Half-Past Dawn (13 page)

“To the outside world, the Cotis were thought to be a people out of myth, out of legend, filled with magic and an unusual harmony with the land, a culture whose example of peace was far more influential than the hollow words of politicians. Lately, though, there have been fractures in their society, the outside world infecting them with modern ideals—”

“Thanks for the history,” Frank said, cutting him off. “But what does the tattoo on Jack’s arm say? We don’t have time to waste here.”

Killian finally looked up toward Jack, pausing as he gathered his thoughts. “It talks about fate and destiny as if it was part of nature, part of the winds. Some kind of prayer for the dead, some kind of myth, ancient, that I don’t understand.”

“That’s it?” Jack asked.

“No.” Killian paused again, his steely academic façade cracking just a bit with foreboding. “The main topic of this mehndi-like tattoo is … It says you shall die at dawn, on the first day of the seventh month, killed by an enraged man who has lost everything he loves.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” Frank spat out, angry. “You’re going to die tomorrow?”

“Relax,” Jack said.

“Relax, my ass. What about today? Didn’t you die earlier this morning? Where’s the mention of that? How about the weather? Any mention of the weather on his arm there, Doc?”

Killian’s eyes locked with Jack’s. “I take it the report of your death in the paper this morning has everything to do with this?” Killian paused, academia slipping away to be replaced with genuine concern. “Someone has given you a warning … and as you have already experienced, someone is trying to kill you, Jack.”

Jack rubbed his shoulder, wincing as his hand touched the wound. He turned to Frank.

“Well,” Frank said, looking at the tattoo, “that was a waste of time.”

“If they were after me, why not just kill me, ensure that I was dead on the riverbank? And why would someone take the time to scribble a warning on my arm? Why not just wake me up and tell me?”

Killian looked between the two friends, pointing at Jack’s arm. “I can assure you, with the intricacies, the time it took to write this, the author was sending a very deliberate message.”

Killian finally released Jack’s arm.

“And you don’t remember who did this to you?” Killian continued. “The complexity, the detail, This was not done in haste. He wrote this for a reason. I don’t know if it’s a warning, a reminder, or something to frighten you away …”

The room fell silent as Jack absorbed the man’s words.

“Tell me you’re not buying this shit,” Frank finally said.

“I don’t know what I believe right now,” Jack said. “But after what happened this morning, after what I’ve seen today …”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Look, I don’t believe it, but say … just say it’s true, and I don’t find Mia in time …” Jack let the supposition hang in the air.

“We’re going to find her,” Frank said. “And we’re going to find her well before dawn tomorrow.”

Jack rolled down his sleeve, covering up the words as if to make their prophetic declaration disappear from sight and mind and also to remove any chance of it coming to pass. But as much as he was skeptical, as much as logic told him there was no such thing as fate, fear welled inside him. It wasn’t for himself—he had no fear of death—it was for Mia. If he was to die tomorrow at dawn, he had less than eighteen hours to save her.

F
RIDAY
, 11:00
A.M
.

A
S
J
ACK STARED AT
his arm, pondering the fateful words, he couldn’t help shaking his head at the irony. So often in life, we hear predictions about tomorrow’s weather, next week’s championship game, or who will win the Oscar, and more often than not, those predictions, while not coming to pass, do have a shadow of truth. Through either random chance, analytical review, pure statistical odds, or just plain dumb luck, the modern-day soothsayers sometimes hit the mark, not always on target but with a semblance of accuracy.

In ancient Greece, it was the oracle of Delphi, the Middle Ages had Nostradamus, the early twentieth century had Rasputin, and for the last hundred or so years, there were astrologists, tarot card readers, and palmists, who preyed on the weak who were in search of hope and some way to make sense of their lives.

And with the tattoo, the mehndi piece of artwork on his arm, there was a semblance of truth to the prediction. The truth was just as dire; it was just that the timing and the cause of death were wrong.

Jack had had a nagging pain in his hip, something he ascribed to when he got hit by a pitch in a baseball game back in May between the DA’s and the mayor’s offices. While uncomfortable, it was nothing more than an inconvenience that would occasionally send a sharp pain through his body. He was actually proud of the injury, thinking it was like a war wound, as Deputy Mayor Brian McDonald’s pitches were known to reach ninety miles an hour. While the curve ball cut its arc quicker than Jack had anticipated, knocking him to the ground, he was able to walk to first despite the pain and the oohs and ahs of the sympathetic crowd.

But ten days ago, when he finally mentioned it to his doctor and friend Ryan McCourt, he had him come in for an X-ray just to be sure there was no permanent damage.

When Ryan got the X-ray back, with Jack sitting in the embarrassing half-gown on the table, he examined it on the light wall for all of two seconds before ripping it down. As he turned to Jack, a grave shadow fell over his face.

Within ten minutes, Jack was being run through an MRI machine for a full-body scan. Blood was drawn, urine requested. He was poked and prodded as a team of doctors came forth discussing the results.

Ryan sat him down and suggested that he call and ask Mia to come meet them. But Jack would have none of that. He suspected where this was going the moment he saw his friend’s face looking at the first X-ray.

Jack told him just to give him the news. He could deal with the treatment and would much prefer to have some time to formulate how he would break it to Mia and the girls that Daddy was sick but not to worry, that they had medicine and he would soon be on the mend.

But as Ryan sat down across from him, laying his hand on Jack’s shoulder, he couldn’t hold back his emotions.

Ryan told him that it was cancer and that it had long since spread, taking hold in his liver, his pancreas, and, worst of all, his
brain. The disease had yet to manifest itself outwardly, but the most troubling tumor was pressing on an area of his cerebral cortex and could possibly affect his memory, cause him to hallucinate and become delusional, or interfere with a host of other higher brain functions.

Feeling as if he had been hit by a train, Jack walked out of Ryan’s office.

THAT WAS TEN
days ago. Since then, he had reformulated time and again how he would tell Mia, how he would find the words of assurance and hope that everything would be all right, even though he knew it wouldn’t. He had arranged for the girls to go to his mom’s for a week and had every intention of telling Mia of his prognosis when they arrived home. But when he took her in his arms, as she whispered in his ear about how much she had missed his touch, how much she needed him, his heart broke. The news could wait. They needed this time together. He made subtle hints about her staying focused in the moment, about turning off the phone and the BlackBerrys, finding uninterrupted comfort in the here and now, for he knew there would be no next year, next summer, next Christmas.

He had put up a façade not only to Mia but also to his friends, those at work, his campaign, even his mother. He had seen the devastation on her face when she thought he had died that morning and knew she couldn’t handle news like that again.

Jack had no idea how to tell the world that he was dying. He was so good at dealing with other people’s pain and suffering, being the voice of wisdom and reason. He had always been the shoulder to cry on, but now he did not want to reverse that role.

The doctors said they could begin chemo and radiation, but it would only forestall death, not prevent it or cure him. And it would,
without question, destroy the quality of life he currently held on to. Jack wasn’t about to become a burden, to have his wife look after him every day as he withered, slowly losing his mental faculties.

Ryan advised him that he should stop work and that the growth of the small tumor in his brain might be slowed with some radical treatment so he could at least have some more of what little life he had remaining.

Wrapped up in conviction rates, trial victories, and landmark settlements, Jack had forgotten to live, to embrace the simple pleasures around him, thinking himself immortal. What scared him deep down was that he had never imagined himself dying so young, dying in such a way. Modern medicine, with all of its treatments, prolonging life no matter the quality, eking out the last breath from a mindless, useless husk before allowing the soul to be surrendered to the hereafter, didn’t seem modern at all. Jack couldn’t help wondering if that was progress or regression in the evolving history of man.

In so many cultures, there were
good
deaths. Death on the battlefield, the greatest honor in the Viking world, to be carried off to Valhalla by the Valkyries with a sword thrust through your chest; a samurai dying in the heat of battle, giving his life in defending the empire of his deity the emperor; the soldier giving his life to save his comrades.

But Ryan’s MRI and diagnosis made it clear: that wouldn’t be the case for Jack. There would be no sword in hand, no supreme sacrifice in the name of God, no glorious death on the battlefield. And so, as he pondered the words of the fateful tattoo on his arm, Jack wondered what death had in store for him. Would it be a good death or simply an uneventful, powerless demise that he had no way of preventing?

And, he thought, if there was any truth to the markings, he was running out of time.

With Mia gone, with her life in danger, finding her and saving her were paramount. Getting her back was not just about how much
he loved her but how much the girls would need her once he was gone. Whether he was to die tomorrow or six months from now, everything was about saving the only parent his children would have.

Jack would do whatever it took to get Mia back, he would face whoever had attacked them on that bridge, and if he died in saving her, if he gave his life so she would live. It would all be worth it, it would be a good death.

M
IA

M
IA
N
ORRIS WAS THOUGHT
to have grown up in a life of privilege, the girl with everything, but nothing could be further from the truth. While Mia was the stepdaughter of the successful businessman and former director of the FBI Sam Norris, she was born Mia Sullivan, daughter of Joe and Patricia Sullivan.

Joe was a lieutenant in the Navy—a SEAL in his twenties, a strategic analyst in his thirties—and as a result, according to her father, the world was their home. While the world may have been their home, where she laid her head at night was in constant flux—eighteen beds, thirteen different countries, in fourteen years.

In all of the eighteen homes she lived in by the age of fourteen, she was never bitter. When her father would arrive home and announce a new exciting assignment in some foreign land, she would feel a tinge of sorrow at being suddenly uprooted when she was just getting her feet wet, but at least they were together. So many children in the military wouldn’t see their fathers—and in some cases mothers—for six months or more at a time, and many of them kissed their parents for the last time when they left, not realizing that they
would lose them on the battlefield. Mia was fortunate that her father had already spent ten years in serious combat around the world before she was three. His body proved it, dotted with scars from all types of minor wounds—except for the long not-so-minor squiggly one on his neck—with which Mia played connect the dots. Since becoming an analyst, he only endured paper cuts and jet lag, leaving the threat of dying for his country in the past.

Since Mia was a young child, she dreamed of flying, staring up at the soaring birds, riding the updrafts, the air current carrying them higher and higher, only to nose-dive back to earth. It was a child’s fantasy, one she shared with her dad on more than one occasion. They would lie in a field or on the beach, staring at the clouds and the birds flittering about. He would feed her fantasy, telling her to close her eyes and imagine the feel of turning to and fro in flight.

Her mother, Pat, would always admonish him for encouraging her, but her dad would laugh her off and turn to Mia and say what he always said when faced with adversity: “Remember, Mia, nothing is impossible.”

She loved her father. She loved that they shared a passion for junk food, candy, and chips; movies and early rock ’n’ roll; sports and puzzles. Joe Sullivan was handsome, broad, and tall, unlike most kids’ round-about-the-middle dads. He was sympathetic, knowing how difficult it must be for his daughter to sacrifice her childhood for his career. And so he compensated. His free time was not spent playing golf or cards, racing off to some hobby; his time was spent with Mia, teaching her to sail and shoot, showing her the cultures they dropped into for six months at a time. He taught her the value of being happy in your work, of the pain of sacrifice in pursuing your dreams, that the value of life was not in riches but in the richness of one’s existence, in loving someone, in putting others before oneself. Simple lessons that had been forgotten by so much of the world.

It was on a Friday that Mia turned exactly fourteen and a half. Her father believed in celebrating not only birthdays but half-birthdays, too, always saying one shouldn’t rejoice in someone only
once a year. They had been back in the States all of three days, settling into a small two-bedroom house just outside of Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach, Virginia. It was a late-spring morning; school didn’t start for an hour. Her mother was busy unpacking and getting breakfast ready when her dad snuck into her room and kidnapped her for a day of fun.