A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller (28 page)

He had become a familiar figure on Avenue of The Americas for those who deigned to notice. Most pedestrians stepped over his outstretched legs without so much as glancing at him. Police mostly ignored the homeless, but occasionally some beat cop would come along, kick his foot and order him to move on. He would get up and walk around the block and come back.

Finally, Sharon’s company car stopped in front of Zenergy and let her and her bodyguards out on the sidewalk. One bodyguard was dark with shoulders like a linebacker’s, the other fair with a shirt collar larger than his hat size. Good enough to ward off the errant street mugger or average masher, not good enough to protect the hope of the nation’s freedom from what must surely be coming her way.

Nail sprang to his feet, startling passersby, in order to watch for threat as well as to catch a glimpse of Sharon’s black hair and saucy walk through the throngs of foot traffic before she disappeared inside. Each day he had to suppress the almost overwhelming urge to rush to her. Except for her existence, his days would have seemed so much bleaker.

Sometimes, like this morning, she hesitated at the door to the Zenergy Building to look around, as if she felt someone watching her. Her eyes swept the street, brushing past the now-familiar sight of the old homeless man next to the maples without recognizing him.

As with every other morning, Nail slid down the wall when she disappeared inside and settled on the sidewalk to wait for her to come out again. He had picked up occasional indications that
they
might have her under surveillance waiting for him to show up. His making contact with her would likely be fatal to both of them.

The rage that consumed him following Jamie’s murder had since subsided to a seething anger. His only remaining role was to protect Sharon from harm while she went about saving the nation. He read his novel as pedestrians rushed by as though they did not see him. Thunder rumbled overhead, barely audible above the noise of the city. Rain was coming and the temperature was beginning to fall.

Rain started falling at noon. Nail placed
Atlas Shrugged
into a plastic baggie and stuck it into his waistband beneath his shirt. He got up and looked around and moved underneath a nearby awning protecting the door to an investment firm. He sat against the wall, partly protected from the rain, pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them to help conserve body heat. It never occurred to him to abandon Sharon. He was on-station for most of twenty four hours a day, taking time to sleep and eat only when she seemed safe or when she was out of his reach on business.

He shivered. A man in an expensive raincoat and hat carrying an umbrella ducked in underneath the awning and out of the downpour. He stopped in front of the door and collapsed his umbrella. He glared at Nail.

“Hey, slick. You can’t sleep here. Beat it.”

Nail looked up. Piercing blue eyes staggered the man back on his heels; he fled through the doorway without another word. Nail dozed off in spite of being wet and cold.

It was still raining hard at quitting time. Sharon wearing a see-through raincoat and rain hat came out with Shoulders and Big Neck. A company car pulled up for them. Traffic was heavy and the driver had to wait for an opening. Nail spotted a man in a trench coat standing down the block from the Zenergy Building with water streaming off his hat brim. The way he watched Sharon was more than casual. A cab with its engine running waited nearby at curbside.

As soon as Sharon’s car slid into traffic, the man in the trench coat dashed to the waiting cab and jumped in. Rubber hissed on wet pavement. The cab almost caused a four-car pileup before it straightened out several cars behind Sharon’s ride, following it.

Ignoring his limp, Nail took off in a desperate run toward Sharon’s apartment building six blocks away, splashing through puddles, weaving recklessly in and out among raincoats and umbrellas, creating mini-chaos and eliciting various insults.

Chapter Forty-Nine

New York

A half-crazed street bum charging through the rain-soaked streets of New York cleared a path of all but the most obtuse and belligerent. Volleys of curses followed in James Nail’s wake.
They
knew where Sharon lived; to locate her residence wasn’t why the trench coat was tailing her. The guy had something more sinister in mind.

Nail rushed past both vehicles when they got caught in one of the city’s ubiquitous traffic jams. He slowed to a fast walk in order not to look conspicuous. He chanced a good look at the perp in the trench coat. Through the cab’s rain-swept side window he saw a man of about thirty five or so with a little Fu Manchu encircling thinly-compressed lips. The guy was leaning forward from the backseat to keep an eye on Sharon’s car a few places ahead.

The sky dumped another bucketful of water on the city. Old Styrofoam cups, tatters of paper, food scraps, dead pigeons and other debris gurgled down the gutters. Nail reached Sharon’s apartment building well ahead of the cars. It was a tall, stately red stone set back on a side street lined with scraggly Boston pear trees. Nail ducked into the alley halfway down the block and hunkered next to a dumpster that belonged to an Italian restaurant where he commanded a good view of the front of the
Hampton Arms
. Gray sheets of rain and the cloudy twilight of approaching evening camouflaged his presence.

He recovered an old square of plywood he had used before and held it over his head like an umbrella. Rain falling straight down into the concrete canyon drummed on it deafeningly while he waited. He tried not to think of the consequences if Sharon were headed elsewhere instead of coming home.

Nail had worked many gang crimes during his years with the TPD. Everything from drive-by shootings in wars over drugs and territory to Mafia-type networks that corrupted businesses and politicians through vice and greed. Until now, however, he would never have believed that the federal government could have developed into one massive ideological criminal enterprise run by real-life commies who would do
anything
to accumulate power and achieve their goals. The only difference between it and some Don in Chicago or Miami trying to control the dope or whore trade was the much-longer reach of government’s arm.

He was shivering again from exposure by the time Sharon’s company car pulled up and stopped at the apartment complex. She and Shoulders jumped from the back seat in their rain gear and ducked through the rain to the building’s protected entrance. Sharon tapped in a code, the door opened and both disappeared inside. The car left with Big Neck still in the backseat. Nail knew the routine; Big Neck would relieve Shoulders at midnight. Obviously, neither had detected the tail.

Down the block, the cab turned the corner into the side street and slowed until the way was clear. It crept past the apartment building. The Fu Manchu character was clearly casing the place and up to no good. The cab went on and turned at the next intersection.

Nail waited while evening began earlier than usual because of rain and lowering clouds. Worker ants hurrying home to their nooks and crannies thinned out as rush hour ended. Nail stepped clear of the alley to take a look and almost collided with a big man walking past wearing an ankle-length black raincoat. The guy shoved Nail out of the way, muttering, “Fucking vagrants.”

Nail repressed a response and slunk back into the alley.

Full night fell. Street lamps glowed weakly in the watery air, casting strange wavering shadows. Nail had about decided nothing was going to happen tonight when Fu Manchu from the cab suddenly appeared on foot, as though washed up out of the shadows. He glanced furtively into the mouth of the alley, but Nail hugged the wall out of sight in the darkness.

Fu Manchu trotted across the street to the entryway of
Hampton Arms
, into the light washing out through the glass doors. Nail watched him peep inside. Then he looked up and down the street before turning back and taking a dimly-lighted walkway that led alongside the building toward the rear courtyard. Even though no one was apt to be out this late in this weather on this side street, no real pro would have taken such a chance at being seen and later recognized. A real pro certainly wouldn’t have taken a cab to the scene—unless the cab
wasn’t
a cab.

As soon as the prowler was out of sight, Nail ducked across the street after him, Big C’s little .38 Featherweight in hand. It was darker around back of the building, but there was still security lighting. He caught up to Fu Manchu peering around the next corner into the fenced courtyard that contained the swimming pool. Nail approached cautiously, puzzled by the guy’s behavior. Sharon lived on the third floor. Was this guy a cat burglar—or was he merely reconnoitering for some future action, getting the lay of the land? The best way to find out was to ask.

He was two paces away when Fu Manchu apparently sensed his approach and whirled around. Nail stuck the .38 in his face. The intruder slowly lifted his arms. Rain hissed on his hat.

“My wallet’s in my inside pocket. There’s no need for this to get messy.”

“It’s already messy.”

Nail snatched the guy and slammed him against the wall. “Assume the position.”

The guy spread ’em, leaning against the wall like he had done it before. Nail relieved him of a Beretta 9mm from underneath his trench coat. He stuck it in his belt. He pressed the cold, wet steel of his .38 against the base of the man’s skull.

“Whether or not you walk out of here depends on your answers,” he offered.

“I’m Homeland Security,” the man blurted out, sounding almost unglued. “I have ID. I’m working on a case.”

“Is that a fact? Who’s the name?”

“Walter. Walter Roland.”

“Not yours. The case?”

“I... It’s federal business.”

“Careful now.” Nail pressed the muzzle harder against the agent’s neck. “Sharon Lowenthal? Am I right?”

The agent said nothing. Nail felt him trembling.

“Who gave you your orders?”

“I—Everything comes down the chain.”

“What were you supposed to do?”

“Nothing. I swear. Just look.”

“Didn’t your mama teach you not to swear?”

It was at that moment he caught a whisper of movement to his rear. Feeling like an idiot himself, an amateur to have been caught off guard, he wheeled around to find a gun pointed at him, center of mass. Behind the gun was a clean-shaved face and the black raincoat of the asshole who had shoved him earlier. He should have figured on Fu Manchu’s cover.

This one meant business. A gut feeling and the guy’s eyes told Nail he was a trigger pull away from death.

Nail bounced back and away from Fu Manchu. Crouching, he swept his .38 on target and fired. His opponent’s gun blossomed flame at the same instant. The bullet slapped his rib cage like a sledgehammer, knocking him flat on his back. Everything blurred before his eyes. He felt himself blacking out like when he was shot at the ORU Center.

Chapter Fifty

Washington, D.C.

At almost the same time that James Nail was shot in New York, Dennis Trout’s “Bimbo Eruption,” as Wiedersham referred to Judy, was in the bathroom putting on too much makeup and touching up her Lady Clairol. Trout had dropped in on her unexpectedly after having been
summoned
by his wife back to Washington for a function at the White House. He had needed his ashes hauled in the worst way before going home to face Marilyn and her pink poodle.

“Damn you, Trout,” Marilyn said when she issued the summons. That was her way of letting him know not to fuck with her. “Don’t let your attitude screw things up. The
President
invited us to attend a state dinner for the Chinese premier. Everyone who’s
anyone
will be there.”

Congressman
Trout. He had to keep reminding himself.

One of these hallelujah days he was going to dump his bitch of a wife. When he had the balls. And the money. But—listening to Judy in the bathroom—not for any Bugfuck, Oklahoma. He could do better than that. In the meantime, Judy threw a wicked Lewinsky and kept her mouth shut otherwise. She knew who buttered her toast as well as he did.

He was unwinding by writing in his notebook and watching TV after a quickie roll in the sack to relieve campaign pressure. Judy had been watching reruns of
The Bachelor
and Trout didn’t bother changing the channel. He was only half paying attention when a Public Service Announcement came on, paid for by federal stimulus funds. The ad showed a morgue scene with a background of somber music. A fat man lay on a gurney with one exposed hand death-gripping a half-eaten Big Mac. His wife sobbed uncontrollably.

“High blood pressure, high cholesterol, heart attack,” droned a voiceover. “Tonight, make it vegetarian.”

The shot closed with a shot of the villain—the Golden Arches of McDonald’s.

The ad made Trout uncomfortable. As an “insider,” he understood what lay behind it. Regulatory czar Sam Shrader’s job was to “fundamentally transform” the lives of ordinary Americans through rules and regulations. That meant everything from their diets to their medications to the way they interacted with each other. The ads were a “nudge.” If they didn’t work, next came taxes—and if
that
didn’t work, punishment. One way or another, people were going to behave the way their government wanted them to.

He shoved such thoughts from his mind when Judy peeked out through the bedroom doorway. She giggled coyly. “Do you want to use the powder room after we’ve—? Well, you know.”

“I’m fresh enough. What I need is a drink before I have to go.” He had changed into khaki slacks, Dockers and a blue short-sleeve shirt she kept for him in
his
closet.

“There’s some Scotch in—”

He cut her off. “You’re out of it.”

“Heavens to Betsy! I clean forgot to buy some more.”

She came out brushing her hair and looking as cheap as ever in half-exposed boobs, between which dangled the gold locket he gave her. She bent over to peck him on the lips. Her breath smelled like tobacco.