
—
dreaming
—

He started crawling towards the foot, not aware of the glass shards entering his arms, his belly, dragging the useless leg, struggling to heave his weight across the room.

Retek reached for the leg. He pulled it clear of the tangled, bloody sheets, surprised at its lightness. It was weightless because it was not attached to a body. The suddenness of his movement unbalanced him, the leg’s gore-encrusted thigh stump hitting his chest. He whimpered, throwing it to one side.

Not really happening
—
not really happening
—
not really happening
—
not really
—

He pushed himself around the bed.

Intestines, lumps of torn subcutaneous tissue, something resembling a spleen, faced him.

“
No!” The words wheezed from his throat.

What remained of Sondra’s torso lay beside the carnage, a severed breast partially covered by a pulped kidney.

He began to scream. It died in his throat.

“
Gregory, darling.” The voice was lifeless, rasping.

He looked to the doorway.

Diane stood in the doorway, her lime pantsuit dotted with brown patches, the red-brown contrasting with the paleness of her face. She smiled from the shadow-strewn corner, her face a rictus, rivulets of red running from her mouth. She stepped forward, moving into the slash of light angling through the curtains. Sondra’s head, the neck torn raggedly as if hacked by a blunt knife, dragged along the floor, his wife dangling it by its long auburn locks.

“
I’ve been waiting for you. So hungry…alone.”

She raised her left hand. The plump fingers held another trophy: his severed penis.

Retek screamed.

NEW YORK.

BETH ISREAL MEDICAL CENTER.

5:11 P.M.

Doctor Kaluta spoke to them in the visitors’ lounge.

“
I’m sorry, there nothing more we can do.” He ran a hand over his beard. “The decision is yours.”

Sandy looked at Liz, who suddenly slumped down on the bench.

They had been preparing themselves for this moment for weeks, but now the time had arrived and with it a terrible responsibility.

“
I know this is a painful moment for you, Mrs. Weldon. And for you, Mrs. Packard,” Kaluta said, targeting Sandy with his most sincere expression. Twenty years of dealing with grieving relatives had hardened his emotions like calluses on a workman’s hands. To Kaluta, death was just a formality, but, of course, to the relatives of the deceased it was one of the most trying times.

Tears welled in Liz’s eyes. “How long has she been in the coma?”

“
Over two hours,” Kaluta replied.

Sandy felt a knot of anger pulling at her insides. It wasn’t fair! If they’d been able to get into the hospital that morning, they would have seen their mother conscious for one last time. And now, after waiting hours to be allowed in the building, Mom was lost in the twilight between life and death. They hadn’t been with her when she needed them most.

“
It’s unlikely she’ll revive considering her weakened state,” the Doctor continued. “At best, she would have lasted another day. It’s better this way. She was in tremendous pain.” His soft voice sounded phony.

“
We know that!” Sandy snapped.

“
I’m sorry. I didn’t wish to sound patronizing,” he replied, his brown eyes feigning regret.

“
If you give your permission to have the life-support system switched off, it will make things easier for you. There’s really no point putting yourselves through unnecessary pain. I realize the last few weeks having been terribly stressful.”

He sat beside Liz, the clipboard with the documentation that would authorize their mother’s official death in his hands.

Liz looked up at Sandy. “He’s right.”

Sandy knew it was true, but the thought was overwhelming.

“
Can we look at her one last time?” Liz asked.

“
Of course. Come with me.” Doctor Kaluta took her gently by the arm as he stood, helping Liz to her feet.

“
This way.”

Sandy followed, her body numb with emotion.

THE WHITE HOUSE

6:00 P.M.

The day was steadily going from bad to worse, Del Valle thought as he looked around the White House conference room where he and the others were gathered for an emergency meeting of the Security Council Intelligence Committee. The group, numbering thirty men, including members of the National Security Council, the CIA, the FBI, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the NIA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretaries of State and Defense. No one knew precisely why the President had called the meeting at such short notice, but whatever the reason it was highly important. The charged atmosphere in the room was powerful enough to illuminate a city block.

Del Valle had hardly slept for thirty-six hours since Monday had ended with two shocking surprises: Lang had surfaced and stated that Corvino was responsible for the deaths of Skolomowski and Harris. Corvino himself was now dead, shot by an unknown assailant, and had killed the two agents Hershman had sent to arrest him.

Del Valle, troubled and unable to rest when he’d arrived home on Monday night, had decided to talk to Corvino in an effort to dispel lingering doubts he had concerning his friend’s innocence. Aware that Hershman had Corvino under surveillance—and he suspected Corvino would have assumed as much—he’d called Dominic using a cloaking device, requesting a meeting at a location only they knew about—the park at the airport perimeter.

Del Valle arrived later than planned due to an accident blocking the eastbound lanes on the Columbia Pike. When he reached the rendezvous at 12:15 P.M. and saw a police cruiser parked alongside Corvino’s Mustang, he hesitated. Maybe Corvino had been speeding. Best wait until the patrolman left. An ambulance siren rent the night air, its flashing red lights painting the rest area the color of blood as it pulled in fast. When the medics dragged a gurney from the vehicle’s rear, he feared the worst and walked over to the patrolman and identified himself. His stomach ulcer flared with discomfort as one look at Corvino’s body confirmed that he was dead.