Antenna Syndrome (30 page)

“To find your father, make sure he’s safe.”

“Alone?”

“I have help.” My two sidekicks – a psycho war vet
and rabid dog – were waiting in the car.

“Somewhere down the road, maybe there’s a story
here?”

“Probably. The like of which your publication has
never dreamed.”

“They dream up some pretty wild ones. Will you tell
me yours?”

“Don’t press Marielle for too much yet. She’s been
through the mill.”

“I can see that.”

“Bye, Marielle, I’ll see you later.” I waved goodbye
and left.

~~~

The sun was rising as we crossed the George
Washington Bridge, leaving Manhattan behind. On our way out of town
I’d worried out loud to Major that, if the police put out an alert
for me, they’d track my car via its electronic VIN-tag. He said
he’d take care of that. We stopped at a 24-hour service station
outside of Englewood to gas up and let Werewolf out for a leak.
Major lifted the Charger’s hood and pulled a combat-utility knife
from his belt.

I phoned the Jordan house in East Massapequa. It
took half a dozen rings before Vivien answered the phone. She
sounded more exhausted than sleepy.

“It’s Savage. Sorry if I woke you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Have the cops been there?”

“Thanks to you,” she said with some bitterness, “the
NYPD issued an arrest warrant for Jack and his Russian girlfriend.
Two Nassau County detectives showed up around midnight and grilled
me for an hour, wanting to know where Jack went.”

“What’d you tell them?”

“The truth. I have no idea where he is.”

“Did my name come up?”

“Several times. The NYPD’s also issued an arrest
warrant for you. Apparently two Midtown detectives were found –
butchered
was the word they used – in your office last
night. Is it true?”

“Yes, but I didn’t do it.” Even in my mouth, it
sounded like a cliché.

“Did you find Marielle?”

“Yes. She’s safe now.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then why’d you call?”

“I’m on my way to Hunter Mountain, hopefully to
intercept a psycho sent to kill Jordan. I need his phone number and
address.”

“I can’t do that. I’d be fired.”

“If I don’t find him before the hit man, you’re out
of a job anyway.”

She thought about it a moment, then gave me his
coordinates. “But if he’s in danger, shouldn’t we phone him, or
alert the police?”

“Let’s try phoning. Stay on the line.”

I switched my iFocals to conference call and entered
Jordan’s number. We listened as it rang five times before going to
voice-mail. An anonymous voice announced asked the caller to leave
a message.

“Harris, it’s Vivien. This is an emergency. There’s
a hit man coming for you. You should notify the local police
immediately.”

I added my five rubles worth. “Mister Jordan, this
is Keith Savage, a private investigator. The hit man is working for
the Russian mob. He’s extremely dangerous, so don’t let him get
near you. Watch out for a dark blue van with a rooftop bubble. If
it arrives at your place, barricade yourself in the house. If you
have any security people with you, put them on high alert. If you
don’t, contact the nearest police and get a protective detail.” I
ended the call.

“He doesn’t usually pick up,” she said.

“Probably still sleeping.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police ourselves?”

“No. Given the warrant, the police might concentrate
more on arresting me than the hit man. Besides, I’m the only one
who knows what Buzz looks like. What kind of car is Jordan
driving?”

“A black Mercedes S-Class.”

“If the police check in again, you can say we spoke
and I warned you about the danger to Jordan, but don’t say anything
about my heading up there. At least for a couple of hours. After
nine you can tell them anything.”

Chapter 52

There was little traffic this time of day and I went
up I-87 with the pedal to the metal, passing everything in sight. I
called up
Fuzzbusters.xxx
on my goggles to provide a map of
speed traps en route. Fuzzbusters highlighted permanent speed
monitoring stations, temporary speed traps, and roadblocks for
random breathalyzer tests or ID checks. This allowed subscribers to
dodge police activity on the highways, either by slowing down or
taking an exit before getting trapped by a roadblock.

My goggles beeped to warn me of a speed trap ahead.
I dragged the Charger down to the speed limit as we passed a
highway interchange. With a warrant out for me, the last thing I
needed now was the attention of the cops. We passed the populated
area and I accelerated back up to speed.

I saw a dark blue van a quarter mile ahead. I nudged
the Charger up to 100 mph and closed the gap. There were mirrored
windows at the rear of the van and a Plexiglas bubble on the roof.
This was it. I closed in, staying in his five o’clock blind spot
for as long as possible.

“This is our guy,” I told Major. “Get ready. I’ll
pull up on his left to give you a shot.”

No point putting it off. If I could run Buzz off the
road and kill him, we’d call it a day. Aside from saving Harris
Jordan’s ass, I’d also ensure Buzz never showed up at my doorstep
one day. And not that I needed any further rationale but, after the
suicide mission I’d sent him on, I owed it to Walker. What was that
line from Nietzsche?
A little revenge is more human than no
revenge
.

Major powered his window down and raised his
shotgun. I went left across two lanes and accelerated to pull up
alongside Buzz. Just then, I heard the wail of a siren. I looked in
the rearview to see the flashing lights of a patrol car that’d just
appeared from out of
my
blind spot.

Major gave me a quick glance. I knew what he was
thinking. Take out the target and deal with the consequences later.
But the patrol car pulled up between us and the van, and a
grim-faced cop made a violent hand gesture to pull over.

I took my foot off the gas and both of our cars fell
back as the van shot ahead. Then everything went to hell. The
bubble dome atop the van slid forward, opening a roof hatch. Two
monster hornets popped out and made a low-level kamikaze dive on
the patrol car. As they disappeared under the patrol car’s grill, I
saw they each carried a packet gripped between their legs. A pair
of simultaneous explosions flung the cop car in a somersault across
the highway.

Glass, metal and car parts flew around me as I spun
the Charger’s wheel. I careened across the highway, bouncing over
twisted scraps of the patrol car. The Charger spun off the
shoulder, rolled in the ditch and landed right side up in a shallow
pond. The roof was crumpled and Werewolf was howling in my
ears.

I grabbed my shotgun and tote bag and crawled out my
window. I bloodied my hand on some broken glass but was otherwise
okay. Major and Werewolf climbed out the other windows. They were
shook up but, with none of us injured, we were fit to continue. But
where and how? The Charger was axle-deep in pond mud, so we
couldn’t get out of that hole on our own power.

We left the ditch and climbed onto the shoulder.
Parts of the cop car were scattered everywhere. I looked up I-87.
The van was long gone. I stood at the edge of the highway and tried
to flag someone down but none of the passing cars stopped. Couldn’t
they see there’d been an accident? No matter how furiously I waved,
they maneuvered through the debris and kept going.

“Forget it, man,” Major said. “Nobody’s going to
stop for two guys with shotguns and a hyena.”

~~~

As I stood wondering how we’d get to Hunter Mountain
now, I heard an engine in the distance. I looked across a field and
saw a small plane coming in for a landing. An airport! Major and I
trotted through a quarter mile of tall grass to the airfield. Half
a dozen hangars were lined up at one end of the asphalt strip, a
dozen single-engine light planes parked on the tarmac. A bit
further away, sitting all by itself like an ugly duckling, was a
helicopter.

We entered a building whose sign read
Newburgh
Flying Club
. In the lounge the walls were covered with aerial
maps. A wooden propeller hung above a fireplace, its mantle crowded
with trophies. Model WW2 airplanes hung suspended by threads from
the ceiling.

In an open-concept office, a man in faded grey
overalls sat at a desk working an ancient desktop computer. He
looked up as we approached, saw the shotguns and raised his
hands.

“Nothing here to steal,” he said, “except aviation
fuel.”

“We want to rent a chopper,” I said.

The desk jockey had bright blue eyes and a pair of
mirrored aviator glasses propped atop his close-trimmed black hair.
“The pilot’s not here.”

“Just the chopper,” Major said.

“You can fly?”

“Three hitches in Iraq jockeying Apaches through
sandstorms and machinegun fire.” Major flipped open his wallet and
showed the man his pilot’s license with helicopter
qualifications.

“I’ll have to check you out on the Ranger
first.”

“We don’t have time.” I showed my credentials and
told him we were pursuing a criminal. “How about I just give you a
down payment and leave you with my credit card. If we don’t crash
on takeoff, you can assume this man knows how to fly.”

“Money talks.” The man counted my cash, took my
credit card and Major’s license, and started punching information
into his computer. “You want insurance too?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Everything we can buy.”

Chapter 53

We put Werewolf in the back seat of the helicopter.
Major started the engine and passed me a headset. As soon as the
main rotor came up to speed, he manipulated the collective and the
chopper pulled itself into the air. With a hand on the cyclic and
his feet on the anti-torque pedals, he pivoted the chopper above
the hangars and we clattered off on a northwest track across
patchwork fields and orchards.

“Cops are on the scene now.” Major pointed to the
southwest.

Out on I-87, a pair of State Police cars diverted
traffic around the scattered debris while paramedics extricated the
state trooper’s body from the wreckage of his car.

Buzz was racking up a score. I hoped we could stop
him before he reached Harris Jordan.

Major set a course for Hunter Mountain. I punched
the address for Jordan’s country house into the onboard GPS. For
twenty minutes, we paralleled I-87. I used my binoculars to scan
the highway, but I saw no blue van.

We climbed the westward slope of a mountain range. A
secondary road snaked over the hilly terrain. Small lakes,
surrounded by summer cottages, glittered under the sun.

Halfway up the mountain I spotted the bubble-top van
on the road. I focused the binoculars and saw Buzz turn his face
upwards as we passed him.

“This must be it.” Major indicated a house on a low
ridge. It was screened from the road by a grove of trees. A black
sedan was parked in its driveway.

“Is there room to land on the lawn?”

“No. I’ll use the lot next door.”

Fifty yards across the road, a vacant lot had been
cleared for someone to build a new house. Major jockeyed the
chopper in over the trees, flattening the tops of mountain ash
beneath the prop-wash. We were twenty feet off the ground when an
explosion rocked us.

“Tail rotor’s hit.” Major struggled with the
controls. I looked back and saw pieces of the rotor flying off,
blown away by one of Buzz’s kamikaze hornets. The chopper began to
spin.

The ground rushed up to meet us. The chopper landed
hard and I was flung forward in my harness. The forward window
cracked on impact. Major killed the engine and we bailed out.

I freed my harness, kicked my door open and
scrambled out. A giant hornet came droning in through the trees. I
raised the shotgun and fired. The hornet blew apart with a roar
that knocked me on my ass. Damn! Were they all carrying explosive
payloads?

“Get your dog,” I hollered at Major. I pumped
another load, ready for more buzz-bombs, but there were no more
incoming for the moment. Major climbed from the cockpit and pulled
Werewolf out. Fearing more hornets on the way, we ran for the
house.

As we crossed the road, I saw the blue van coming up
the hill. Major and I ran up Jordan’s driveway, Werewolf just steps
behind. I mounted the porch but found the front door locked. I
smashed the window with the shotgun butt, and passed my hand
through to unlock the door.

“What are you doing?” A handsome man with a square
jaw and a thick shock of dark hair waved a butcher knife at me. His
being barefoot in pajama bottoms and a tank top made him seem less
threatening than he might have liked.

In the kitchen area behind him, a young blonde
wearing only a camisole and panties cowered behind a counter
island. She looked too young to be his campaign manager.

“Did you get my voice-mail?” I said. “There’s a hit
man coming for you. Do you have a gun?”

“What?” His florid face drained white as Major
entered the house with shotgun in hand, Werewolf at his heels.

Since Jordan was too flabbergasted to speak, I
scanned the living room and answered my own question. On a peg rack
above the fireplace was a lever-action Marlin rifle, a
heavy-caliber favored by moose hunters.

“Where’s the ammo?” I yelled at Jordan as I snatched
the rifle.

He stared at me a moment, still dumbfounded.

Major crouched at the door and fired at something
outside. An explosion rocked the porch, and debris rattled the
windows like hail. “Where the fuck are those giant hornets coming
from?” Major swore.

Realizing we were under attack, Jordan snapped out
of it. He opened a cabinet and produced a box of ammunition. I
grabbed a handful of .45-caliber cartridges and started feeding
them into the tube magazine.